Chapter 12:
Rain pressed against the train window in quiet, rhythmic patterns as Eden stared at the blur of the French countryside. Her reflection trembled in the glass—ghostlike. A version of herself she no longer recognized.
She'd left Athens before sunrise.
No note. No goodbye.
Just silence.
Her phone's SIM card lay snapped on the marble countertop. She paid cash for the train ticket. No digital trail. No breadcrumbs.
Because even a love that burns bright can become a cage.
And Eden needed air.
Not escape.
Liberation.
She didn't cry.
But her chest ached with a grief she couldn't name.
Paris welcomed her like a secret.
A studio in the 6th arrondissement, above a sleepy bookstore with ivy clawing at the windows. The woman who ran it didn't ask questions.
Eden dyed her hair near-black. Bought a long grey coat. Paid in euros.
Each morning, she woke to the creak of the old wooden floor, the scent of paper and dust.
It felt like a second chance.
And she wrote.
Not for Cassian. Not for headlines.
But for the version of Eden who once believed she could write her own story—and not be a footnote in someone else's empire.
Each word was a thread.
Every sentence, a stitch holding her together.
Cassian was breaking.
Zurich. Milan. Rome. No trace of her.
He mobilized teams. Searched ports. Checked flight records. Sent encrypted messages to allies. Nothing.
Eden had ghosted him with surgical precision.
He returned to the Zurich penthouse, poured a drink, opened the drawer where the red folder used to be.
Gone.
She knew.
She'd seen everything.
And she ran.
In Paris, she met a man.
Luc.
Older. Gentle. Quiet in a way that didn't demand. He worked in a photography gallery and smelled like ink and bergamot.
She told him her name was Claire.
He never pushed. Just shared silence. Coffee. Thoughts.
One night, he took her to a private exhibit—monochrome portraits from the war. Lovers mid-kiss. Chaos framed by tenderness.
She stopped at one photo.
A man in a tailored suit, cradling a woman's face like she was his anchor to the earth.
"Reminds you of someone?" Luc asked.
She nodded.
"Someone I left before I could be the one left behind."
Luc only squeezed her hand. Said nothing more.
That same night, Cassian got a call from Verena.
"You always think control is love," she said.
"And you think manipulation is loyalty."
"You forged a legal proxy in Eden's name. She found it. What did you expect?"
"It was a fallback. A shield."
"No, Cassian. She understood. She just refused to play your game."
"She's not answering me."
"Because she's smarter than you think."
Click.
The call ended.
Cassian stared at the blank screen.
For the first time in his life, all the power in the world couldn't fix what he'd broken.
Two weeks passed.
Paris grew colder.
Eden's days became routine—coffee, journaling, the bookstore. She stopped jumping at every shadow. She started breathing like it mattered.
Until the day the shopkeeper handed her a package.
No return address.
A black box.
Silver string.
Inside: a leather journal. Worn. Familiar.
Cassian's.
The first page:
"Not for power. Not for strategy. For you.
For everything I never had the courage to say."
She turned the pages.
Sketches of her.
Notes about her laugh. Her fears. Her favorite poems.
Memories.
Not tactics. Not control.
Love.
By the time she reached the final page, her cheeks were wet.
The next day, she walked into the gallery.
Luc looked up, studied her face. "You remember who you are again."
She nodded. "And who I left."
He smiled, soft and steady. "Then go. Before you forget again."
London.
Cassian stood alone on the rooftop of Wolfe Global headquarters. The city stretched below—lights flickering against the dusk.
He didn't turn when the door opened.
Didn't breathe until he heard her voice.
"Say it."
He turned.
Eden.
The wind caught her hair. She wore the grey coat. Her eyes were tired… but blazing.
"Say it," she said again.
"Eden," he breathed.
She stepped closer. "Don't lie to me again."
"I won't."
"Don't try to control me."
"I can't."
"And don't ask me to carry a crown you haven't earned."
Cassian dropped to his knees.
"I don't want you to carry it," he said, voice breaking. "I want to lay it at your feet."
Eden knelt beside him.
Not royal. Not perfect.
Just real.
"I don't want your empire," she whispered. "I want a life we build… from the pieces left."
He nodded, eyes shining. "Then let's start here."
The city pulsed around them.
And from the ash, something new began.