Elara’s POVTwo years later. A small coastal town in Oregon."Elena, you're a miracle worker," the client said, admiring her newly restored painting."Thank you," I smiled, packing away my tools. "Remember to keep it out of direct sunlight."After the client left, I looked at myself in the mirror.Short, neat hair. A clean, makeup-free face. A simple white shirt.No one would ever recognize me as Elara Vance, the woman who died in a plane crash two years ago.Now, I was Elena Morrison, owner of a small design studio.Antonio had used the Torrino family's connections to create a flawless new identity for me.Elara Vance was dead and buried, along with her hellish past.But some scars are carved into the bone.Like the nightmares that woke me up every night: the cold muzzle of a gun, Dante's indifferent eyes, the metallic feel of handcuffs on my wrist.Like the physical fear of men getting too close.If a man stood too close, my lungs seized. My muscles locked.I was an island, and the w
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