Chapter 244

Chapter 244
Stella's POV

I looked at him, saw the determination in his expression, and felt something crack in my chest. "Thank you. Both of you. I know this is—" My voice broke. "I know this isn't easy."

Finn shook his head. "Your grandmother was good to me. She mentored me when I was nobody, believed in my work when everyone else dismissed it. After she died, I fell apart for months. Couldn't go into a lab, couldn't look at my research. I should have done something then. Should have pushed for an investigation."

"You're helping now," I managed. "That's what matters."

We talked for another hour, going through timelines and documents, discussing potential ways to track down River. By the time we finished, the lab windows were black with night, the city lights glittering in the rain-slicked darkness.

Nathan walked me to the elevator. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Stupid question," he amended. "Of course you're not okay. But Stella—we will find the truth. I promise you."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside. Nathan held the door for a moment.

"Christian doesn't know, does he? About who you really are?"

"No," I whispered.

"Thank you for trusting us." He let the door slide closed.

I leaned against the elevator wall as it descended, my reflection staring back at me from the polished steel. I looked like a stranger—hollow-eyed, pale, barely holding together.

When I reached the street, the rain had intensified. I didn't call a car. Didn't head toward the bus stop. I just started walking, letting the cold water soak through my coat, plastering my hair to my face.

For the first time since I'd started this, I felt the full weight of what I was doing. Not the anger that had sustained me, not the cold calculation that had guided my every move. Just the crushing, suffocating realization that I was chasing ghosts. That my grandmother had died trying to fix a problem Victor had created, and I was following in her footsteps—trying to fight a man who'd already won.

The streets were crowded despite the weather. People hurried past me, laughing and talking, living their lives. I passed restaurants with warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, bars with music thumping through closed doors. The world was full of people who had families, futures, reasons to smile.

And I had nothing but ashes and rage.

I walked for what felt like hours, until I found myself in a pedestrian mall. The crowd was thick here, bodies pressing close, voices blending into white noise. I stopped in the middle of it all and turned to look back the way I'd come.

Everyone was absorbed in their own world. Their own happiness, their own problems. No one looked at me. No one cared.

"I don't matter," I whispered.

The thought should have been freeing. Instead, it felt like drowning.

My legs gave out. I sank into a crouch right there in the middle of the crowd, my hands covering my face. People flowed around me like I was a stone in a river, an obstacle to be avoided. The tears came without warning, silent and hot, mixing with the rain on my face.

I didn't hear him approach. Didn't realize anyone had stopped until a familiar voice said, "Damn. Not very badass of you, crying on a street corner."

I looked up through my fingers. Logan stood over me, his hands in his pockets, his golden hair darkened by rain. His expression was soft, almost tender.

He crouched down to my level and reached out to brush tears from my cheeks with his thumb. "Well, this is a problem," he said gently. "You're supposed to be the tough one."

A sound escaped me—half sob, half laugh. "I never wanted to be tough."

"I know." He pulled something from his jacket—a paper bag, grease-stained and still warm. "I was walking past this old guy selling roasted chestnuts. He was packing up for the night. Made me think of you."

He opened the bag and the smell hit me—sweet, earthy, comforting. He peeled a chestnut with careful fingers and held it to my lips.

I took it, and the warmth spread through me like a small kindness I didn't deserve.

Logan peeled another for himself, then leaned forward until his forehead rested against mine. His breath was warm on my cold face. "You know what's really unfair?" he murmured. "You look beautiful even when you cry. It's killing me."

He took my hand and pressed it flat against his chest. His heart was racing, a frantic rhythm that matched my own.

"Feel that?" His voice was barely a whisper. "That's what you do to me."

He stood, pulling me up with him. His hand stayed locked around mine—solid, real, anchoring me to the world.

"Come on," he said softly. "Let's go home."

And for once, I didn't argue. I just followed him into the rain.