The long-distance bus rumbled for hours in a cramped, stuffy space filled with the smell of diesel and weary sighs. It finally pulled into the drab station of a small French border town on a gloomy, rainy afternoon. Aria Russell got off among the sparse passengers. The cold drizzle immediately soaked her hat and thin jacket, and the chill went straight to her bones.
There was no Barcelona sunshine here, only a leaden-gray sky, wet cobblestone streets, and an ever-present sense of alienation. But this was exactly what she needed—an unnoticed crack in the world that would allow her to catch her breath and make a transition.
She paid with cash and checked into a small, inconspicuous motel. The room was tiny and damp, with peeling wallpaper, but it was hidden enough. She locked the door and drew the curtains, as if that could shut out all the dangers of the outside world. Then, she eagerly opened her old laptop and connected to the motel's unstable and paid Wi-Fi.
The storm in the digital world was far more violent than the light rain outside.
The "Gallardo Construction Scandal" had spread like a virus. The hacker she had hired was incredibly efficient, sending the anonymous emails with perfect precision. And the journalist Felipe Morales had clearly not wasted the "ammunition" she provided. A detailed, explosive investigative report, which cited "internal documents," was already on the front page of a highly influential online media outlet and was being rapidly republished.
The headline was shocking, and the content went straight to the heart of the matter. The comment section had erupted with angry condemnations, gloating mockery, and demands for a thorough investigation. The stock of Gallardo Construction had plummeted instantly in the early trading session of the Spanish stock market, leading to a temporary suspension of trading. The media had captured and widely distributed photos of a flustered Mr. Gallardo Senior and Lucas.
It had worked. It was even more successful than she had anticipated.
A cold, metallic rush of satisfaction briefly surged through her nerves. Looking at the photo of Lucas's once-sincere but now twisted and anxious face on the screen, she could almost imagine the panic and mutual recriminations between him, Sofia, and Clara.
But the pleasure was fleeting, replaced by a deeper sense of exhaustion and fear.
She had gone too far. This was no longer a simple broken engagement; it was a destructive blow. The Gallardo family would not let this go. They might be in the midst of internal chaos and public relations damage control now, but once they recovered, the first person they would suspect would be her, the fiancée who had "coincidentally" disappeared at the same time.
And Léon Delacroix. His all-seeing gaze appeared before her eyes again, sending shivers down her spine. He remained silent, like a dormant volcano, but his silence was more unsettling than any threat.
She could not stay here for long.
She forced herself to close the news pages and began searching for ways to get to Paris. She could not use her credit card; she could not leave any electronic trace. In the end, she chose the oldest and least traceable method: a series of long-distance buses, with tickets purchased with cash at different small town stations.
Over the next two days, she moved like a ghost through the road network of southern France. Outside the window, the landscape constantly changed from rugged hills to flat vineyards, but she paid no attention. Her sleep was fragmented, and the slightest sound would make her sit up with a start. The food tasted like sawdust; she ate only to stay on her feet. She dared not talk to anyone, and she kept her face hidden with her hat and glasses, feeling like a rabbit being chased by hounds.
It was not until the third evening that the bus finally roared into the massive bus station in Paris. The familiar scent of the city, a mixture of rain, gasoline, and coffee, hit her, instantly pulling her back to the fragmented memories of her short time as a student there—the dust of the library, the breeze on the Seine, the philosophical debates in Left Bank cafés, and that unexpected, heart-pounding encounter in front of Victor Hugo's house.
But now, those memories were colored with the gray of ashes. She was no longer a foreign exchange student with literary dreams, but a fugitive burdened with hatred and secrets, a complete outsider.
Exhaustion washed over her like a tide. She desperately needed a place to stay—a cheap, anonymous, and chaotic place where no one would notice her. Dragging her heavy travel bag, she followed the vague directions she had found online, taking the metro and bus to a diverse immigrant neighborhood in the northeast of Paris, where rents were relatively cheap.
The air was filled with the scents of various spices, baked bread, and a faint, subtle smell of garbage. Neon lights flickered on the narrow streets, and signs in different languages hung askew. She found an incredibly shabby family-run motel. The man at the front desk was a sleepy North African elder. She used her pre-planned alias, "Lia Russell," and a wad of cash to easily rent a small room on the top floor. It had no window, only a skylight that let in a gray light, but at least she had a temporary nest.
After putting down her luggage, she almost collapsed onto the narrow single bed, listening to the muffled noise from the street below and the TV from the next room. For the first time since arriving in Paris, she allowed herself to cry. It was not from sadness, but from extreme fatigue, loneliness, and a profound sense of bewilderment.
What now?
The flame of revenge still burned in her heart, but she knew she was an ant now. She could not even survive in Paris, let alone shake the three enemies who had wronged her. She needed an identity, money, a job, and to start over.
The next day, she began to take action. She went to the Sorbonne to inquire about re-registering or auditing classes, but with the complex procedures, high fees, and her "undocumented" status, that path was all but blocked. She tried applying for jobs at some restaurants and cafés, using her alias and temporary phone number. Either she never heard back, or they were suspicious of her poor French and lack of references.
The days passed in anxiety and constant setbacks. Her cash was melting away like an ice cube in the sun. She had to move to a cheaper, more chaotic shared apartment, where she shared a cramped kitchen and bathroom with several other low-income immigrants, constantly worrying about her few meager belongings.
She began to spend all her free time frantically teaching herself French, listening to the radio, and reading free newspapers, forcing herself to immerse herself in the city's language. At the same time, she was keeping a close eye on the news from Spain. The Gallardo family scandal continued to grow, even bringing up more old secrets. Some media outlets began to mention the "mysteriously disappeared fiancée," their tone filled with speculation and hints, but there were no explicit accusations against her yet. This was a slight relief, but her vigilance did not decrease.
Occasionally, in the late hours of extreme fatigue and frustration, she would take out a small, cloth-wrapped item from a secret compartment in her luggage. It was not a piece of jewelry, but a worn brass bookmark shaped like a fern leaf. She had dropped it in her past life at Victor Hugo's house when she accidentally bumped into a man who was intently looking at a manuscript in a glass case. That man—Léon Delacroix—bent down to pick it up for her. Their fingertips touched briefly, and he looked at her with his gray-green eyes and said, "A very unique taste, miss," before handing the bookmark back and turning to continue his conversation with the curator, as if he had just brushed away a speck of dust.
This was her one and only insignificant but deeply memorable interaction with his lofty world. This bookmark was a testament to her brief time of freedom and a faint, almost extinguished star in her current endless darkness. She clutched it tightly, drawing a small, illusory sense of warmth and strength from it.
Just as she was about to be overwhelmed by the weight of reality and was considering whether to risk looking for a more "gray area" job, an opportunity unexpectedly appeared.
One evening, while buying the cheapest noodles at a small Chinese-owned supermarket, she overheard the female owner complaining in Chinese about not being able to find a reliable night stocker. The security was not great in the neighborhood, and most people would quit after a few days.
Aria's heart jumped. She took a deep breath, walked up to the owner, and in Chinese that was as clear as she could manage, but still had an accent, she said, "Auntie, do you need help? I... I can work the night shift. I'm not afraid of hard work." She was thankful for her mother.
The owner looked at this oriental girl, who clearly did not look like she could do manual labor, with surprise, despite her glasses, hat, and old clothes. Aria added with urgency, "I only need cash payments every day. I can do anything, really!"
Perhaps it was the desperation in her eyes, which did not seem fake, or perhaps the owner was truly in need of help, but she hesitated for a moment and then finally nodded. "...Then come tonight and give it a try. From ten p.m. to six a.m. The pay is daily."
In that moment, Aria almost started to cry again. It was not joy, but a bitter feeling of finally grasping a lifeline.
That night, in the crowded, stuffy storeroom filled with the smells of pickled vegetables and detergent, she began her first job in Paris—moving heavy boxes, counting inventory, and wiping shelves. The physical labor was tedious and exhausting, but it numbed her mind, allowing her to focus on the boxes in front of her instead of the complex web of hatred and fear.
Sweat soaked her old T-shirt, and her back ached. But when she held the wrinkled but real euro bills from that day's pay, a small but genuine sense of stability rose in her.
She had survived. In the most humble way, she had taken root in the shadows of this glamorous city like a tenacious weed.
However, she did not know that while she was working hard and believing she was temporarily safe, a short report about her had been sent through an encrypted channel to the study on the top floor of a luxurious apartment in the 16th arrondissement of Paris, to that man's desk.
The report included a blurry security photo of her taken as she left her shared apartment. Although her face was mostly covered, her slightly familiar silhouette and walk, as well as the alias "Lia Russell," were enough to catch his attention.
Léon Delacroix's long fingers glided across the screen of his tablet, his eyes resting on the words "night stocker" and "Chinese supermarket." In the depths of his gray-green eyes, a faint and complex emotion flickered, one that was difficult to read.
The hound had just caught the new scent of the fugitive.