Chapter 50
A week later, Lyon feels smaller.
Not lesser, never that. Just… finished. Like a chapter I’ve read all the way to the last page and folded closed with care, the spine still warm from my hands.
My flat is chaos in the way packing always ends up. Open boxes gape at me like mouths mid-confession. Half-packed suitcases crowd the narrow hallway. Garment bags hang over the backs of chairs like the ghosts of every version of myself that lived here—bold, broken, hungry, hiding.
Sunlight pours in through the windows, catching on dust motes and fabric swatches and stray pins left behind on the table.
The room smells faintly of starch, coffee, and something floral I never learned the name of.
It smells like Lyon. Like survival. Like the home that helped me grow confident enough to stand on my own but also be strong enough to accept help and support when it’s offered. To be wholly and unapologetically me.
Jamie stands in the centre of it all, hands on his hips, head tilted as he surveys the mess.
He’s wearing paint-splattered jeans and a ridiculous knit jumper that looks like it was bought from a thrift shop with questionable taste. His blonde hair is pulled back with a headband that absolutely should not work, but somehow does, because Jamie exists in defiance of rules.
“Well,” he says lightly, clapping his hands together, “if this were an installation piece, I’d call it The Aftermath of Genius.”
I snort, the sound surprising me. “You’re too kind.”
“Darling,” he replies, turning toward me with a grin, “I’m honest. And honestly? This place never deserved you.”
He crosses the room and starts folding clothes with practiced efficiency—the kind that comes from years of backstage dressing rooms and borrowed flats and sleeping out of suitcases. Jamie moves like he belongs wherever he lands. Runways. Studios. Cramped student flats with unreliable plumbing.
I envy that ease.
I sit on the floor with my back against the sofa, knees drawn in, a sketchbook resting in my lap. I should pack it. I know that. But my fingers won’t let go yet.
“I still can’t believe you’re leaving,” he says, quieter now. “One minute you vanish without a word, and the next you’re back just long enough to pack up your life.”
“I didn’t vanish,” I argue half-heartedly. “I just… had something I needed to do back home.”
Jamie pauses for half a second—barely noticeable—but I see it. He doesn’t push. He never does. He just nods, like he understands more than I’m saying and accepts that some truths aren’t meant to be unpacked.
“They missed you,” he continues after a moment. “After the showcase.”
I glance up. “Who did?”
“Everyone.” He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Professors. Students. Designers who suddenly forgot how phones work and kept showing up to class, asking where Lily Davis was. As if you were some mythical creature who slipped back into the river before they could catch you.”
My throat tightens. “They didn’t need me.”
Jamie laughs—sharp, fond, unwavering. “Oh, darling. You set that room on fire and then disappeared. That only made them want you more.” He shakes his head. “You should’ve seen the disappointment when you didn’t show up for class. People were genuinely affronted.”
He moves to the table and taps a neat stack of envelopes and printed emails I’ve been carefully pretending don’t exist.
“And these,” he adds. “You going to tell me you don’t know what they are?”
I hesitate, my fingers curling around the edge of my sketchbook.
“They’re just… conversations.”
“Mm-hmm.” One eyebrow lifts. “Conversations with buyers and investors. A woman from Milan who wants to talk about consulting. A man from Paris who thinks you’re the future of sustainable couture.
” He pauses, lifting one of the letters up for inspection.
“And one very persistent investor in London who wants to back your first collection.”
My chest goes light and tight all at once at the seemingly endless possibilities before me.
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I admit.
Jamie crosses the room and drops down beside me, bumping my shoulder with his. “No one ever is. But you don’t get opportunities like this by accident. You earned them with every stitch, every sleepless night, and every time you stayed when it would’ve been easier to run.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, eyes fixed on the coffee table.
Then, more quietly, he adds, “You know… I haven’t seen Isabella since the showcase either.”
I freeze, glancing at Jamie out of the corner of my eye only to find him already watching me.
“She disappeared right after,” he continues, head cocked to the side. “No goodbye, nothing on her socials. No dramatic flounce, which feels… unlike her. I thought maybe it was a coincidence, but now I’m not so sure.”
I draw in a careful breath, fingers tightening on the sketchbook.
“It wasn’t a coincidence,” I start, picking at a loose thread in my jeans as I struggle to explain Isabella’s abrupt departure.
“She’s safe,” I continue. “It’s complicated… something bigger than school, bigger than her dreams. And when it was over, she had to leave.”
His brow furrows. “Leave as in…?”
“As in disappear,” I say softly. “The kind where she’s never coming back.”
He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to say more. I can hear it in your voice.”
“I can’t,” I admit.
“I figured.” He glances at me sideways. “But I’m glad she’s safe. And I’m glad you are too.”
Something tight loosens in my chest.
“Since when did you get so serious?” I ask, blinking hard.
He grins, bumping his shoulder against mine. “Since you nearly broke my heart by not coming back.”
I laugh—real and shaky—and for the first time in days it doesn’t hurt.
Jamie watches me for a beat, head tilting slightly, eyes sharp beneath the humour. He always sees more than he lets on.
“Well,” he says slowly, dragging the word out as he leans back on his hands, “that laugh sounded different.”
“Different how?” I ask, wary.
“Like you’re not just surviving anymore.” His mouth curves. “Like you’ve… landed.”
I don’t answer straight away. I trace my thumb along the edge of my sketchbook, feeling the worn paper beneath my skin.
Jamie hums, then fixes me with a knowing look.
“Now tell me, darling,” he drawls, cocking an eyebrow, “has that man of yours finally learned what devotion means, or do I need to join you on that flight tomorrow and scare him into emotional competence?”
I snort. “You would absolutely do that.”
“Glad you know me.”
I hesitate, then exhale. “He didn’t just learn it,” I say quietly. “He chose it. Over and over again. Even when it was messy. Even when it hurt.”
Jamie’s expression softens, just a fraction. “Ah,” he murmurs. “He’s one of the good ones then.”
“He wasn’t always,” I admit. “He let fear decide for him. We stayed quiet, stayed careful, stayed… small. I didn’t realise how much it was holding us back, until now.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I say, meeting his gaze, “I do.”
Jamie nods, satisfied. “Then I’ll cancel my dramatic intervention tour.”
I smile, warmth blooming in my chest. “Thank you.”
“But,” he adds, pointing a finger at me, “if he ever makes you feel small again—”
“He won’t.”
His eyebrow lifts. “You’re sure.”
“I am,” I say, and the certainty in my voice surprises even me. “Because I won’t let him. Or anyone.”
Jamie beams. “God, I love this version of you.”
I laugh again, softer this time, steadier. “She’s still learning.”
“Aren’t we all?” He rises to his feet and offers me a hand. “Come on, future powerhouse. Let’s finish packing. London’s waiting and she’s got no idea what’s about to hit her.”
I take his hand, standing, feeling the truth of it settle deep in my bones.
One chapter might be closing, but another is just beginning.
By late afternoon, the flat reflects it, stripped down to echoes. Boxes stacked neatly by the door. My life here reduced to what I can carry forward, and everything that doesn't serve me anymore, left behind.
Jamie wheels the last suitcase into the hallway and turns back to me. “Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Don’t disappear on me again.” His smile softens. “We’ll text, send dramatic voice notes. I expect updates on London.”
“You’re stuck with me.” I promise, and I mean it. Sure, I’m not about to invite him to a Mafia dinner party, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.
“Good,” he says, pulling me into a fierce hug. “Because you’re going to be brilliant. And I want front-row seats.”
After he leaves, I take one last look around.
Lyon gave me refuge, distance from everything that was holding me back. A version of myself that survived long enough to become something more.
Tomorrow, I go home.
And this time, I won’t change for anyone.