Alessia
The 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, waiting for me to return. The cab ride was quiet. Caleb pressed his face against the window as we passed block after block of soft beige buildings and crooked balconies. “Mommy, is this our new house?” he asked, his voice small and hopeful. I looked out with him, then back at his wide eyes. “No, baby. Just for a few nights.” “Oh,” he said, clearly disappointed. Then, “Can we live here one day?” I didn’t answer right away. “We’ll see,” I murmured, softly enough that I wasn’t sure if I meant it or not. Claire’s team had arranged a short-stay apartment just above a pastry shop in the 5th arrondissement. It was modest but charming—creaky hardwood floors, linen curtains that fluttered in the breeze, and a tiny kitchen that smelled faintly of sugar and cinnamon. The kind of place where I could almost pretend the past never happened. Caleb ran in first, claiming the bedroom near the window. I let him. I didn’t need much. Just a door that locked and a night without ghosts knocking on it. The next day, Claire met me at the gallery. She was in a navy trench coat and heels that clicked with every step. “You’re glowing,” she said as she greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks. “The pieces look even better in this light. Everyone’s talking about them.” I gave a small smile. I didn’t feel like I was glowing. I felt like I hadn’t slept in weeks. Like every cell in my body was bracing for something I couldn’t name. Claire walked me inside. The gallery was beautiful—open spaces, high ceilings, light that filtered in through old glass panels. My silks were arranged near the back, draped across curved frames that mimicked windblown petals. For a second, I allowed myself to breathe. Maybe this could be good. Maybe I deserved this. “Mommy, can I go look at the moon statue again?” Caleb asked, tugging on my hand. “Okay,” I said. “But stay where I can see you.” He nodded and ran off toward the installation near the center. His laughter echoed faintly, bouncing off marble floors and canvas-covered walls. And then I heard it. A voice. Low. Sharp. So familiar that my entire body went still. “No, I want the Volkov sculpture moved under the primary lighting. It’s the centerpiece. Not a damn afterthought.” I froze. No. No, it couldn’t be. I turned slowly—heart hammering in my throat. And there he was. Adrian. He hadn’t changed much. Maybe taller. Maybe colder. His jaw was still sharp, his posture still perfect, his presence still pulling the oxygen out of the room. He stood a few feet away, speaking to a coordinator like he owned the building. Which he probably did. The same man who once kissed me with a mouth full of lies. The man I had run from. The man I had a child with—who didn’t know. I looked toward Caleb. He was crouched near the sculpture, one hand trailing the edge of a glowing moon. Adrian hadn't seen him. Not yet. Not me either. But if he turned—if he so much as blinked in our direction… I rushed toward Caleb, heart in my throat. “Sweetheart,” I said, crouching down beside him. “We need to go.” “But I wanna stay,” he whined. “I didn’t get to see the other painting—” “Now,” I said, sharper than I meant to. He blinked at me, lips forming a small pout. But he nodded, sliding his hand into mine without another word. I didn’t look back. I didn’t wait. I walked out of the gallery with my son and didn’t breathe until the door shut behind us. The apartment was silent when we returned. Caleb kicked off his shoes and flopped on the couch, completely unbothered. I, on the other hand, sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor like it had answers. Adrian Volkov was there. At my exhibit. The odds of that weren’t coincidence. They were cruel. I had spent five years keeping my name off radar, off headlines, off everything that would tether me to that man. But fate was persistent. And petty. I rested my face in my hands and tried to quiet the panic rising in my chest. He hadn’t seen me. He hadn’t seen Caleb. It was okay. It had to be. “Mommy?” Caleb peeked in from the other room. “Are you sad?” I looked up, swallowing the thickness in my throat. “No, baby. Just tired.” He came closer and hugged me without another word. I pulled him into my lap and kissed the top of his head. That night, after I put him to bed, I sat at the small kitchen table with a cup of tea I didn’t drink and stared out the window for a long, long time. I remembered how it felt the last time Adrian touched me. How broken I’d felt afterward. How alone. I remembered the silence. The way he never came after me. The way he never even asked. He didn’t deserve to know. He didn’t get to unravel me again. I wouldn’t let him. I climbed into bed close to midnight, exhausted. My arms wrapped around Caleb as he slept. The warmth of his little body pressed against mine was the only thing that still grounded me. I told myself it was just one more day. One more event. Then we’d go home. Back to the life I’d built. Away from the shadows that used to own me. I must’ve finally fallen asleep around four. When I opened my eyes again, the light was different—softer, golden, morning. I stretched, blinking. And then I reached for Caleb. Nothing. I shot upright. The bed beside me was empty. Cold. “Caleb?” No answer. I climbed out of bed fast, heart thudding. “Caleb!” Louder now. No sound from the kitchen. No sound from the bathroom. His shoes were still near the door, but the front latch— The door was unlocked. Panic exploded in my chest. I ran.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