A LIFE THAT WASN’T HERS

It was raining the day they held a memorial for Ayla.

Viper stood like stone beside the casket—empty, just a symbol. His jaw was tight, eyes hollow. He hadn't cried, not once. Not in public.

But Leon did.

The pain broke him. He didn't say a word during the ceremony. Just stood under the gray sky while thunder rolled overhead. The girl he would've given his soul for was gone—burned, lost, vanished.

"She was the only thing good in this goddamn war," he whispered to Viper later that night, pouring whiskey into a glass. "And we couldn't save her."

Viper stared at the drink but didn't touch his own.

"No one could."

They both accepted it: Ayla was dead.

And far, far away…

Nova's New World

The car glided up the stone driveway like it belonged.

Nova sat still, fingers shaking inside silk gloves. Her dress shimmered like moonlight, tailored for elegance. Rhea sat beside her, giving instructions one last time.

"You are Celeste Moreau. You've been missing for ten years. You survived a yacht crash, lived in isolation, were rescued only recently. You don't remember everything, but you know your parents. You know your name."

Nova swallowed. "And if they ask what happened?"

"You tell them what I told you: You were taken. You escaped. You don't remember much because your mind protected you."

The car stopped.

The doors opened, and a man in a navy-blue suit stepped out, tears already filling his eyes. Mr. Jean Moreau, the billionaire.

"My baby…" he breathed. "My Celeste…"

Nova stepped out slowly.

The way he looked at her—it was like seeing a ghost.

She felt his arms wrap around her. Felt the warmth of his tears as they soaked into her shoulder.

"You're home now," he whispered. "You're safe."

Rhea stood behind them, watching silently, a faint smile on her lips. She had played her part perfectly.

Nova was no longer the broken girl from the ashes.

She was now Celeste Moreau, the long-lost heiress.

And no one—not even Nova herself—knew the truth.