---- Chapter 11 My solo sculpture exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York was the talk of the town. The art world was buzzing. "The Rebirth series is breathtaking... a testament to the resilience of the human spirit," one critic wrote. Alexander stood by my side, looking sharp ina tailored suit, his presence a quiet source of strength. "Isabella, congratulations," he whispered in my ear. " Your work is going to change lives." "T wouldn't be here without you," my voice thick with an emotion I was still learning to name again. It was more than gratitude; it was peace. Just then, the auctioneer announced the most shocking news of the night. "The centerpiece, Rebirth from the Cocoon, has sold for an incredible five million dollars! The buyer wishes to remain anonymous, but the bid was placed ---- from an IP address originating in... Chicago." My blood ran cold. "A buyer from Chicago?" I gripped Alexander's hand, my knuckles white. "Don't worry," he soothed, his thumb rubbing circles on my skin. "It's a big city. It's just a coincidence." But my heart was hammering against my ribs. That place held too many ghosts. Back at the hotel, I couldn't sleep. I sat by the window, staring out at the glittering New York skyline, feeling like a target. Alexander knocked softly on the connecting door. "Can't sleep?" He came in with two cups of chamomile tea. "T feel like someone is watching me," I admitted. " Maybe I'm just being paranoid." ---- "Tsabella, you're still healing from a profound trauma, " Alexander said, sitting beside me. "It's normal to feel this way." "will it ever go away?" "Tt will," he promised, taking my hand. "Time heals. And besides, you're not alone anymore." I looked into his gentle, steady eyes, and a warmth spread through my chest, pushing back the cold fear. Over the next three months, Alexander accompanied me on a European gallery tour. The Louvre, the Tate Modern, the Uffizi... every stop was a triumph. "Isabella Rossi is the most promising sculptor of our time..." praised Art World Magazine. Alexander was always there, a constant, quiet presence in the crowd, his applause the only one I truly heard. Ina small café in Venice, as the sun set over the shimmering canals, he kissed me for the first time.