---- Chapter 9 Charlotte Dean POV: Five years. Five years had passed since the day my father had walked into that hospital room and given me back my life. In those five years, | had built a new one, one stronger and more beautiful than | could have ever imagined. | had married Ethan. Our wedding was a small, private ceremony at the Connecticut estate, attended only by the family and close friends who had become our steadfast support system. It was a day filled with quiet joy, a celebration not of a dramatic passion, but of a deep, abiding partnership built on trust and mutual respect. Ethan was everything Gabe had pretended to be: kind, stable, and utterly devoted. He loved Alexander as his own, and the bond between them was a constant source of warmth in my heart. A year after our wedding, our daughter, Lily, was born. She was a bright, happy child with my mother' s gentle spirit and Ethan' s steady, observant eyes. My family was complete. | had also come into my own professionally. My father had named me the Director of the Dean Foundation. | had traveled the world, overseeing projects that provided housing, education, and clean water to communities in need. | had ---- found my purpose, using my skills not just to create beautiful buildings, but to build better lives. | was no longer hiding behind the Dean name; | was defining it for a new generation. We were back in New York for the unveiling of the Foundation ' s newest project: a state-of-the-art community center and shelter | had designed in the heart of the Bronx. It was the culmination of two years of work, and my first major project in the city that held so many ghosts. But | wasn't afraid of them anymore. The gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As | walked through the grand halls, holding Ethan' s hand, with my parents watching proudly, | felt a sense of profound peace. This was my city now, on my terms. "You did it, Charlotte," Ethan said, squeezing my hand. "It's magnificent." | smiled up at him. "We did it." As | was mingling with donors, a familiar face caught my eye. It was one of my father' s oldest advisors, a man who had initially been wary of me. He was now one of my most vocal supporters. "An incredible achievement, Charlotte," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Your father must be very proud." "l hope so," | said. "He is," a voice said behind me. It was my father. He put a ---- hand on my shoulder. "More than you know." He gestured to the crowd. "Things have a way of coming full circle, don't they?" | knew what he meant. He wasn't just talking about my career. He was talking about my life. Later that evening, as the gala was winding down, | stepped out onto the museum' s grand staircase for a breath of fresh air. The cool night air felt good on my skin. | watched the yellow cabs stream down Fifth Avenue, a river of light. A commotion at the bottom of the steps drew my attention. Awoman, thin and haggard, was arguing with a security guard. She was dressed in worn, ill-fitting clothes, her hair matted and unkempt. There was a desperate, wild look in her eyes. My heart stopped. It was Harper. She looked a decade older than her years, the youthful glow she' d once had completely extinguished, replaced by the hard, brittle look of poverty and despair. She was holding the hand of a small boy, around six years old, who was crying softly. The security guard was trying to move her along. "Ma'am, you can't panhandle here. You need to leave." "l' m not panhandling!" she shrieked, her voice raw. "' m looking for someone! He' s supposed to be here!" Her frantic eyes scanned the crowd of elegantly dressed ---- guests leaving the museum. Then, her gaze landed on me. Recognition dawned, followed by a wave of pure, unadulterated hatred. "You," she hissed. She broke away from the guard and started up the steps toward me, dragging her son behind her. The boy stumbled, his cries growing louder. Ethan was at my side in an instant, stepping protectively in front of me. "Charlotte, let's go inside." But | couldn't move. | was frozen, watching the ghost of my past claw its way into my present. "This is all your fault!" Harper screamed as she got closer, her face contorted in an ugly mask of rage. "You ruined everything! You took him from me!" "Ma' am, that' s enough," the security guard said, grabbing her arm. "| need to see him!" she sobbed, her brief flash of anger collapsing into a pitiful desperation. She turned to her son. "Find him, Leo. Go find your daddy." The little boy, Leo, looked terrified. He pulled his hand free and, in a panic, ran into the dispersing crowd. A moment later, he emerged, pulling on the sleeve of a man who was shuffling along the edge of the sidewalk, his head ---- down. The man was a vagrant, dressed in layers of filthy rags, his face obscured by a thick, matted beard. Harper' s face lit up with a grotesque, desperate hope. "Gabe! There you are! Tell them! Tell them who | am! Tell them who. she is!" The man lifted his head, and the dim gaslight from the museum entrance fell across his face. My breath caught in my throat. It wasn't just a vagrant. Beneath the grime and the despair, the haunted, hollowed-out eyes were unmistakable. It was Gabe.