Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Anthea
My fingers were stiff from gripping the pen for so long. Black ink covered the lesson-plan notebook in dense, tiny script. Outside the window, London rain fell relentlessly as always, the gray sky like a sodden wool blanket pressing down on everything.
Six years. I should have been used to this gloomy weather by now, but tonight, the sound of the rain felt unusually sharp, as though something were hammering against my nerves.
"Anthea?" My mother's cautious voice came from the apartment hallway. "Sweetheart, I brought you some hot soup. Your favorite—cream of mushroom."
I looked up. My gaze settled on the woman standing in the doorway—well-preserved yet visibly weary—and the man behind her, stooped slightly, holding a dripping umbrella.
My parents. Six years ago, they had followed me to England, showering me with gentleness and care, consumed by guilt and desperate to make up for what I'd suffered. Yet I could never again rely on them the way I once had, without reservation.
"Just leave it on the table, Mom." I forced a smile—the kind that had become pure muscle memory. "Thank you."
My father rubbed his hands together awkwardly, his eyes darting away from mine.
"Work... going okay? Don't overdo it. We don't have any more debt now. You don't need to push yourself so hard."
Don't need to push so hard. Acid rose in my stomach. What had those debts been paid with? My womb. My child. I hadn't even seen what Olei looked like, didn't know whether he was all right.
But I didn't say it out loud. That would be too cruel. I had already walked through hell once. There was no need to drag them down with me.
"I like teaching, Dad." I tugged the corner of my mouth upward. "It makes me feel like I'm still alive."
Or rather, work had become my anesthetic.
Grading papers, preparing lessons, attending meetings—the endless tasks kept me too busy to think about anything that happened six years ago: that man who was nothing but lies, those deep-gray eyes I had once loved so completely.
It let me escape the kind of pain that could swallow a person whole.
"Anthea, I know you still blame your father for the investment failure, the bankruptcy, for what it led to." My mother sighed softly. "All these years, your dad and I have felt—"
"Mom, don't." I cut her off, exhaustion the only thing in my voice. "It's over."
But we all knew it wasn't really over. Even though the cursed debt and that cursed deal were gone, I still couldn't open my heart to anyone.
After seeing my parents out, I collapsed onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling until my eyes burned.
I didn't dare close them. The moment I fell asleep, the nightmare would arrive on schedule—the terrible thunderstorm night when those monsters tore Olei from my arms, his newborn screams ripping through the air.
Every time it happened, I woke gasping, unable to breathe.
The next morning, I stood in the headmaster's office, clutching an envelope that could change everything.
"Congratulations, Anthea." The headmaster peered at me over his reading glasses, a pleased smile on his face. "The advanced study program at Rosewood Academy in the United States. They only accept three international teachers each year. You're the sole candidate selected from the UK this time."
America. The one country I had been forbidden, on pain of death, to ever set foot in again.
"I'll need to think about it," I heard myself say.
"Of course." He nodded, patting my shoulder. "But it's a rare opportunity, Anthea. Rosewood is one of the top three private elementary schools in the entire country. This could be a major leap forward in your career."
I left his office holding the letter and walked along the campus's tree-lined path, mind in chaos.
Six years earlier, the father of the New York Bratva had threatened my entire family's lives and ordered me to vanish from the United States forever. But now,
I opened my phone and searched a name.
Alexander Thorne
"Alexander Thorne, Russian-born business magnate, passed away three months ago at age 67 after a long illness..."
He was dead? I stared at the headline, stunned for a second, then my heart began to pound violently.
All these years, I had forced myself not to look up anything about the Thorne family. I was terrified of seeing even a single photo or article about that man and Vanessa—it would have killed whatever was left inside me. Because of that self-imposed blindness, I had missed the biggest news of all.
He was dead. The monster who ordered my baby taken from me, who commanded me to disappear—he was gone. My breathing turned shallow and rapid. Did that mean I could go back?
Silas... Even though the article didn't mention him, I knew he must have smoothly taken over as the new head of the family by now.
He had probably forgotten I existed long ago. He and Vanessa would have their perfect, happy family. To him, I had been nothing more than a surrogacy tool to be disposed of six years earlier. My throat closed up, but I forced the discomfort down.
A small figure flashed through my mind. Olei would be six now. Was he all right? Would that bastard take care of him? Or would he simply hand the boy off to Vanessa or nannies?
My fingers tightened around the acceptance letter. I had to go back. I had to return to America and see my child. Even if there was only one chance in ten thousand, even if I could only watch him from a great distance, just to confirm he had grown up safe and healthy—that would be enough.
I would be safe so long as I stayed far away from Silas and his world.
I called my mother and told her about the offer. She sounded surprised, then cautiously probed.
"Anthea, going back to New York... are you sure? The Thorne family is there..."
"I'm sure." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "It's a rare chance, Mom. Alexander Thorne is dead, and I can't keep running from the past forever."
She was quiet for a long time.
"Whatever you decide, I'll support you," she said at last. "And since you're leaving soon, I'd like to introduce you to someone."
"Who?"
"Your childhood playmate, Julian. Do you remember him? Our families stayed in touch. He's a lawyer now, practicing in New York. When I spoke to his mother a few days ago, he asked about you very kindly."
The name stirred faint ripples in my memory.
Julian Voss. As a little girl, I used to declare—completely seriously—that I would marry him one day.
He was several years older and always treated me like a big brother would.
He'd ruffle my hair and say with a laugh, "We'll talk about that when you're grown up. "
"Mom, I don't need to be set up."
"It's not a setup," she hurried to explain. "Just two old friends catching up. He's actually in London on business right now. You've been alone for so many years. I just want you to start living again, like a normal person."
Normal person. The phrase stung. Yes—normal people date, fall in love, get married, build families. And me? I had locked myself away for six years, numbed myself with work, and refused every possibility of closeness.
"Just dinner, okay?" Her voice softened, almost pleading. "You deserve to see friends again. Julian's a good man—someone we've known forever. I only want you to be happy. Outside of school, I can't remember the last time I saw you really smile."
I tightened my grip on the phone. If I refused, wouldn't that prove I was still hung up on the man who lied to me and hurt me the most? Maybe my mother was right. Maybe it was time to move forward and let myself feel something again.
"Okay," I said. "Give me his number."
I needed to prove I could do it. I could be a normal woman and go on a normal date with a normal man.
The dinner was arranged at Le Coucou, an upscale French restaurant.
When I stepped inside, the elegant, hushed atmosphere wrapped around me at once. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light; the air carried the rich scent of good red wine. Comforting.
"Anthea?" A warm, cultured voice called from ahead. "Over here."
I looked up and saw the man standing beside the table, raising a hand in greeting.
He wore a beautifully tailored gray suit, posture straight, hair immaculately combed.
Gold-rimmed glasses sat on his strong nose, softening the sharpness that might otherwise have been in those blue eyes, leaving only gentleness and courtesy.
The Julian of my memory had grown into a refined, gentlemanly man—the polar opposite of Silas.
"Julian." I smiled and walked over, extending my hand. "It's been a long time."
He took my hand, then stepped forward for a polite, restrained hug. A faint, clean woody cologne reached me—refreshing, calming, completely lacking the aggressive edge that had always clung to Silas.
"My God, Anthea." He released me, genuine wonder in his gaze. "You've become... stunning. I almost didn't recognize you."
"You've changed, too, Mr. Big-Shot Lawyer. You didn't used to wear glasses." I teased, trying to lighten the mood.
He laughed. "You remember that? Back then, you were still terrified of caterpillars."
Talking about childhood memories dissolved the awkwardness of years apart almost immediately.
Once we were seated, the waiter brought menus.
"I heard from your mother that you've all been living in the UK these past few years?" he asked casually while cutting into his steak. "How's life been?"
My fingers tightened around the knife, but I kept my smile polite.
"Fine. Teaching, day-to-day stuff. You know—British weather makes you want to hide indoors forever."
"No... special someone?" He lifted his eyes, looking at me through his lenses.
A pair of storm-gray eyes flashed in my mind.
"No. After we moved to London, I've just been focused on work." I took a sip of wine; it tasted dry. "Romance has felt... too expensive for me."
Julian set down his knife and fork. He reached across the table and gently covered the back of my hand with his. His palm was dry and warm. My fingers twitched involuntarily.
"I'm so sorry, Anthea," he said quietly, voice full of compassion.
"When your family ran into trouble... I had just finished my master's and was studying for the bar.
I didn't even know about the bankruptcy until later.
By the time I heard your family had left the States.
.. I was worried about you for a long time. "
He didn't know the truth. He only knew about the bankruptcy—not that I had been sold.
"It's over now, Julian." I used the excuse of reaching for my napkin to gently withdraw my hand. "I'm doing well. The debts are cleared, and I've just been offered a position at Rosewood Academy."
"Rosewood? That's an excellent private school—top-tier resources." He nodded approvingly. "Congratulations. You'd be perfect there."
Julian was excellent at keeping a conversation alive. He talked about his time at Oxford law school, about becoming a family-law attorney, about the years of hard work and growth.
I listened, offered occasional comments, but never mentioned what happened in America. He was gentleman enough not to press.
"So when are you planning to head back to the States?" he asked over coffee after the meal.
"Probably next week."
He looked at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "If you ever run into any trouble in New York—anything at all—call me."
I met his gaze. The light gilded the edges of his face. I didn't say no.
Dinner ended on a pleasant note. Julian insisted on seeing me home. We took a cab to my building; he held the door open and watched until I was safely inside.
One week later, when the plane touched down at JFK, my heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. Six years. I was finally back.
Rosewood Academy was in the Upper East Side, surrounded by luxury apartment buildings.
The students came from serious money—parents dropping them off in Porsche Cayennes.
The school treated its faculty well and had already arranged an apartment for me in the city. I began preparing for my new position.
On my first day, I arrived half an hour early.
February in New York: warm sunlight poured across the campus, though the air remained cold. Dressed in the teacher's uniform and wrapped in my coat, I walked among the school's stately, classic buildings, looking up and admiring the unmistakable aura of old money and tradition.
As I reached the playground, perfectly manicured lawns came into view.
Children in immaculate uniforms ran and laughed, their voices filling the air.
The tension I'd been carrying since arriving in this new environment eased a little.
I loved children. Watching them, I couldn't help imagining whether my Olei had grown up just as healthy and lively.
Then a burst of mocking laughter caught my ear.
"Freak with no mother! Come on, everyone—push him down!"
The childish voices were shrill, laced with that peculiar, innocent cruelty only children can wield. My heart clenched. I hurried toward the sound.
In the corner of the playground, near the climbing frame, a group of sturdy boys had surrounded another child and were taking turns shoving him.
"Your mom didn't want you! Nobody loves you!" The leader—a stocky boy—shoved hard.
"I do have a mom!" The boy stumbled, fell, but immediately pushed himself up and snarled back, fierce as a cornered animal. "I have a mom!"
He lifted his head and glared at his tormentors.
My feet froze to the ground.
God.
The boy looked almost exactly like me.
He was still so young, yet those amber eyes burned with a defiance far beyond his years. His small face was tight with tension; dark-brown hair fell messily across his forehead, half hiding a flash of vulnerability.
In that single instant, I knew.
This was Olei. This was my child.