A week later.
The city slept in a haze of amber light, and Joan hadn't moved from her spot by the window in hours.
Her apartment overlooked the riverside, the kind of view people paid fortunes for, but she barely saw it anymore. The night air was thick with the hum of passing cars, the occasional echo of laughter from below.
She sat curled in her armchair, barefoot, one leg tucked under her, a half-finished glass of whiskey resting on the table beside her phone. The same message had blinked on the screen for the past ten minutes — You there? — from Damien.
She hadn't answered. Not yet.
The stillness brought memories, uninvited and unrelenting.
And like smoke, they began to fill the room.
The house she grew up in had no warmth.
Just expensive silence — polished marble floors, heavy drapes that kept out the sun, and portraits of people who never smiled.
Her father, Jonathan Leclerc, was a name whispered with reverence in business circles. Her mother, Camille, was the perfect hostess — flawless, poised, and distant. Together, they'd built an empire and expected their daughter to carry it like a crown.
And she had — for a while.
At nine, Joan already knew how to curtsy, smile on cue, and lie beautifully when guests asked if she loved her private school.
At twelve, she met The Boy — her future husband, as her mother called him with quiet pride.
The son of a shipping magnate. A merger dressed as a friendship.
He was polite, awkward, and terrified of disappointing anyone — the perfect match.
By sixteen, Joan had realized the engagement was more real than anyone would admit. She'd been trained for it — etiquette classes, business dinners, lessons on how to "represent the family with grace."
By eighteen, she'd had enough.
The night she turned eighteen, she snuck out during her own birthday gala — the one her parents had spent months planning — climbed into her friend's car, and drove straight into the chaos of downtown.
Neon lights. Loud music.
People who didn't know her name, didn't care about her pedigree, didn't expect her to sit straight or smile politely.
That was the night she met freedom — messy, loud, intoxicating freedom.
And she never went back the same.
Back in the present, Joan exhaled, her lips curling into a faint, almost bitter smile.
She had spent years perfecting the art of control. The jokes. The sharp remarks. The fearless exterior.
But beneath it all, she was still that eighteen-year-old girl with smudged lipstick and shaking hands, standing on the edge of a world she wasn't meant to belong to.
Her phone buzzed again.
Damien.
You planning to ghost me forever or just until I show up at your door?
She snorted. Typical Damien — equal parts stubborn and impossible.
Try it and I'll have you arrested. Again.
She hit send, smirking.
His reply came seconds later.
You didn't press charges last time. You like me too much.
She stared at the screen for a moment, then typed, Delusion looks good on you.
But her smile softened as she set the phone down.
Her mind drifted again — this time to the night she'd walked out for good.
The night she told her father she wasn't marrying a stranger.
"I'm not a piece of property," she had said, trembling but unflinching.
He'd laughed — a short, cold sound. "You're a Leclerc. You don't get to choose."
"Yes, I do," she'd whispered. "That's the problem, isn't it? You taught me too well."
That was the last conversation they had before she left the mansion. Her mother didn't even look at her when she walked out.
But her driver — old Claude — had slipped her a set of keys and whispered, "Go before they change their minds."
She never forgot that.
Now, years later, she was still learning what it meant to live without someone else's map.
To want things for herself — even things that scared her.
Like Damien.
He was infuriating, reckless, loud — everything her parents would have hated.
But beneath his teasing, there was something she hadn't seen in anyone else: honesty.
He didn't want her name, her wealth, or her walls. Just her.
And that terrified her more than any arranged marriage ever could.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
Three taps — rhythmic, familiar.
She rolled her eyes. "You're unbelievable," she muttered, standing up.
When she opened the door, Damien was leaning against the frame, hands in his pockets, that half-grin of his ready for battle.
"Couldn't sleep," he said simply.
"Do you ever?"
"Not when I know you're drinking alone."
She sighed, stepping aside. "You're impossible."
He stepped in, looking around her apartment. "Nice view. Shame you never look at it."
"Observation noted," she said, crossing her arms. "You drove here at midnight just to psychoanalyze me?"
"Partly," he said. "Mostly to check if you're okay."
"I'm always okay."
He raised a brow. "Sure."
The silence stretched, heavy with things neither of them knew how to say.
Finally, Damien reached for the glass on the table, took a sip, and winced.
"Whiskey?"
"Cures everything," she said.
He set the glass down. "Except loneliness."
Her breath caught — just a flicker. Then she forced a laugh. "You practicing your pickup lines now?"
He smiled faintly. "You make it hard to tell when I'm serious."
"Good," she said. "Keeps you on your toes."
But her voice was softer now, the edges rounding. He noticed — he always did.
He stepped closer, lowering his tone. "You don't have to fight everyone, Joan. Not with me."
She met his gaze, something fragile flickering in her eyes. "I don't know how not to."
"Then maybe," he said, "I'll just stand next to you while you figure it out."
For a long moment, she didn't move. Then, with a quiet exhale, she said, "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't," he said. "You just don't trust that anyone means them."
She looked away, smiling despite herself. "You talk too much."
"Only when I'm scared."
"Scared of what?"
He met her eyes. "You."
She laughed then — not the sharp, mocking sound she used to hide behind, but something lighter. Something real.
And for the first time in a long time, Joan didn't feel like running.