The next morning, I was packing.

I was ready to leave this city for good.

Then my phone rang.

"Elena? Tom. From the art shop." His voice cracked like a whip. "Get your ass down here and get your kid. He's been screaming outside my store all night. I'm running a business, not a damn daycare!"

The phone shook in my hand. "What kid? I don't have a…"

"Cut the crap!" Tom roared. "Note says 'Elena Johnson's son.' Plain as day. You think you can just dump a baby on my doorstep and I'll raise him for you? Get down here. Now. Or my next call is to the cops."

A baby's screams tore through the phone.

I heard the crowd murmuring. A public spectacle.

My heart sank.

"I'm on my way," I said through gritted teeth.

"You better be. You've got a whole damn audience out here for this freak show." Tom slammed the phone down.

Twenty minutes later, I got to the art shop.

The scene hit me like a fist to the gut.

A crowd, three deep. A circus. And I was the main attraction.

At the center of it all, a beat-up stroller. A monument to my shame.

The baby's cry was hoarse, but he was still screaming his lungs out, his little fists waving helplessly.

"It's her! Elena's here!"

Someone shouted, and every head turned to me.

Their eyes were greedy, curious, scornful, excited.

"That's her! I see her in here buying supplies all the time!"

"Damn. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Just goes to show, you never know."

"What a piece of work. Having a kid that young and just dumping him."

"Women like her are trash."

Tom stormed out of the shop, his face red with anger. "Elena, you finally showed up! Get this thing out of my sight! You have any idea how much business I've lost today because of your mess?"

I walked toward the stroller. I saw the note: "Elena Johnson's son."

The handwriting was neat. Deliberate. Meant for an audience.

"Everyone," I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I held up the note. "I need to clear something up. My name is on this note, but…"

"Still lying?" A woman cut me off. Her voice dripped venom. "Your name's right there! How many other Elena Johnsons you think there are, huh?"

"Yeah! Still trying to get out of it!"

"That poor baby, having a mother like you!"

The air was thick. Suffocating. Every word was a knife twisting in my heart.

My hands trembled. I pulled out my phone. I dialed my mother.

"How could you dump this baby here?"

I wanted to scream, but the weight of my anxiety and pressure pinned my voice down, and I had to force myself to sound calm.

"That's enough!" My mother's voice turned shrill. "Elena, when are you going to stop this? That child is yours! You had him, now you deal with him!"

My head spun. I could only whisper a weak defense.

"But you know he's Bella's..."

"Bella?" she shrieked. "Bella is GONE. He is your problem. Your responsibility. You walk away from him, you walk away from this family. You'll be on your own. An orphan."

"And another thing," her voice turned venomous. "You think changing your number means you can hide? His mother is gone because of YOU. Do you want him to die on the street? Is that it? Are you that heartless?"

Hearing the call, the crowd's faces changed.

Not to sympathy.

But to a deeper, more judgmental scorn.

"You hear that? Her own mother admitted it!"

"Still trying to lie! Even her mom can't stand her!"

"What a fake! Dumps her own kid and tries to blame someone else!"

A man in glasses pointed a finger in my face. "Lady, we all heard it. Your own mother just sold you out. How long are you gonna keep up this act?"

"Yeah! Pick up your son! Stop letting him cry!"

"Have a heart!"

Tom jumped back in. "Elena, look at him! How can you be so cruel?"

I was trapped. Judged by a jury of vultures.

Every look was an accusation. Every word was a sentence.

Just yesterday, I thought I was free. Now this... this was a nightmare I couldn't control.

The shame from my past life washed over me again. The despair of being abandoned by the whole world threatened to swallow me whole.

My mother's curses were still pouring from the phone. "You abandoned us first!"

She was screaming now. "He's your son! You have to raise him! If you leave him, I'll kill myself! I'll tell everyone I raised a monster for a daughter!"

The accusations from the crowd grew louder.

"Just admit it!"

"Stop torturing the child!"

"Look how pathetic he is!"

"You can't be this selfish!"

A young mother holding her own baby looked at me, her eyes full of tears. "Ma'am, the little one is so helpless. Please, just take him. How can a mother abandon her own child?"

I looked at the innocent, guilty baby.

His face was red from crying, streaked with tears.

Forced by the crowd, I reached out my trembling hands.

"I…"

"Miss Johnson," a social worker stepped forward. "If you confirm this is your child, please sign this form."

I stared at the document, my hand shaking too hard to hold a pen.

Signing this meant reliving the nightmare.

But if I didn't, this mob would tear me apart.

"Sign it! What are you waiting for?"

"Hurry up! Stop wasting our time!"

"The kid's gonna cry himself to death!"

I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and was about to sign…

Suddenly, my eyes snapped open.

No.

Not this time. I won't be their victim.

I threw the papers on the ground and walked.

"Elena! Where are you going?" Tom yelled after me.

"To find the only person who can clear my name," I said, not breaking my stride.

An uproar exploded behind me.

"She's running away!"

"That heartless bitch!"

"Don't let her get away!"

I pushed through the crowd, tears blurring my vision.

But these weren't tears of weakness. They were tears of rage.

I was going to make every single person who hurt me pay.

An hour later, I stood before a discreet gallery.

It was my last hope.

This gallery didn't exist for the public.

It was a place where men with blood on their hands came to wash their money clean with art.

And I knew about it because of Dante.

In my last life, I ran from his attention. Now, he was my only way out.

I pushed the door open.

"Can I help you?" The gallery owner was a thin, middle-aged man with sharp eyes.

I took a painting out of my bag.

On a black canvas, a silver serpent devoured its own tail, forming a perfect circle.

Its eyes were chips of ruby, glinting with menace.

I'd drawn this symbol many times, hidden in sketchbooks, never showing anyone.

Because I knew what it meant.

The mark of the Moretti family.

I'd seen it once. A photo of him in a society magazine.

A tiny lapel pin most people would miss. But I don't miss details.

"I'd like to sell this piece. Anonymously."

The owner's eyes narrowed. He recognized the symbol.

"The Ouroboros," he muttered, then looked up at me. "Miss, do you have any idea what this means?"

"I do," I said calmly. "And I know someone who will be very interested in it."

In my past life, I missed all his signals.

The anonymous art supplies.

The concern he passed on through Mr. Williams.

This time, I was making the first move.

He took the painting carefully, studying it. "The technique is unique. Not many people would dare to paint this symbol. Fewer still could paint it so... precisely. Have you seen the real pin?"

I didn't answer. I just said, "So, will you sell it for me?"

"Of course. One moment." He went to the back and picked up a special phone.

Ten minutes later, the back door of the gallery opened.

A man in a suit walked in.

"Miss." His nod was sharp. He held out a phone. "Mr. Moretti wants to talk. About the painting."

I took the phone.

"Elena," a deep male voice came through, with a faint Italian accent. "Your painting is... interesting."

"Thank you."

"Do you know what the Ouroboros means?"

"Eternity," I answered without hesitation. "Destruction and rebirth."

There was a pause on the other end.

"Good. Walk out of the gallery. Get in the car. We need to talk."

I followed the man in the suit outside.

He opened the door to a black sedan for me.

The inside was suffocatingly luxurious, the leather seats smelling faintly of cigars.

"Dante Moretti," the man said, offering his hand. "From Chicago."

I took his hand, meeting his gaze. "Elena."

He nodded, his expression relaxed, almost lazy.

"You know our symbol?"

"I do," I said. My voice was steel. "I need your help."

A dangerous smile touched his lips. "Help has a price. What do you have to offer?"

I looked him straight in the eye, my voice quiet but firm. "Right now, all I have is me."

A dangerous light sparked in his eyes. "You," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Are more than enough."

He leaned forward, his gaze intense, a look of pure appreciation on his face.

"First, let's see about helping you."

That night, using Dante's network, a bounty appeared on several underground forums.

FIND HER: $50,000 CASH. BELLA JOHNSON.

Last Seen: Brooklyn. Brown hair, green eyes, butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder.

PROFILE: High-class grifter. Sleeps with marks for money, leaves a baby in her wake. Leaves broken families.

WARNING: Manipulative as hell. Uses a pregnancy sob story. Don't fall for it.

KNOWN ASSOCIATES: Lowlifes and dealers. Rico Martinez, Tommy Chen, Jackson Williams.

Attached were the photos I took. The baby. The stroller. The expensive ring left like a calling card.

CONTACT: [Encrypted Email]

Because of who posted it, the bounty was pinned to the top, highlighted.

If Bella showed her face, there would be nowhere to hide.

This time, I wasn’t going to let Bella dump her mess on me.

I had a life of my own, and I’d rather burn her script than play a single part in it.