Chapter 35 Chapter 35

Chapter 35 Chapter 35
Ciara’s POV 

I looked at his mouth and then back at his eyes. The air between us felt thick, like the moments before a storm breaks.

I didn't say anything. I just leaned forward the last few inches.

The kiss was brief. It wasn't the kind of desperate, messy thing I was used to in my old life. It was controlled and exploratory. His lips were warm and soft against mine. For a few seconds, the sounds of the city traffic and the distant chatter from the arena faded into a dull hum. 

I was the one who pulled back first. I stepped away and smoothed my jacket, my hands feeling a little unsteady. 

"That doesn't mean anything," I said. I kept my voice as flat as possible.

Elijah leaned back against the car and shoved his hands into his pockets with a small smile on his face. "I didn't say it did."

"Good," I said.

"But it was a nice way to end the night," he added. He walked around to the driver's side and unlocked the doors. "Get in. I'll take you home."

The car ride back to my apartment was quiet. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but it was charged. I looked out the window at the passing streetlights, my mind replaying the sensation of the kiss. I touched my lips unconsciously, then quickly dropped my hand when I realized what I was doing.

I needed to stay focused. 

When we pulled up to the curb of my building, Elijah kept the engine running. He turned in his seat to look at me.

"Goodnight, Ciara," he said.

"Goodnight," I replied.

I reached for the door handle, but I didn't open it immediately. I sat there for a second, looking at the steering wheel. I felt like I should say something more, but the words wouldn't come. 

Elijah didn't move either. He just watched me. "You look like a very complicated person, Ciara Wilson."

"You have no idea," I muttered.

I opened the door and stepped out. I didn't look back as I walked into the lobby and waited for the elevator.

When I got to my floor, I let myself into the dark apartment and locked the door with three separate turns of the key.

I walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. 

I went to bed, but I didn't sleep well. 

The next morning, the sun was bright and the air was hot. I dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a white button-down shirt. I pulled my hair back into a tight bun.

Today was my first day at the National University of Singapore. Silas had called some people and they accepted me.

The campus was huge and bustling with students from all over the world. I walked through the main gates, carrying a leather satchel with my tablet and a few medical journals.

Everything was clean and structured. I walked into the lecture hall and found a seat in the back row. I listened to the professor talk about advanced pathology, my hand moving across the screen of my tablet as I took notes.

I blended in perfectly with the crowd of overachieving medical students.

When the lecture ended, I walked toward the cafeteria.

The space was loud and smelled of coffee and stir-fry. I grabbed a salad and a bottle of water and found a small, isolated table in the corner, away from the groups of gossiping students.

I sat down and pulled up a digital textbook on my tablet, trying to focus on the cellular structure of tumors. Several televisions were mounted on the walls, mostly showing local news or sports highlights.

I was halfway through my salad when a name caught my attention. It wasn't a name I expected to hear in Singapore.

"...international search continues for the missing wife of New York businessman Dante Moretti," the news anchor said.

I froze. The fork in my hand stayed halfway to my mouth. I didn't look up immediately. My heart began to thud against my ribs, a slow, heavy beat. I forced myself to take a slow breath. I put the fork down and looked at the television screen.

The sound in the cafeteria seemed to fade away. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears.

The screen showed a photo. It was an old photo of the old me. Elara. I was wearing a black dress, my hair down, my eyes looking directly into the camera. 

Then the image changed. They showed a picture of Dante standing outside a courthouse, his arm in a sling, his face tight with a rage he was barely concealing. Beside him stood Isabella Rossi, looking somber and beautiful in a dark veil.

"Elara Moretti, aged 26, disappeared five days ago following a violent incident at her home," the anchor continued. "Police have now upgraded the investigation. While a body found in the East River was initially thought to be hers, DNA results were inconclusive.

Authorities now believe she may have fled the country."
I stared at the screen. My heart spiked. I felt a cold chill wash over me, despite the heat of the cafeteria.

Then the anchor said the word that changed everything.
"New York authorities have officially issued an international red notice. They aren't just looking for her as a missing person. Due to new evidence found at the scene and the theft of nearly one hundred million dollars from the Moretti accounts, Elara Moretti is now officially..."

The screen changed again. It showed the old photo of my face, but this time, bold red letters were plastered across the bottom of the screen.

"Wanted."