From Terrorist Cell to Diamond Prison

Chapter 5

When Fiona walked over, Luke's entire demeanor changed. He softened instantly, stepping forward to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, as if Rosalie wasn't even there.

"What's there to explain?" he said casually, his voice light but dismissive.

"Even if you are her aunt, you really shouldn't indulge her like this."

Fiona gave a playful pout. "Oh, Luke, don't be like that."

Luke spared Rosalie a quick glance, then turned back to Fiona as if the decision had already been made.

"If you like the dress, Rosalie, keep it," he said, tone indifferent.

"I'll have a new one custom-made for Fiona. This one's already ruined, so let's just forget about it."

Each word felt like a dagger to Rosalie, sharp, deliberate, and unforgiving. But this time, she didn't cry. She didn't plead. She just swallowed the lump in her throat, blinked back the tears, and quietly turned to leave before he could cut her down any further.

As she walked away, she looked down at the ill-fitting dress, clutching Luke's jacket tighter around her shoulders. A bitter thought slipped through her mind:

"No matter how hard you try, some things just don't fit. Just like this dress. Just like me and him."

She couldn't wrap her head around it, why her aunt would go along with this. Fiona, the same woman who used to dote on her, who braided her hair and told her bedtime stories. Now she was Luke's fiancée. When had everything changed?

Back in the fitting room, she changed into her own clothes, her hands trembling slightly. As she exited the mall, she spotted Luke and Fiona strolling toward a familiar little cake shop.

Her steps faltered.

That place, La Rosa.

Luke had bought it for her.

She remembered when she first moved to Florida. She barely spoke to anyone at school, too homesick to eat. Luke used to tease her, saying she looked like a "little bean sprout."

The only thing she craved back then was the cake from that cozy little shop. One day, Luke had caught her sneaking off with a box of pastries, her lips smudged with frosting. He'd laughed and patted her head.

"Why do you like this place so much?" he'd asked.

"Because it tastes like home," she'd answered.

That was all it took. The next day, he bought the entire bakery.

"If you like it, I'll even pluck the stars from the sky for you," he told her.

Back then, that shop had been her safe haven. Her place.

And now, he was walking through it hand-in-hand with Fiona, as if she had never been a part of that memory.

A cold wind swept through the street, and Rosalie pulled her coat tighter, turning her gaze away. She turned and walked in the opposite direction, leaving behind the warm lights, the sweet smell of sugar, and the man who no longer remembered what they once had.

She made her way to the nearest government office, her mind numb, her heart on autopilot. There, she submitted the paperwork to return to her home country.

"Miss Mitchell," the clerk said, "your application will take about ten days to process. You'll get an email once it's finalized."

Ten days. That's all it would take to finally walk away.

Luke, after this... I'll never be part of your world again, she promised herself.

With the documents safely tucked into her bag, she wandered the city she'd once called home. For years, Luke had made this place feel safe, warm, like she belonged.

Now, it was nothing but a cold, unfamiliar place filled with memories she couldn't bear to hold onto.

Snow began to fall gently, flakes catching in her hair and on her lashes. Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of her daze. She answered without checking.

Luke's voice came through, sharp and irritated.

"Where did you go? Fiona didn't invite you out just for you to throw a tantrum. Come back. Now."

Snowflakes melted against her bare hands, but she barely noticed the chill. She hung up without a word, slipped the phone into her pocket, and made her way back to the mall.

But by the time she returned, Luke and Fiona were gone. Vanished, just like the version of her life she'd spent so long holding onto.