Chapter 3 - Beneath the Frozen Brooklyn Bridge

New York in December is a beautiful sight for those with fur coats and warm homes. But for Camila Wilson, the city was a white monster trying to freeze her very breath.

The first night after the expulsion was hell. Camila walked aimlessly, her feet growing numb inside thin flat shoes that were now soaked with melting snow. She carried only a small bag containing a sketchbook, a few brushes, and a wallet with less than a hundred dollars. All her credit cards had been blocked by Damian within hours.

"We have to be strong, little one," Camila whispered, clutching her stomach as it began to cramp.

She ended up at a dimly lit bus stop on the outskirts of Brooklyn. Her body trembled violently. Every time a bus passed, splashing dirty slush onto her dress, she could only curl up tighter. She felt like trash discarded by the splendor of Manhattan, which glowed across the river.

One Week Later

Camila’s condition deteriorated rapidly. She was now living in an abandoned old building under the Brooklyn Bridge along with several other homeless people. Her once-glowing face was deathly pale, her cheeks sunken, and her eyes hollow.

One night, the storm raged again. Camila lay on a pile of cardboard, clutching her abdomen, which throbbed with increasing pain. She had a high fever. In her delirium, she still called out Damian’s name, pleading for him to open the door.

"Please... don't take my baby..." she moaned through fading consciousness.

Suddenly, a flashlight beam illuminated her face. A man in expensive leather boots and a black trench coat stood there.

Camila let out a weak groan before finally losing consciousness completely in the stranger's arms.

Two Weeks Later – A Hidden Private Clinic

When Camila opened her eyes, the first thing she smelled was the soothing scent of jasmine, not the stench of trash and snow. She was in a luxurious, all-white room.

"Don't move too much. You almost lost your baby due to acute pneumonia and malnutrition," a man’s deep voice echoed from the corner of the room.

Camila turned in a panic. "My baby? Is he...?"

"He survived. He’s a strong fighter, just like his mother." The man stepped closer, handing her a glass of warm water.

"My name is Julian Thorne. I found you under the bridge."

Camila drank the water greedily, her tears falling into the glass.

"Why are you helping me? I have nothing to pay you with."

Julian picked up Camila’s sketchbook from the bedside table.

"You have this. Your talent is the most valuable currency in my world. I saw your name on some of the sketches... Camila Wilson Xavier? Are you the wife of that billionaire?"

Camila flinched. Fear shadowed her eyes once more.

"Please... don't tell them. Don't tell Damian. If he knows I’m still alive and carrying his child, he will..."

"I know the story," Julian interrupted calmly.

"The news of the 'murderer wife' exiled by the Xaviers has already spread among the elite. But I don't believe the news. I believe what I see in your sketchbook. A murderer wouldn't paint with such love."

Julian looked at Camila with a very serious gaze.

"Camila Wilson is dead to the world. If you want to survive and want your child to have a future, you must 'die' officially. I can help you disappear."

Camila furrowed her brows. "Disappear?"

"Yes, disappear, Camila." Julian nodded.

Five Years Later — London, England

The London sky that afternoon was a pearl gray, reflecting the shadows of old buildings onto the calm surface of the River Thames. Inside an exclusive art gallery in the Mayfair district, the atmosphere was a sharp contrast to the weather outside. The fresh scent of white lilies filled the room, blending with the aroma of expensive champagne and the luxurious perfumes of the invited guests.

Today was the most anticipated solo exhibition in Europe. An exhibition by a mysterious artist whose face rarely appeared in public, but whose works had shaken the global art market.

Sheina Blake.

In a somewhat hidden corner of the room, a woman stood elegantly. She wore a black backless silk gown that draped perfectly over her slender yet shapely frame. Her hair, once a natural brown, was now jet black, cut into a sharp bob that framed a face that was beautiful but looked incredibly cold.

She was no longer the orphan girl who trembled when shouted at. She was Sheina Blake—a woman whose every brushstroke was valued at millions of dollars.

"You look absolutely stunning today, Sheina," a deep voice greeted her from behind.

Sheina did not turn around. She kept her eyes fixed on her centerpiece painting in the middle of the gallery. An abstract piece dominated by blood red and black, with a single speck of white that seemed to be drowning.

"Thank you, Julian. But you know I don't care for compliments," Sheina replied flatly.

Julian Thorne, the man who had saved her from death five years ago, stood beside her. He looked as handsome as ever, in a custom-made suit and an air of thick nobility. For five years, Julian had not only been her savior but also her protector and mentor.

"Collectors from New York have started arriving," Julian sipped his champagne, his eyes glancing at the crowd. "Word is Damian will attend the exhibition this season. He happens to be in London right now. Are you sure you’re ready to face that man?"

Sheina finally turned. The corner of her lips curled into a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I’ve actually been waiting for him to walk into my trap, Julian," Sheina said, cold and firm.

Soon, Sheina’s attention was diverted by a four-year-old boy running toward her. The boy wore a small tuxedo and a beret that made him look adorable.

"Mommy! Look, I found chocolate!" the boy exclaimed, showing a small chocolate bar in his hand.

Sheina’s ice-cold face melted instantly. She knelt, adjusting the beret on her son’s head with deep affection. Leo. The name she gave him because she wanted her son to be as strong as a lion.

"Leo, remember what Mommy said? No running in the gallery," Sheina said softly, stroking Leo’s cheek.

Julian watched the interaction with a small smile. "He looks more like his father every day, Sheina. Especially the eyes. Sharp wolf eyes."

A flash of hatred appeared for a moment in Sheina's eyes at the mention of the word "father." "Leo has no father. His father died in a blizzard five years ago."

"Mommy, why does the man’s face in that drawing look so sad?" Leo asked suddenly, pointing to a sketch displayed further away.

Sheina fell silent. That sketch was the only piece she refused to sell. A sketch of a man with his back to a window, staring at the snow. It was her last memory of Damian Xavier.

"Because he lost something very precious, darling. Something he will never be able to buy back with all his money," Sheina replied, staring at the drawing with eyes full of resentment.

On the Other Side of the Gallery

A black limousine pulled up in front of the gallery. Mark, Damian’s loyal assistant, opened the door. Damian Xavier stepped out with a heavy yet commanding stride. Five years had passed, but his face looked older than his years. There was a permanent trace of exhaustion on his face, and his once-sharp eyes often looked hollow.

"Sir, are you sure you want to attend this? You have a board meeting in an hour," Mark said hesitantly.

"Cancel the meeting, Mark. I have to see this painting for myself," Damian replied coldly. "Everyone in New York is talking about Sheina Blake. They say her paintings can make someone feel as if their soul is being flayed. I want to see if she’s truly that good."

Damian strode into the gallery. He ignored the whispers of the guests who recognized him as the arrogant billionaire from Manhattan. His footsteps led him straight to the main painting.

He froze in front of the massive canvas. The red and black colors... somehow, they made it hard for him to breathe. It felt like looking at the scene of an accident. It felt like seeing... Clara’s death.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Xavier. I didn't expect you to fly all the way from New York just to see my scribbles."

That voice.

Damian froze. The voice was so familiar, yet the tone was much lower and laced with thorns. He turned slowly, and his heart seemed to stop beating as he saw the woman in front of him.