Chapter 5

The transatlantic flight carried me eastward, the sun painting ever-changing portraits outside my window. Brilliant azure skies yielded to rolling clouds tinged with gold, a breathtaking canvas of nature's artistry. Inspiration struck, and I pulled out my sketchpad, capturing the ethereal play of light in a new jewelry design. By the time I finished, darkness had enveloped the sky.

There was something magical about crossing the Atlantic—a time traveler's journey where I left New York on the morning of the 27th only to land in London on the night of the 26th. Through the arrivals gate, I spotted them immediately: Mum, Dad, and William, standing in a row, beaming and waving like excited children. The sight of them warmed my heart.

I ran to them, my designer luggage forgotten as I fell into Mum's embrace, breathing in her familiar Chanel No. 5. Eight years ago, I'd defied their wishes and moved to New York for university, chasing what I'd believed was love. Though they'd disapproved, they'd let me go, trusting me to find my way. Those eight years had been punctuated by brief Christmas visits, a daughter's absence marked by empty chairs at Sunday roasts and missed family celebrations.

Tears threatened, and I pulled back from Mum's embrace. "Mum, I'm starving."

"Let's get you home, darling," she said, cupping my face. Her eyes were soft with maternal concern. "I'll make your favorite—shepherd's pie with extra gravy, just how you like it."

"Perfect."

I linked arms with my parents as we walked to the car park, our laughter echoing through the terminal.

Meanwhile, across the ocean in his Manhattan penthouse, Castro faced a very different scene. He sat on the Italian marble floor, repeatedly calling a number he knew wouldn't answer. Every year, he meticulously set a reminder for my birthday—August 27th. This morning, the alert had woken him in Oriana's guest room, the familiar chime cutting through his dreams. His first instinct had been to head to Whole Foods, to buy ingredients for the birthday dinner he'd planned. The custom Cartier bracelet he'd ordered months ago was still hidden in his office safe. But seeing Oriana at breakfast, limping slightly, had given him pause. After all, I still hadn't apologized. He couldn't understand it. I'd always been the reasonable one—why was I being so stubborn this time?

After spending half the day restlessly checking his phone at Oriana's, he finally headed home. The moment he stepped into the penthouse, he felt like he'd walked into a stranger's home. He actually stepped back out, checked the apartment number, and re-entered. The space had reverted to its pre-Aveline state—stark, minimalist, cold.

In a frenzy, he searched every room for traces of me. The vintage Polaroids from Paris, gone. The sketchbook I kept by the window seat, vanished. The coffee machine he'd bought because I couldn't function without my morning latte—replaced with his old French press.

"What the hell is happening?" he whispered, frantically dialing my number only to be greeted by voicemail. His Instagram messages bounced back—blocked. WhatsApp showed one grey tick, then nothing. If not for the ghost of my perfume still lingering in the closet, he might have thought he'd imagined the last seven years.

In desperation, he opened Find My Friends—the app we'd used to surprise each other with lunch dates. My location was dark, but the history showed one last ping from two weeks ago. I'd come within a hundred feet of his location, hesitated, then disappeared. Something clicked in his mind. He pulled up his calendar, scrolling back. When he saw the date, his iPhone slipped from his trembling fingers, the screen shattering like the illusion of our relationship.