The first time I realized my engagement was falling apart,
I was learning how to move my fingers again.
The rehabilitation room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon cleaner.
My therapist counted softly as I flexed my wrist—slow, controlled, deliberate.
"One more time, Claire."
I nodded, gritting my teeth as pain bloomed through my palm.
That was when my phone buzzed.
Not a call.
A notification.
PIERCE HEIR SEEN SHIELDING MYSTERIOUS YOUNG WOMAN—A REAL-LIFE CINDERELLA?
I stared at the headline for a full three seconds before tapping it open.
The photo loaded slowly.
Adrian Pierce stood at the center of the frame—tailored coat, cold eyes, familiar posture.
His arm was wrapped around a woman half his height, shielding her from the flashing cameras like she was something fragile. Precious.
Protected.
My breath caught.
Because even through the blur, even through the cheap pixels—
She looked like me.
Same soft eyes.
Same delicate jawline.
Same way of standing slightly to the side, as if afraid of taking up too much space.
A substitute.
I laughed under my breath, though nothing about this was funny.
Two years.
For two years, I'd been overseas, tearing my body apart and rebuilding it piece by piece.
For two years, I'd told myself the pain was temporary. That love was patient. That promises meant something.
I forwarded the article to my friends' group chat.
The replies came fast.
"Claire, don't overthink it."
"Men like him always need a distraction."
"She's just filling in while you're gone."
I didn't reply.
I looked down at my hands instead.
Two years ago, a chandelier had fallen from the ceiling of a charity hall.
I remembered the sound—metal screaming against marble.
I remembered Adrian's shocked face as I shoved him aside.
And then the pain.
A pianist without hands is no longer a pianist.
She's just a memory.
My phone rang.
Adrian's name flashed across the screen, like he could sense the moment my faith finally cracked.
"Claire," he said quickly, before I could speak.
"Don't believe what you're reading. It's nonsense."
I closed my eyes.
"Her name is Lily Wright," he continued.
"She's a student I sponsor. An orphan."
An orphan.
"She was playing piano at a bar," he said, his voice softening.
"Someone was harassing her. I stepped in because… because the way she plays reminded me of you."
I said nothing.
"She's talented. Professor Martin thinks she has real potential. She wants to become a world-class pianist."
My fingers curled slowly.
Professor Martin—my mentor.
Two thousand dollars an hour.
The man Adrian once flew across the Atlantic to meet, just because I admired him.
Thirty minutes.
Adrian talked for thirty minutes straight.
About her courage.
Her dreams.
Her fear of thunderstorms.
He never once asked how my hands were doing.
When the call ended, the room felt unbearably quiet.
I stared at the wall for a long time before dialing another number.
"Dr. Harris," I said, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest.
"I want to increase my rehabilitation schedule."
There was a pause.
"Claire, that kind of intensity—"
"I need to go home," I interrupted.
"In one month."
If he had found someone else to stand beside him—
Then I would no longer stay away.