Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Fifth Avenue
Théo worked for three agonizing hours.
He brought out warm botanical rinses, organic oils, and imported French shampoos. The runoff water in the basin turned dark gray, then amber, and finally ran crystal clear. As the grime was stripped away, the woman sitting in the plush Italian leather chair began to materialize not as a ghost of the gutter, but as an ethereal masterpiece carved out of marble.
Her hair, cut to a chic, chin-length bob that curved delicately around her jawline, dried into a cascade of molten, spun gold. Her cheekbones were high and aristocratically sharp, her lips naturally rose-hued beneath the dry chap, and her eyes—now fully visible—were an astonishing, arresting shade of violet-gray.
When Marco returned from the luxury boutique next door, he set down three garment bags with hands that visibly shook.
"Step into the dressing suite," Adrian told her. His voice had lost its harsh bite, replaced by a low, reverent rumble. "No one enters without your word. Take your time."
Wren glanced at the plush cashmere sweater, the tailored wool trousers, and the fur-lined camel coat Marco had laid out. She looked at Adrian, her violet eyes swimming with a mixture of terror and unreadable defiance.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, her cracked voice scraping the air. "Men like you don't feed strays unless you plan on putting them on a leash."
"I told you," Adrian said, meeting her gaze without wavering. "The door is unlocked. You put those clothes on, and if you want to walk back out into that blizzard, I won't stop you. But you're freezing, Evie. And you've been running long enough."
At the sound of that name—*Evie*—a violent shiver racked her body. She recoiled as if struck, clutching her chest where the phantom weight of her ruined hair used to rest. She didn't acknowledge the name, but her eyes darkened with an ancient, unspeakable agony.
She snatched the clothes and vanished behind the velvet curtain of the private dressing room.
Marco stepped close to Adrian, his hand hovering near his concealed Glock. "Boss, if that’s really Evangeline Lancaster... the entire Five Families are sitting on a powder keg. Julian Vance took over the Lancaster holdings eight years ago when the probate court declared her officially dead. If Vance finds out she’s alive—"
"Julian Vance won't find out," Adrian cut in, his jaw set like granite. "Not until I'm ready to slit his throat on Wall Street."
The velvet curtain slid open.
The salon went dead silent once more.
Evangeline stepped out. She was swallowed slightly by the cream-colored cashmere, but the transformation was nothing short of miraculous. Without the two meters of matted filth dragging her down, she stood upright—slender, poised, with the unmistakable bearing of old money bred into her bones. The jagged scar along her neck only enhanced the lethal, tragic beauty of her face.
She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. A single tear cut a clean path down her cheek. She reached up with trembling fingers, touching her bare neck, gasping at the lightness of her own skull.
"It feels... empty," she choked out.
"It's freedom," Adrian said, walking over and draping the heavy camel coat over her delicate shoulders. His fingers brushed against her collar, and for a fleeting second, she didn't pull away.
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"Come with me," Adrian said, extending his hand. "Let's go home."
She looked at his broad, calloused palm, then up into his dark, obsidian eyes. Slowly, tentatively, she placed her small hand in his.
