Chapter 45
Elara
I turned to look at him. His profile was sharp in the dimming light, jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead.
"What do you want?" I asked quietly. "How am I supposed to repay you?"
He shifted in his seat, finally meeting my gaze. "Come back to Blackwood."
My stomach dropped. "No."
"That's the price." His voice was flat. Final.
I shook my head. "Anything else."
"There is nothing else." He leaned closer, and I could see the tension in his shoulders, the controlled fury simmering beneath his composed exterior. "You're being irrational. You need stability. Protection. A place where—"
"Anything but that," I interrupted, my voice steady despite the racing of my heart. "I'll owe you a favor. I'll—I'll help with whatever you need. Just not Blackwood."
Julian stared at me for a long moment. Something flickered in his eyes—frustration, perhaps confusion. Maybe even hurt, though that seemed impossible.
Then his expression went cold.
"Atlas." His voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Stop the car."
I blinked. "What?"
"Stop the car," Julian repeated.
Atlas glanced in the rearview mirror, uncertainty crossing his face. But he obeyed, pulling over to the curb.
We were somewhere between Midtown and the Bronx. The neighborhood was in transition—half-renovated brownstones stood beside shuttered bodegas and chain-link fences. Street vendors were packing up their carts. A group of teenagers lounged on a stoop, music blasting from a portable speaker.
Not exactly dangerous. But not safe either.
Julian turned to me, his face an emotionless mask. "Get out."
My breath caught. "You can't be serious."
"Get out." His tone was ice. "Since you're so determined to be 'independent,' since you'd rather owe me anything except what I'm actually asking for—go ahead. It doesn't matter to me where you go."
For a moment, I couldn't move. Couldn't process what was happening.
Then anger flared in my chest, hot and sharp.
I grabbed my backpack, fingers gripping the strap hard enough to hurt. "You know what, Julian?" I met his eyes, refusing to look away. "I don't regret this. Not one bit."
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
I pushed open the door. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of exhaust and frying food from a nearby takeout joint. The city noise hit me—traffic, distant sirens, someone shouting.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk, my boots hitting the pavement with a dull thud.
Julian still hadn't moved. Hadn't looked at me. Just stared straight ahead, his hands clenched on his knees.
I was about to close the door when he spoke, his voice low and bitter. "Don't think I did this for you. I couldn't care less whether you come back or not."
I paused, one hand on the door frame. For a second, I almost laughed. Almost.
"I know," I said softly. "That's the problem."
I slammed the door shut.
The Rolls-Royce pulled away immediately, tires hissing on the wet pavement. Within seconds, it had disappeared into the evening traffic, taillights swallowed by the stream of cars and buses.
I stood there on the curb, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching it vanish.
Around me, the city moved. A woman pushed a shopping cart overflowing with plastic bags. Two kids on bikes swerved past, laughing and shouting. A bus rumbled by, belching exhaust.
I pulled out my phone, fingers trembling slightly. Opened the rideshare app. Typed in the Iron District address. Going back to school at that point, classes would likely have ended anyway, so I might as well have gone straight home.
Estimated arrival: 15 minutes.
I leaned against a streetlight and waited, arms wrapped around myself against the chill.
My wrist throbbed where Julian had grabbed me earlier. My head ached. Everything ached.
But beneath the exhaustion and the pain, something else stirred.
A strange, fragile sense of lightness.
Even here—abandoned on a street corner, with bruises on my skin and uncertainty stretching out before me—I was free.
No one watching. No one controlling. No one telling me who I had to be or what I owed them.
The rideshare arrived. A dented Honda with a faded Puerto Rican flag air freshener hanging from the mirror.
I climbed in and gave the driver a tired smile. "Thanks for coming."
"No problem, mija." He glanced at me in the rearview. "Rough day?"
"Something like that."
He didn't press, just turned up the radio—some salsa station—and pulled back into traffic.
I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me.
---
By the time I reached the apartment, it was after five. The Iron District's streetlights had flickered on, casting pools of yellow light across graffiti-covered walls and rusted fire escapes.
I paid the driver with cash and climbed the three flights of stairs to our floor.
Inside, the apartment was warm and smelled like garlic and tomatoes. Maria stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. When she heard the door, she turned.
Her eyes went wide. Then her face crumpled.
"Dios mío, Elara. What happened? Did he—did they—"
"I'm fine, Mamá." I dropped my backpack by the door and kicked off my boots. I moved past her into the kitchen, suddenly starving. "Is there food?"
She gestured helplessly at the stove. "I made pasta."
I ladled sauce and noodles into a bowl, the heat of it warming my cold fingers.
When Yuki and Diego came home an hour later, they took one look at me—exhausted, paint-stained, slumped at the kitchen table—and exchanged a glance.
"You okay?" Yuki asked gently.
"Yeah." I managed a small smile. "Just a long day."
Diego pulled up a chair. "You need anything? We've got ice cream. Or tequila. Or both."
Despite everything, I laughed. "Maybe later."
"The offer stands." He squeezed my shoulder as he stood. "If you need to talk, we're here."
After they retreated to their rooms, I sat alone at the table, staring at my phone.
Then my phone buzzed.
"Ms. Rivera."
I stared at the screen for a moment before answering. "Hello, Ms. Rivera?"
"Elara." Her voice was warm, gentle. "I hope I'm not calling too late. I wanted to check in on you after... today's events."
Something in my chest loosened. "I'm okay. Thank you for asking."
"I'm glad." A pause. "I also wanted to remind you about Founder's Day. The student art exhibition is a wonderful opportunity for you to showcase your talent. How is your piece coming along?"
My hand tightened on the phone.
In my past life, I'd worked on a self-portrait—something raw and vulnerable. And Sloane had "accidentally" destroyed it the night before the exhibition. By the time I'd frantically repainted it, the deadline had passed.
This time would be different.
"I'm working on it, Ms. Rivera," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I'll have something ready."
"I'm glad to hear that." I could hear the smile in her tone. "You have real talent, Elara. Don't let anyone take that away from you."
My eyes stung. "Thank you. That means a lot."
"If you need any materials or support, let me know. I believe in you."