---- Chapter 16 Farah Moore POV: Two months. | had spent two months healing in a private, luxurious sanatorium nestled in the Swiss Alps, a world away from the nightmare of my past life. Brett had arranged everything. But even in this paradise, the nightmares followed me. | woke up screaming, my body drenched in a cold sweat, the phantom feel of Brandon's hands on my throat. Brett was always there, sitting in the armchair by my bed, a book lying open in his lap. He would rush to my side, his arms a safe harbor in the storm of my memories. "It's okay, Aurora," he would murmur, his voice a soothing balm on my frayed nerves. "You're safe. I'm here." He told me he had been out of the country on a family emergency when he had first tried to warn me. By the time he returned, it was too late. The guilt in his eyes was a constant, silent apology. "Don't say his name," | told him one day, my voice sharp. "I don't want to hear his name ever again." Farah Moore was dead. She had died in that fire, along with ---- her foolish, all-consuming love for Brandon Carlson. | was Aurora Valois now. And Aurora Valois would never be a victim again. The change in me was stark. The vibrant, trusting woman | used to be was gone, replaced by a pale, haunted version with shadows in her eyes. Brett saw it, and his heart ached for me. On my birthday, he brought me a small, beautifully wrapped gift. "Make a wish, Rory," he said, his old nickname for me a gentle echo of a happier time. "| don't have any wishes left," | said, my voice hollow. "But thank you, Brett. For everything." "I'll always be here for you," he promised, his gaze unwavering. "Always." For the first time in a long time, | felt a flicker of warmth in the frozen landscape of my heart. Meanwhile, back in the city, Brandon Carlson was falling apart. He had locked Caryl away in a private facility, a prison of her own making, but it brought him no peace. He drank himself into a stupor every night, neglecting his company, ignoring the frantic calls from his board of directors. Danial found him one evening, surrounded by empty bottles of scotch, his eyes red-rimmed and vacant. ---- "You can't go on like this," Danial said, his voice laced with a rare sincerity. "The company is going to collapse." "| don't care," Brandon muttered, reaching for another bottle. "Farah's project is on the line," Danial tried a different tactic. "The one she poured her heart into. Are you going to let that die too?" The name was a physical blow. Brandon flinched, his hand freezing in mid-air. He didn't want to go to the company's annual gala. He wanted to go to the cemetery, to the empty plot he had purchased under her name, a memorial to a woman whose body was never found. "She worked so hard for you," Danial said quietly. "Don't let her efforts be for nothing." The words hit their mark. Brandon went to the gala. He stood in the shadows, a ghost at his own party, watching the city's elite whisper about his downfall. He was about to leave when he heard a voice that stopped his heart "Happy birthday, Rory!" He turned. And there she was. She was standing in the spotlight, a vision in a shimmering silver gown, her hair cascading down her back in dark waves. She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She was ---- alive. She was standing next to another man, a handsome man in a tailored suit, and they were cutting a birthday cake together. The man leaned in and whispered something in her ear, his lips brushing against her skin. And she smiled. A genuine, radiant smile. Brandon forgot how to breathe.