---- Chapter 13 Emily POV: The air in Paris was bitingly cold, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth of the airplane. | pulled my thin jacket tighter around me, my small carry-on bag feeling impossibly heavy. The fluorescent lights of the arrivals hall at Charles de Gaulle seemed to buzz with a frantic energy, mirroring the chaotic swarm of my own thoughts. | was free. | was alone. | was terrified. | stood amidst the joyful reunions and tearful goodbyes, a solitary island in a sea of humanity. For a terrifying moment, | felt the overwhelming urge to turn around, to get back on a plane and fly back to the gilded cage | had just escaped. At least there, the misery was familiar. Then, through the crowd, | saw him. My breath caught in my throat. It had been eight years, but Josiah Slater looked almost exactly the same. He was taller, broader in the shoulders, and the boyish softness of his face had sharpened into a handsome, masculine confidence, but his eyes were the same. Kind, intelligent, and right now, fixed on me with an expression of gentle concern. He started walking towards me, a small, reassuring smile on ---- his face. There was no impatience for my late flight, no irritation, just a quiet, steady presence that felt like a lifeline. My feet felt rooted to the spot. My mind, a traitor, flashed back to high school. Josiah had been the golden boy-class president, star quarterback, effortlessly brilliant. He had been kind to me, the quiet, nerdy girl who always had her nose in a book. He' d once defended me when Dallas had tried to trip me in the hallway. That small act of kindness had been my undoing. It had put me on Dallas's radar. Her obsession with Josiah meant that any girl he showed the slightest interest in became a target. The bullying had started the next day. | remembered the day he graduated, a year before me. He' d found me in the library, my safe haven. "I'm leaving for London tomorrow," he'd said, his expression serious. "There's a program at LSE | got into. Emily... come with me. Get away from here. From her." | had been too scared, too broken, and too secretly infatuated with the dark, brooding boy from the foster home who was just starting to notice me. | had turned him down. He had looked so disappointed, but he hadn't pushed. He just took a pen and wrote a number on a slip of paper. "This is my personal number. It will never change. If you ever, ever need anything, you call me. | mean it, Emily." And now, eight years later, | had called. And he had come ---- "Emily," he said, his voice a warm, gentle baritone that soothed the ragged edges of my nerves. He didn't hug me or offer awkward condolences. He simply took the handle of my suitcase from my numb fingers. "You look cold." He shrugged off his own expensive wool coat and draped it over my shoulders. It was warm from his body and smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean laundry. It felt like the first moment of genuine safety | had experienced in years. He led me to a sleek, dark car and drove us through the waking streets of Paris to a beautiful apartment overlooking the Seine. It was warm and tastefully decorated, filled with books and art. It felt like a home. "Are you hungry?" he asked, already moving towards the kitchen. "| can make some pasta." The simple, domestic question almost made me cry. While he cooked, the scent of garlic and basil filling the air, | sat on a plush sofa, the reality of my situation crashing down on me. | had sent that text on a desperate whim, never truly believing he would respond, let alone fly me to Paris and offer me sanctuary. | had assumed he was just being polite, a forgotten promise from a boy | used to know. We ate at a small wooden table, the city lights twinkling outside the window. "So," Josiah said gently, after a long, comfortable silence. "What's your plan?" ---- "I... | don't know," | admitted, my voice small. "Learn the language, | guess. Find a job. Start over." | looked at him, my heart aching with a gratitude so immense it was painful. "Josiah, thank you. For all of this. | know I'm a mess, a huge inconvenience-" "Don't," he cut me off, his expression serious. "You are not an inconvenience. If anything, | owe you. A huge debt." "You don't owe me anything." "Yes, | do," he insisted. "| know what happened in high school. | know it started because of me. | was a coward, Emily. | should have done more to stop her." He looked down at his hands. "I came back to the States every year for the holidays. I'd see the news, see you with him. You looked... happy. So | didn't want to interfere. But | never forgot. And | never forgave myself for not protecting you then." His confession left me speechless. All this time, he had been carrying that guilt. He looked up, his kind eyes meeting mine. "So, let me help you now. Let me do what | should have done eight years ago."