Alessia
It’s been five years since I walked away from Adrian Volkov—and I haven’t looked back. Not really. Not in ways that count. Sure, sometimes I catch myself staring at my reflection longer than necessary, wondering if the shadows under my eyes were always there. If the quiet in my voice was born before him or because of him. But I don’t speak his name. Not even in my thoughts. Not anymore. The version of me that loved him—that waited for him—is gone. She died in silence, on a cold bathroom floor, clutching a pregnancy test and trying not to scream. Now… I’m someone else entirely. Alessia Roman. A name I chose myself. Not bought. Not inherited. Not gifted through contract. I live in a two-bedroom flat above a flower shop in Nice, France. The kind of place where the window lets in too much sun in the morning and the old heater makes strange clanking noises in winter. But it’s mine. And it’s warm. God, it’s warm. I run a small design studio not far from the water. Custom textiles, hand-painted silks, soft home pieces with imperfect brushstrokes and pieces of my soul stitched in. I spend most of my mornings with paint under my fingernails and my son’s cereal spilled down the front of my shirt. Caleb is four now. He has my mouth, but his father’s eyes. Gray like a storm caught behind glass. There are days he’ll look up at me with them and I have to remind myself to breathe. Because it’s like Adrian is still somewhere inside the world, staring back at me through our son. But Caleb isn’t him. He never was. He’s gentle, curious, loud in the sweetest way. He talks with his hands and sleeps with his arms flung wide across the bed, as if the world owes him space and he knows it. He is everything Adrian wasn’t. And I love him so fiercely it scares me sometimes. This morning started like any other—rushed and messy. Caleb insisted on tying his own shoelaces, which meant we were ten minutes late to daycare, but he beamed like he’d climbed Everest when he finished. “You proud of me, Mama?” Always. Always. Always. Later that afternoon, I set up a small table at a local artisan market. Just a few pieces—some dyed linen runners, hand-painted throw covers, a silk robe I’d spent too many nights perfecting. It wasn’t glamorous, but I liked it. The slow pace. The way people stopped and touched things gently, as if they could feel the care in the fabric. And then she showed up. A woman in her forties, sharp jaw, gold scarf, clean confidence. She introduced herself as Claire Dubois, said she worked for an international art house in Paris. Her eyes flicked across my display, then stopped on one of the robes. “You made this?” I nodded, suddenly nervous. She turned it over, studying the stitching like it mattered. “It’s rare to find pieces with soul,” she said. I blinked. “Excuse me?” Claire smiled. “Your work. It feels lived-in. Like it belongs to someone before they even know it.” I didn’t know what to say to that. Compliments still felt foreign on my skin, like trying on someone else’s coat. She handed me a card. “We’re hosting an exhibition next week in Paris. We’d like you to be part of it. Your story. Your work. The softness—it’s rare.” My mouth opened. Closed. “Paris?” “Yes. I’ll follow up tomorrow, but please—say yes. This deserves to be seen.” I looked at her for a moment, flabbergasted, as if I completely had forgotten that city for a long time. Then, after a few moments, I nodded. Not for her, not for the opportunity. For me. Because five years ago, I ran. Hid. Changed my name to survive. But I’m not hiding anymore. That night, I sat on the edge of Caleb’s bed after he fell asleep. The Spider-Man blanket was half-kicked off, his hair a wild tangle of curls against the pillow. One of his arms was slung across a plush dinosaur with a missing eye. I watched him breathe for longer than I should’ve. His chest rising and falling in that steady, perfect rhythm only children have. So unbothered. So unaware of the weight of the world outside his dreams. I brushed a curl away from his forehead. My fingertips lingered, tracing the warmth of his skin. A silent apology for the things he didn’t know. The truths I’ve never spoken out loud. He didn’t know his father. And I wasn’t sure if I’d ever tell him. What would I say? That his father once kissed me like I was nothing, then left me to become someone? That he never asked if I was happy? That I gave up everything, including my own last name, to protect the one person who should’ve protected me? Would any of that matter to a child who just wanted to be loved? I lowered my head and kissed Caleb’s forehead, breathing in that soft, milky scent that still clung to his hair after bath time. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake. I turned off the lamp beside his bed and stood in the doorway for a while, the room behind me swallowed in the shadows. The business card from Claire was tucked inside my coat pocket. I’d said yes. I’d meant it. Still, my chest tightened when I thought of Paris. The exposure. The people. The possibility. But I pushed it down. The past was dead. Buried. Forgotten. Let it stay that way. I pressed a kiss to Caleb’s forehead and turned off the lights. Let the past stay buried. Paris is just another city. There’s no way Adrian Volkov will be there. Right?AdrianThe pen in my hand barely moved.I had stared at the same paragraph for nearly ten minutes, the words flattening into meaningless lines. My assistant had flown in with the draft this morning—urgent, time-sensitive, “absolutely top priority”—but I couldn’t focus. Not today.The air felt... tight.Not heavy, exactly. Just off.Paris did that to me. It always had. Too ornate, too sentimental. A city built for people who believed in second chances.And I didn’t.I stood from the bench near the private lounge of the gallery, watching as the early access team rearranged placements for the exhibit. My exhibit. Or more like an exhibit for all the artists. Volkov International was sponsoring the entire thing—high-profile art show, luxury networking, brand alignment. All buzzwords that used to mean something.Now? Just noise.I adjusted my cuff, checked the time, and turned back toward my seat.Then I heard a voice.“Mister, is that real gold?”The voice was small but clear. Curious. Con
AlessiaThe plane touched down with a quiet thud, and I felt my breath catch in my chest.Caleb was fast asleep, his cheek resting on my shoulder, one arm draped across my lap like he was still holding on even in sleep. I brushed a hand through his curls, trying not to let the chaos outside the window get to me.Paris.I told myself it was just another city.Another gallery. Another room filled with strangers admiring fabric they’d never wear but liked to look at. Another chance to prove I existed beyond someone’s discarded wife.But the moment the wheels hit the ground, I knew I was lying to myself.Paris wasn’t just another city.It was the last city I’d been in where my name still meant Alessia Volkov.We made it through customs with little fuss, and I held Caleb’s hand tightly as we stepped out into the crisp air beyond the terminal. The sky was pale, like it hadn’t decided whether to rain or shine, and the city felt heavier than I remembered. Like it had been holding its breath,
AlessiaIt’s been five years since I walked away from Adrian Volkov—and I haven’t looked back.Not really.Not in ways that count.Sure, sometimes I catch myself staring at my reflection longer than necessary, wondering if the shadows under my eyes were always there. If the quiet in my voice was born before him or because of him.But I don’t speak his name. Not even in my thoughts. Not anymore.The version of me that loved him—that waited for him—is gone.She died in silence, on a cold bathroom floor, clutching a pregnancy test and trying not to scream.Now… I’m someone else entirely.Alessia Roman.A name I chose myself. Not bought. Not inherited. Not gifted through contract.I live in a two-bedroom flat above a flower shop in Nice, France. The kind of place where the window lets in too much sun in the morning and the old heater makes strange clanking noises in winter. But it’s mine. And it’s warm. God, it’s warm.I run a small design studio not far from the water. Custom textiles, h
AlessiaThe drive was a blur.When I pulled up to my father’s home—the house I’d grown up in—cars were already lining the narrow street. People I hadn’t seen in years were gathered on the porch, talking in hushed voices, holding cups they didn’t drink from.My stomach dropped.I got out slowly, legs stiff and uncooperative.Maria potted me first. Her face changed the second she saw me. That look—sympathy mixed with dread—told me everything before she even opened her mouth.But she did.“Alessia…” she said softly, stepping toward me.“Where is he?” My voice was a whisper, but sharp. “Maria. Where’s Papa?”Her eyes filled instantly. “He’s inside. I—I’m so sorry.”I didn’t wait.I moved past her, through the crowd, through the house that still smelled like his cologne and old wood and safety. People watched me pass, parting like I was a ghost in black leather and grief. No one stopped me.I found him in his bedroom.He was lying still, too still. Eyes closed, hands folded neatly over his
Alessia I woke up with an ache between my legs and a tighter one in my chest. For a moment, I didn’t move. I lay there, eyes open, staring at the edge of the blanket as morning light stretched across the room like it didn’t know how broken I felt. My limbs were stiff, my body sore, but I didn’t care about the physical pain. It was the emptiness that settled in after that night with Adrian that made it hard to breathe. He hadn’t come back. I heard him shut the guest room door after everything. I waited, stupidly, hoping maybe he’d come back in the middle of the night, say something, but all I got was silence. And now, morning. My side of the bed looked slept-in. His still looked perfect. I wrapped the blanket around myself and sat up, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. The air in the room was sharp, like it hadn’t moved in hours. I could still feel traces of him on my skin—his breath, his hands, his weight—but it felt more like residue than memory. Like something I needed to was
AlessiaI didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there.The tabloid lay open on the coffee table like it was mocking me. Her red dress, his rare smile, the way he stood so comfortably beside her. I had stared at that photo until the colors blurred and my stomach twisted with something sharp and familiar—humiliation.The house stayed quiet. My untouched anniversary dinner had already been packed away by one of the maids. The candles I lit were nothing but puddles of wax.He still hadn’t come home.A part of me had hoped—stupidly, pathetically—that maybe he’d walk through that door with an apology. A reason. Even a lie would’ve been easier than this silence. But hours passed. The sky turned to dusk. Then to night.And still, nothing.It was after midnight when I finally heard the front door open. The unmistakable sound of his keys jingling lazily as he let himself in.I didn’t move right away. I just stood in the hallway, staring at him through the sliver of light that crept in from the