The morning light filtered through the blinds of my tiny hostel room in Milan. I stretched my fingers, still sore from yesterday's seamstress work, and reached for my sketchbook. Three days had passed since I'd left New York, and the weight of Waylen's betrayal still pressed against my chest like a stone.
But I didn't have time for self-pity. I had dreams to chase.
---
Meanwhile in New York, Waylen Crawford stood outside my old apartment building, his tailored suit looking oddly out of place among the modest brick facades. I could almost picture him there—his jaw clenched, his fingers drumming against his thigh as he approached the building.
"Mr. Crawford," the superintendent said, recognizing him from previous visits. "Ms. Snyder hasn't been here in months."
"I know that," Waylen snapped, his voice tight with barely controlled frustration. "I need to see inside."
The super hesitated. "I'm not supposed to—"
Waylen pulled out his wallet. "Five hundred says you can make an exception."
Minutes later, they stood in my empty apartment. I'd cleared everything out months ago, moving my few belongings to storage until I could send for them in Milan.
"She's really gone," Waylen murmured, running his hand along the bare countertop.
The super shifted uncomfortably. "Like I said, she hasn't been here since—"
"Leave," Waylen cut him off. "I'll lock up when I'm done."
Alone in the empty space, Waylen moved methodically through each room. What was he looking for? Some sign that I'd been real? That our three years had meant something?
In the bedroom, he lifted the bare mattress, probably expecting to find something hidden underneath. Instead, he found nothing but dust bunnies and a single sketchbook I'd forgotten in my haste to leave.
I imagined his hands trembling slightly as he opened it.
The first page held a sketch of him from our high school days—defending me from bullies behind the gymnasium. His younger self, fierce and protective, eyes blazing with indignation.
He flipped through more pages: Waylen asleep on the couch, his face softened without the mask of control; Waylen drinking coffee in the morning light, his profile strong against the window; Waylen laughing—rare moments when his guard had dropped.
Every sketch was dated. Some went back years before our arrangement began.
---
"Tessa!" Waylen's voice echoed through his penthouse as he stormed in, the sketchbook clutched in his hand.
Tessa looked up from her laptop, startled by his fury. "What's wrong?"
He threw the sketchbook onto the coffee table between them. "Explain this."
Tessa's perfectly manicured fingers opened to a random page—a sketch of Waylen looking thoughtful, his brow furrowed as he read financial reports.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"Artwork, obviously," Tessa replied, her voice carefully neutral. "Where did you find it?"
"In her apartment. Under the mattress." His voice cracked slightly. "She's been drawing me for years. Since high school."
Something flickered across Tessa's face—recognition, perhaps, or guilt.
"You knew," Waylen accused, his voice dropping dangerously low. "You knew she had feelings for me."
Tessa closed the sketchbook with deliberate calm. "It doesn't matter now. She's gone."
"Tell me what you did," he growled.
Under the weight of his stare, Tessa's composure finally cracked.
"Fine," she snapped. "I paid her to be your girlfriend while I was in Paris. I needed someone to keep you occupied so you wouldn't move on with someone else."
"The contract," Waylen whispered, the pieces falling into place. "The rules about what she could wear, how she could act..."
"I needed to make sure she didn't get too comfortable," Tessa said, her voice hardening. "She was never supposed to be anything more than a placeholder."
Waylen sank onto the couch, the truth crushing him. Everything had been a lie—except for those sketches. Those had been real.
---
My fingers bled as I pushed the needle through another seam. The tiny sewing shop in Milan's fashion district was hot and cramped, but it was a start.
"Again," Isabella Cross said, her weathered hands adjusting my grip on the fabric. "The stitch must be invisible, even to the trained eye."
I nodded, focusing on the delicate silk before me. Two weeks in Milan had taught me that talent alone wasn't enough—I needed skill, and for that, I needed Isabella.
"You have good instincts," she remarked, watching me work. "But your hands betray your emotions. See how you tighten here?" She pointed to a section where the stitches became uneven.
I looked up at her, understanding dawning. "I need to let go of the past."
"Si," she agreed. "Fashion is not about what hurts you. It is about what makes you feel powerful."
That night, I stood before the mirror in my tiny hostel room and cut my hair short with kitchen scissors. The long locks that Waylen had insisted I maintain fell to the floor in clumps.
As I swept them away, I caught sight of my reflection—stronger, more determined, with a fire in my eyes that hadn't been there before.
Somewhere in New York, Waylen Crawford was discovering that I had loved him long before Tessa's money made me his girlfriend.
But here in Milan, I was finally becoming the woman who would never need to be anyone's substitute again.
