Chapter 11

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Chapter 11: Mourning and invitation 

Six months had passed. Enough time for the bruises to fade, but not the memories. 

Ethan's trial concluded with a thirty-year sentence, no chance of parole. The courtroom was a theater of gasps, camera flashes, and cold stares. But none of that mattered anymore. 

We had survived. 

But survival isn't the same as peace. 

Christopher still woke up gasping some nights, sweat clinging to his skin like regret. I'd wrap my arms around him, whispering that we were far from that house now. Far from its poison. The ghosts were behind us. 

Mostly. 

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We bought a place two hours from the city—a glass-paneled cabin near the lake. It was the antithesis of everything we'd known: open, sun-washed, surrounded by silence that didn't suffocate. 

Christopher spent his mornings sketching. 

I wrote again—stories, poetry, fragments of thoughts that no longer had to be hidden beneath floorboards or diaries. 

There was healing in creation. 

But also hesitation. 

Because no matter how far we ran, the world still remembered what we'd done. 

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One morning, a letter arrived. Heavy ivory paper, our names printed in silver ink. 

A wedding invitation. 

Vincent's cousin—a woman I'd met only twice—was getting married. In Italy. A destination event for the elite still pretending the Deveraux scandal was a "misunderstanding." 

"It's ridiculous," I said, tossing the envelope aside. 

Christopher glanced at it, then back at me. "You want to go." 

I blinked. "Why would I—?" 

"To be seen," he said simply. "To walk into a room and remind them we're not shadows anymore." 

I hadn't admitted it to myself. But he was right. 

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The villa was obscene. 

A Baroque palace nestled among vineyards, marble fountains pouring champagne. Laughter rang out like wind chimes dipped in cruelty. Men in suits and women with glass smiles sipped from crystal flutes, all pretending they hadn't once whispered our names in scandalized tones. 

We arrived late. 

Heads turned. 

Eyes narrowed. 

But we walked in hand-in-hand, unapologetic. 

Christopher wore black on black, his suit sharp enough to slice gossip mid-air. I wore crimson—not red, not burgundy—but bold, bleeding crimson. A declaration of survival. 

The bride hugged us awkwardly. The groom looked at me like a warning. And yet, they said nothing. 

Because in this world, power came not just from wealth, but from being unbothered. 

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I caught my reflection in a mirror near the ballroom. 

It startled me. 

Gone was the girl who once flinched at her own shadow. The woman who looked back wore grief like a crown and love like armor. 

And then he appeared behind me—Christopher, placing his hands on my waist, his eyes meeting mine in the glass. 

"We don't belong here," I whispered. 

"No," he said, "they don't." 

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Later, under the stars and away from the crowd, we sat by the vineyard wall. 

The night hummed with cicadas and secrets. 

"I was scared to come," I admitted. 

"I know." 

"I thought if we were around all of them again, it would unravel us." 

He kissed my temple. "We're not threads anymore. We're stone. We've been through fire." 

I rested my head on his shoulder. "Do you regret anything?" 

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Only the time we wasted pretending we didn't feel this." 

His hand found mine. And in the silence between us, I realized: love wasn't always loud. Sometimes, it was a steady heartbeat against your skin—present, eternal, undeniable. 

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We returned home changed. 

Not just by the trip, but by the realization that our story didn't need to be rewritten for others. It only needed to be lived—in full color, without shame. 

We rebuilt. 

Together. 

The past still whispered, yes—but it no longer screamed. 

And when Christopher touched me now, it wasn't with desperation. 

It was with promise.