Chapter 6

Stella's POV

Nicholas released his grip, leaned down to gently scoop Elena up from the floor, and walked out of the room without ever looking back.

I remained kneeling on the floor. Trembling, I extended my bruised, swollen hand, carefully gathering the scattered wooden splinters into my palm, piece by agonizing piece.

Sharp wooden shards sliced into my skin, beads of blood welling up at the tips of my fingers, but I couldn't feel the sting.

Because my heart, in this exact moment, had died completely.

Weakened from severe blood loss and the lingering aftermath of anaphylaxis, I was forced to stay in the hospital for two more days on nutrient IV drips before I could even manage to stand and walk on my own.

On the day I was discharged, no car came to pick me up. I hailed a cab by the curb and rode back to Nicholas’s hillside mansion alone.

Pushing through the heavy front doors, the grand living room was empty.

When the maids saw me return, their eyes carried a mix of quiet scorn and awkward avoidance. By now, the entire household knew Nicholas had brought back his first love, and the "Miss Stella" who had lived under this roof for five years had fallen from grace entirely.

I ignored every gaze, heading straight up the grand staircase to the second floor, back into my room.

Opening the door, everything was arranged just as I had left it. But to me, this was no longer a sanctuary; it was a gilded cage that had imprisoned me for five miserable years.

I walked over to the walk-in closet and threw the doors wide.

Inside hung rack upon rack of designer dresses, haute couture coats, and shelves of luxury handbags. All of them had been ordered by Nicholas's assistants, updated season by season.

I used to believe this was Nicholas’s subtle way of doting on me. Only later did I learn the truth: he simply couldn't stand me dressing poorly and embarrassing the Vance name.

With a blank expression, I ripped the clothes off their hangers and flung them onto the floor.

Next was the vanity.

The velvet-lined drawers held neatly organized fine jewelry: diamond pendants, sapphire earrings, and Cartier bracelets. I swept them all into a massive cardboard box.

The sheet music on the shelves, the boxed sets of original vinyl records—pieces I had painstakingly hunted down over the years just to cater to Nicholas's tastes.

I used to fantasize about the day we might sit together by the floor-to-ceiling windows, sharing the silence while listening to the same Chopin nocturne.

Now, looking at them made me sick to my stomach.

Finally, I opened the locked bottom drawer of my desk.

Inside rested an old tin box.

Opening the lid revealed a thick stack of sealed envelopes and a worn sketchbook.

On every single envelope, the recipient line read: *To Nicholas Vance.* They were the confessions of a young girl, written across countless lonely nights before turning nineteen, words I had never possessed the courage to send.

Every page was filled with my humble, burning, secret love.

The sketchbook was filled entirely with Nicholas. His profile while reading, the curve of his lashes when he rested on the sofa, the subtle furrow of his brow.

My fingers traced the edges of the yellowed paper, completely devoid of sentiment.

I tossed the tin box right on top of the pile in the cardboard box, hoisted the heavy load into my arms, and walked down the stairs step by step, heading out toward the open clearing in the backyard.

The early winter wind was biting cold, rustling the dead leaves across the lawn.

I tipped the box over. The clothes, the diamonds, the sheet music, the vinyls, the letters, and the drawings tumbled out, piling into a small mountain of memories.

I pulled a disposable lighter from my pocket.

I had bought it at a convenience store on the way home.

I flicked the wheel, and a blue flame leapt to life.

I picked up a sketch of Nicholas's profile and touched the flame to the edge. Fire consumed the paper in an instant, the flickering glow illuminating my pale, emotionless face.

I tossed the burning drawing straight into the heart of the pile.

A gust of wind caught the embers, and the fire roared to life.

Expensive silk dresses charred into blackened ash. Vinyl records warped, bubbled, and melted under the fierce heat, spewing acrid black smoke into the gray sky. The letters carrying five years of my youth and every ounce of my pathetic love dissolved into floating embers, scattering into the wind.

The flames surged high, waves of heat washing over my skin until my cheeks burned.

I crouched beside the blaze, arms wrapped around my knees, quietly watching the destruction.

I watched the things I had once treasured like life itself turn into worthless trash.

Burn.

Burn away that foolish, pathetic, blind Stella from the past, along with every last trace of this garbage.

Suddenly, the rumble of an engine broke the quiet. The black Maybach pulled up the driveway.

Nicholas spotted the towering flames and thick smoke billowing from the backyard.

His brow slammed together in immediate annoyance, and he marched toward the lawn with long, aggressive strides.

"What do you think you're doing?" Nicholas stopped a few paces from the fire, demanding sharply.

The choking smell of burning plastic made him cough. He looked down at me crouched on the grass, his eyes dripping with irritation.

I didn't turn around. I didn't even shift my posture.

Watching the final scrap of paper dissolve into cinders, my voice was as flat as someone commenting on the weather: "Just getting rid of things I don't want anymore."

Nicholas looked down at me coldly.

Among the flames were charred scraps of fabric and warped plastic discs.

He didn't recognize that those were the designer clothes and rare vinyl records he had bought for me. He certainly didn't see the letters or the drawings being consumed by fire.

In his mind, I had simply suffered a bruised ego and was throwing another childish tantrum to blow off steam.

"Disgusting," Nicholas dropped the word coldly. Without bothering to ask a single follow-up question, he turned on his heel and walked straight into the mansion.

Crouched on the ground, I listened to his fading footsteps until the fire burned out completely, leaving behind nothing but a heap of smoldering embers.

Staring at the gray ash, my mind drifted back to my previous life.

Back then, during the time I first realized I was nothing more than a stand-in, I had also suffered a breakdown and burned everything. That day, Nicholas had walked over just like this, taken one look, sneered, "What kind of crazy fit are you throwing now?" and turned away without looking back.

The exact same scene. The exact same retreating back.

Nicholas never cared about what I burned, because he had never cared about me in the first place.

I stood up, brushing the dirt from my knees.

A sudden gust of wind swept across the grass, lifting the ash into the air and scattering it harmlessly into the soil.

It was over.

The past between me and Nicholas Vance was just like this pile of ash. It could never be put back together again.