"Later, Wesley." I didn't turn, my voice tight. I quickened my pace, trying not to look like I was running.

I practically shoved the lounge door open, then broke into a jog towards the stairs. Just as I rounded the first landing, I heard the door open behind me. "Emilia, wait!" "Damn it, damn it, damn it," I hissed under my breath, taking the stairs two at a time.

I climbed several flights until I reached the usually locked fire door to the roof. Fumbling out the spare key Lisa had given me, I unlocked it, slipped through, and gently closed it behind me. Thank God. It was high enough, quiet enough, far enough from his disorienting sphere of influence.

I walked to the shaded edge of the roof, slid down the rough brick wall, and took a bite of my now-browning apple before opening the heavy book.

I did what I'd wanted to do downstairs—brought the pages close to my nose and took a deep, stealthy breath. The scent lingering there, maybe from his study, his fingertips, his orderly world. I spent the entire lunch break flipping pages, smiling at the occasional hasty pencil notes in the margins. The handwriting was sharp, a bit rushed, with a few tiny ink blots.

On the flyleaf, in elegant script, it read: *"For Wesley, may you always retain your insight into classic texts. Love, Mom. July 23, 2007."*

A birthday gift for the ten-year-old future ThreadLink founder. Knowing this made me feel like a pathetic voyeur, but I couldn't stop imagining the little boy who'd received it.

Just before the bell signaled the end of lunch, I headed back down. Passing the conference room sometimes rented out to corporations for high-end training, I made the mistake of glancing inside the partially open door.

My gaze crashed directly into Wesley Jones's icy blue depths. He was listening intently to someone's presentation, but in that split second, he seemed to sense something. His eyes shifted to the doorway, locking with mine.

Time suspended. It was a dizzying, weightless feeling. My lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Then, a child's piercing scream erupted from downstairs, yanking me violently back to reality.

"Damn." I turned and dashed down the stairs as fast as I could, running for the bike shed. I jumped on my scooter, started it, and sped away. In the rearview mirror, I saw him step out of the community center's main doors, standing on the steps, his gaze following the taillight of my retreating scooter, his figure looking oddly tall and… solitary in the afternoon light.

That night, Mother was particularly vicious.

Maybe some memory had resurfaced. Her liquor bottle connected with my cheekbone, splitting the skin. The sting of alcohol mixing with blood was nothing compared to the insane hatred in her eyes.

"Spacing out?" She sniffed the air like a feral animal, though I swore I carried no scent. "Over what?? A man, isn't it? You want to be like me? Want to end up a worthless, discarded mess like me?!"

After her tirade, she collapsed, exhausted, onto the sofa. I stumbled upstairs to my tiny room. Locking the door, I stripped and stood before the full-length mirror.

The body reflected back wasn't perfect, marked by fresh purples and old, faded scars. I took out the razor blade hidden deep in a drawer, closed my eyes, and pressed the sharp edge against the skin of my thigh.

Too thick. The lines weren't elegant enough, not slender. Not like Paige, whose every gown in news photos accentuated just the right curves.

Would he ever accept this? I wasn't blonde, had no pedigree, no carefree past—just a messed-up family and a heart full of scars. I only knew my biological father's name: Everette Collins. A man I'd never met, reportedly successful in real estate. I'd never tried to find him until this moment, when the thought pierced me sharply—if I had a normal father, a decent family, would I have the courage to face Wesley Jones on slightly more equal footing?

Maybe, if I had those things, I'd have allowed myself a shred of genuine fantasy about him. Maybe he would have… No. Stop. Irritated, I tossed the blade aside, not bothering with the thin line of blood on my leg, and fell onto the bed fully clothed. Muffled, hitched sobs drifted up from downstairs. She still loved the man who ruined her, using her pain to torture both herself and me. Every time she sobered up slightly, the regret and rage intensified, and I was the only available target.

My cheek burned, the bruise on my cheekbone stark in the mirror. I closed my eyes, feeling my way downstairs, holding my breath, moving like a shadow along the wall.

Only after slipping out the front door and swinging onto my scooter did I let out a long breath. The engine's roar temporarily drowned out the internal screaming. I'd barely slept an hour last night before Mom, drunk, stormed in and woke me by squeezing my throat. I knew there would be fingerprints. Thank God for today's high-necked sweater.

As I rode into the dedicated parking behind the community center, the air seemed to freeze for a second. Andrew, James, and Wesley himself were walking from a低调 but undoubtedly expensive black sedan, seemingly returning from a meeting. I sighed, parked, kicked down the stand, and bent to fiddle with my lock, head down.

"Hi, Emilia." Andrew's voice was, as always, friendly.

I took a deep breath, looked up, and removed my helmet. Andrew's customary smile froze instantly. James's pupils contracted slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. My hair tumbled down, attempting to veil my cheek.

Wesley's gaze was like a precision laser, instantly locking onto the bruise on my cheekbone I couldn't fully hide. His Adam's apple bobbed. His jawline tightened abruptly. A storm seemed to gather in those ice-blue eyes. He took a step forward, his voice low, but carrying a cold, terrifying anger:

"Who did this? Do you need me to call the police?"