Part 3

Carla surveyed her walk-in closet. Half the rail space stood empty now — Ivanka's selections, her curated wardrobe of garish clothes and clashing shoes, cleared out in a single sweep.

What remained were the pieces Carla had bought for herself before Ivanka had begun making herself at home in the Miller estate.

Miller — her father's name. His family's name. The mansion and the Miller Group had been his, and when both her parents died, it was Bastian who had stepped in to run what her father had built.

Carla pulled a knee-length dress from the rail — clean lines, elasticated waist, nothing theatrical.

She put it on.

The difference was immediate. She looked like herself. Bright-faced, effortlessly put together — a young woman who didn't need a costume to be noticed.

She picked up her small bag, checked that she had what she needed, and headed for the door.

She remembered how this day went, in her first life. After she came around from her fall into the pool, Ivanka had swept in with Bastian in tow, ready to spin another story. Bastian would hear Ivanka's version — that Carla had thrown herself in deliberately, trying to frame Ivanka and have her expelled from the estate. He would believe it. He would shove Carla away, cold-eyed, while Ivanka spoke in that soft, wounded voice she had perfected.

Carla had no desire to stand in that scene again.

She was done. And now that she knew exactly what was coming — down to the minute — she was going to be long gone before any of it could happen.

Her plan was simple: find an apartment, find part-time work, build something that was entirely hers.

She didn't want to share a roof with Bastian anymore. She knew the Miller estate was her inheritance — her father's house, her family's legacy — but Bastian was the one who ran it. Had been running it for five years, since the accident that took both her parents.

And Bastian had done well with it. Better than well — under his management, the Miller Group had expanded internationally, and the estate ran with an efficiency her parents would have admired.

She held no grudge about that. If anything, she respected it. She was the legitimate heir, Frederick Miller's only daughter — but she knew nothing about running a business. If she tried to take it back now, she'd ruin everything her father had built.

So she wouldn't touch it.

She just wanted her own life. Her own happiness. Her own distance from Bastian Kenneth.

"Miss, where are you going?" Tina appeared at the doorway, watching Carla with an expression she couldn't quite hide.

"Out. Don't follow me. Stay here and answer Bastian's questions if he comes asking where I am." Carla kept her voice level.

What's happened to her?* Tina thought, visibly bewildered. She was so eager to see Mr. Bastian — wasn't she? Just yesterday, that was all she wanted.*

"I'll be back late," Carla added over her shoulder as she walked out.

"Late? Miss, you're going somewhere that late? You never leave the estate, let alone come home at night!" Tina hurried after her, but Carla was already moving — quick, purposeful, unbothered.

She didn't stop.

She'd been given a second chance. She was not going to waste another second of it chasing a man who had never deserved her.

She was still young. The road ahead was long. There was time — real time — to love someone who actually loved her back.

Right now, though, she simply wanted to enjoy it.

Voices drifted from the corridor as she neared her room — Ivanka's voice, Bastian close behind. On time, just as she'd known they would be.

She ducked back into an alcove and waited, pressed against the wall, until she heard the sound of her own door opening and closing behind them.

Then she moved. Half-running down the staircase, light on her feet, grinning to herself in a way she hadn't felt entitled to in years — like a bird released from a cage she'd built herself.