Chapter 3
A NEW DAY
To a mayfly, a single day is a lifetime
Della
The sun rises, indifferent to everything it burned through last night.
I stare at the pale light slipping through the curtains, cold and unforgiving.
Somewhere, in a forgotten corner of my heart, I hear my mother’s voice—the way she used to say it every morning, her smile brighter than the dawn itself.
"A new day. A new life, Della. Live it."
Her words used to make me believe anything was possible. That life was meant to be tasted, savored, danced with.
Now? Now they feel like a cruel joke.
I wake up in a hotel bed that doesn’t feel like mine, in a city that had once been home, with a heart that doesn’t know where it belongs anymore.
I stare at the ceiling, motionless, willing my body to move and my mind to stop spinning.
Just a few more days to survive this city. A few more days to shove last night into a locked drawer and pretend it never happened.
I’ve mastered that art before. I can do it again.
I push myself out of bed, every muscle stiff, dragging through the motions of getting ready—like I’m suiting up for battle, not a conference.
In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back.
I touch my mouth, the ghost of last night still lingering there.
It was a kiss I’d waited for through a thousand nights... but it doesn’t deserve to undo the walls I built to survive them.
“You, —” I mutter, grip the edges of the sink, staring at my reflection. "Don’t you dare let him in again!”
A sharp knock at the door startles me.
"Della!" a voice calls from outside. "We’re going to be late!”
"Be right there, Adriana" I call back, forcing lightness into my voice.
She laughs. "You better be! You owe me for vanishing last night."
I close my eyes, pressing my palms to the cool marble counter.
Just a few more days. Then I’ll leave this city behind. Leave him behind.
* * *
I spent the morning buried in the last day of the conference, clutching to every workshop, every panel, every slide like they were lifelines.
For once, I was grateful for the endless talks about digital marketing trends, evolving social media algorithms, influencer strategies, and brand storytelling. It gave me something else to focus on. Something that wasn’t him.
I made a decision before leaving the hotel room.
I wouldn’t waste another breath on Dorian Marshall. I would survive this conference and this city. And then I’d leave, just as I came—in control, untouchable, alone.
Of course, it wasn’t working smoothly yet.
Every now and then, I’d catch myself drifting. A word here, a song snippet there, and suddenly my mind would slip back to that kiss. That touch.
But I’d snap myself out of it. I had to.
I scribbled notes furiously, asked questions I didn’t really care about, anything to stay grounded.
By the time we reached the final networking break, my brain buzzed with industry jargon—but at least it wasn’t buzzing with him.
Adriana nudged me gently, flashing a sly smile.
“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” she whispered, leaning in just enough for her voice to stay between us.
“I’m focused,” I replied, keeping my tone light, eyes fixed ahead.
But she didn’t let it go.
“Oh, sure.” Her grin widened, mischief glinting in her eyes. “Focused on the conference… or still thinking about the dark angel you were talking to last night?”
I froze for half a second—just long enough for her to notice.
Her laughter was soft, but knowing.
“Relax,” she teased. “I won’t ask for details. Yet.”
Before she could tease me further, Greg appeared—our regional director from the agency’s U.S. headquarters. Sharp suit, charming grin, always a little too enthusiastic for my taste.
He approached our table with his usual effortless confidence.
“Ladies,” he greeted warmly, settling in beside us. “How are my favorite foreign delegates surviving the American marketing storm?”
Adriana laughed softly.
“Let’s just say my brain will need a vacation when I get back.”
Greg chuckled. Then his gaze flicked to me, a little sharper, a little more knowing.
“You’ve been awfully focused today, Della. I have to say, I’m impressed.”
I smiled, polite but distant. “Plenty to take in.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice in a more casual tone meant just for us.
“Make sure you both enjoy the weekend, too. Don’t let all this strategy talk get in the way of a good Chicago memory.”
Adriana grinned.
“Oh, Della’s the expert here. She used to live in Chicago. I’m the rookie.”
Greg’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”
He glanced back at me, something curious flickering in his eyes.
“Well then, you know the drill. A city like this? It demands to be experienced.”
I kept my smile polite, unwilling to reveal anything deeper.
Greg straightened, smoothing his tie. “I’ll see you both Monday morning at our office. We’ll review the project wrap-ups before you head back home.”
“We’ll be there,” Adriana said cheerfully.
I nodded once, holding my composure.
Inside, I was already counting the hours.
* * *
Dorian
The door swings open without a knock, and Leah glides in like she owns the place—heels clicking against the marble floor with that familiar metronome rhythm of control.
She never just enters a room. She claims it.
Tall. Impeccable. Her icy blonde hair is twisted into a perfect chignon, and not a single strand dares defy her. Leah Kingsley looks every inch the woman who’s been raised on privilege and power.
Her tailored suit, sharp as her tongue, molded to her willowy frame, whispering of old money and ruthless ambition. She’s all clean lines and cool calculation. Her skin is pale, flawless. Her eyes—those hard, assessing blue eyes—miss nothing.
She doesn’t even glance at me as she drops a folder onto my desk.
“We need to finalize the Lakeview permits,” she says, voice clipped, all business.
I don’t look up. My reply is flat. Detached.
“David will handle it.”
She pauses for a brief moment. Subtle. But I see the faint tightening around her mouth, the flicker of irritation in her eyes. Most people wouldn’t catch it but I’ve known her too long not to.
“You’re unusually distracted,” she remarks, voice like frost on glass. Smooth but dangerous underneath.
I finally lift my gaze to meet hers. Cold and impassive.
“Work isn’t everything, Leah.”
A dry laugh escapes her lips. It’s not amused. It’s brittle. Almost hollow.
“No,” she says softly. “But it’s the only thing that ever kept us on the same side.”
The air thickens between us. Heavy with truths neither of us is willing to name.
We were married once. Young. Maybe too young. I wanted a home and a real marriage while she wanted power, admiration, control, the kind of influence her mother raised her to chase. For a while, she liked being the center of my world. But it wasn’t enough for her. It never was, so she left.
She knows better than to bring any of that up now. And I won’t.
This was never about love. Never about us. It’s always been about power.
And when it comes to power—Leah never plays to lose.
* * *
Della
When I get back to the hotel, a bouquet of light pink peonies waits at my hotel room. My all-time favorites. No note. Just a card, his handwriting unmistakable—sharp, slanted, too familiar.
"Let’s have dinner. Tonight. 7 PM. Lobby. - D."
My pulse jumps. Then comes the fury. The nerve he has… No please, no apology, just a command. As nothing happened.
I should ignore it.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the flowers like they might vanish if I blink. Their scent wraps around me—sweet, nostalgic, dangerous.
“He didn’t forget,” I murmur, chest tightening.
But the warmth that stirs is too fragile, too treacherous. I inhale sharply, shove it down, and tear the card in two.
“Well… neither have I.” My voice slices through the quiet. “Not the things he did. And not the ones he never did.”
I can’t bring myself to throw the flowers away.
Instead, I get ready—slow, steady, every move, deliberate.
At exactly 6:55 PM, I walk through the lobby—chin high, my purse slung casually across my body, and a small gift bag in my hand—inside a bottle of wine, wrapped in soft tissue paper, tied with a ribbon.
I wear a soft, flowy dress—lightweight, in a pale blush shade, cinched just enough at the waist to skim my curves without drawing too much attention.
On my feet, a pair of platform sandals—comfortable, giving just enough height to lift my posture, but keeping me grounded.
Everything about me says ease, grace, calm control.
Even if inside, I’m anything but calm.
And there he is.
Dorian.
He stands near the marble fireplace, commanding the space without even trying—his black suit tailored to perfection, hugging his broad shoulders and lean, powerful frame.
But it’s his hair that twists something deep inside me. Longer now—dark waves brushing the tops of his shoulders. He looks like both a fallen angel and a storm ready to break.
His eyes lock on me the second I appear. Still black as midnight. Still able to strip me bear with a single look. But under that heat—there’s exhaustion. A raw edge. The wreckage of a man who hasn’t slept.
In his hand, he holds another peony. Just one this time.
“Mu dan” he says, holding my gaze.
Before I can reply, he adds—low, deliberate, meant to strike.
“Chinese for peony… but it also means the most beautiful. The rarest.”
I don’t take it.
"I have dinner plans," I say coolly, my gaze steady, my voice cold.
"Cancel them."
"I don’t cancel on friends."
His jaw flexes, eyes darkening.
"Friends?" he repeats, bitter.
"People who matter," I clarify, sharp as glass.
I walk right past him, leaving the flower to wilt in his hand as I head toward the exit. But in one step, he’s behind me—his hand closes around my wrist, stopping me cold.
A jolt shoots through me. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s firm—possessive.
I feel the heat of his body far too close, his breath near my temple.
He leans in, lips barely grazing my hair as he speaks—low, warm, dangerously steady.
“We need to talk, Della.”
I exhale, shaking slightly but holding myself together.
“Past tense, Dorian,” I say, my voice cutting like ice. I turn to face him, pulling my hand free—forcing myself to look him in the eyes. “We needed to talk five years ago. There’s nothing left now.”
I don’t look back.
I walk straight out of the lobby, ignoring the burn of his stare still heavy on my skin.
* * *
Outside, the cool evening air bites at my cheeks. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my heart, then flag down a cab.
My pulse stumbles for a split second—an old, buried reflex.
Taxi rides still make my stomach twist. A fear tucked away in the corners of my mind, too stubborn to fully let go.
But now, I don’t have the luxury of letting it win.
“Union Station,” I tell the driver, keeping my voice steady, even as my hands curl tightly around my purse.
The ride feels longer than it should, every turn of the wheels dragging memories I refuse to let surface.
But I keep my gaze locked on the glowing lights outside the window, counting streets, counting breaths.
Just a cab ride. Just a city.
Nothing more.
* * *
I board the Metra train heading north toward the suburbs.
The same line I used to take back then. Same route. Same stops. Same soft rhythm of the tracks beneath me.
Everything feels too familiar… yet painfully distant.
I sit by the window, clutching my bag tighter than necessary, watching the city fade into quieter streets and tree-lined avenues.
And for the first time today, when no one is watching—
A tear slips down my cheek.
Quick. Silent.
I wipe it away before it has the chance to fall fully, forcing myself to breathe.
“You’ve survived worse, Della. You won’t fall apart now. Not here. Not for him.” I whisper to myself.
When the train reaches Willow Creek, I step out—heart heavy, face calm.
I walk toward the neighborhood I know by heart. The sidewalks are lined with flowers; that soft lake breeze in the air. Familiar houses glow softly in the twilight, kids playing in driveways, laughter echoing in the distance.
It feels like stepping into a memory that never truly let me go.
I pause at the end of the street for a second too long, staring at the white house with dark trim and a wide porch. Jane’s house and, once, home—even if only for a little while.
I square my shoulders, smoothing the lines of my dress, and take a slow breath before walking up the familiar path. And as I press the doorbell, I breathe the words—half a prayer, half a warning:
“Don’t let the past own you tonight!”
And deep down, I know… it already does.