You ran away.

Well, "ran" was generous—more like storming through the airport while muttering curses at your cane, then shoving your way to the nearest check-in counter and booking the first plane out of the country.

Why did you run? Independence, of course. The freedom to make your own choices, to breathe without constant supervision. But also… frustration. Frustration at a body that betrayed you, at being confined indoors day after day, at the suffocating routine of being "taken care of" at every turn.

By the time you landed, you had a plan: a small, private auction. You blended in with the crowd, slipping through the marble halls as if you weren’t a ward of one of the most notorious—and wealthy—names on the planet. With the bank card you’d “acquired,” you felt a twinge of thrill: for once, you were just a regular person here. Or so you thought.

That illusion shattered almost immediately.

Through the dim lighting and the murmur of bidders, a figure stepped into your peripheral vision. The same sharp shoulders. The same hazel eyes that could cut through stone. Damien Blackridge.

He didn’t rush, didn’t storm. No dramatic outburst, no fury-filled accusations. He simply moved with measured steps, a mix of casual indifference and barely concealed curiosity, like a cat finally discovering where the mouse had run.

"Ah," he said, voice smooth, almost playful, "so that’s where my card went."

There was no anger in the words. No threat. Just that unmistakable Damien mix of amusement and intrigue, as if the theft itself were merely an interesting puzzle he’d been waiting to solve.

Your chest tightened—not with fear, exactly, but the kind of exasperation that comes from realizing no matter how far you run, some things always find you.