I don't invite James inside.

Instead, I step out onto the small landing outside the apartment door, pulling it closed behind me so that Sophie is still within earshot but not part of the conversation.

"How did you find me?" I ask, my voice steady even though my heart is pounding.

James has the grace to look uncomfortable.

"I followed Dominic one day," he admits. "About a month ago. I wanted to know where he was taking you. Marcus has been... difficult since you left. He's been trying to find you."

My hands clench into fists.

"Marcus can't force me back," I say. "I'm Dominic's legal ward now. He can't—"

"I know," James interrupts. "He can't force you back. But he's been asking around, trying to figure out where you are, whether you're safe. He's been telling people that Dominic kidnapped you, that you're being held against your will."

I laugh, actually laugh, because it's so absurd.

"Who would believe that?" I ask. "I'm eighteen. I made my own choice."

"People believe what's convenient to believe," James says quietly. "And Marcus is very good at making things convenient. But that's not why I'm here."

He shifts his weight, and I notice for the first time that he looks tired. There's something in his expression that wasn't there before—some of the confidence and cruelty seems to have been worn away.

"I came to tell you that I'm sorry," James says.

I stare at him.

"Sorry for what?" I ask. "For treating me like I was worthless? For participating in keeping me isolated? For laughing when Marcus threatened to burn down Sophie's cafe?"

"For all of it," James says. "Eleanor, I've had a lot of time to think about what happened, and I've realized that I was complicit in something terrible. Marcus is my father, and I always just... accepted what he did. But watching you leave, seeing how much better off you are now, I'm realizing that maybe he wasn't right about everything."

"That's nice for you," I say coldly. "But it doesn't change what happened. It doesn't undo any of it."

"I know," James agrees. "But I wanted you to know that I'm not going to help Marcus find you. And I wanted to tell you that if you ever need anything, if there's anything I can do to make amends, I will."

He stands there for a moment, waiting for some kind of response. When I don't give one, he turns to leave.

"James," I call after him.

He turns back.

"Don't tell Marcus you found me," I say. "Don't tell him where I am."

"I won't," he promises. "And Eleanor? I'm glad you're okay. I'm glad you got out."

After he leaves, I stand on the landing for a long time, processing what just happened.

Sophie opens the door. "You okay?" she asks.

"I don't know," I admit. "I thought I was done with my family. But apparently there are still loose threads."

"Your family is complicated," Sophie says. "But James seems genuine. People can change, Eleanor. Not always, but sometimes."

I want to believe that. I'm not sure I do yet, but I want to.

The encounter with James shakes something loose in me. It reminds me that my past isn't completely behind me—that it's always going to be part of my story, whether I want it to be or not.

It also makes me realize something important: I can't just spend my life reacting to my family's actions. At some point, I need to actually take control of my own narrative.

That's when I decide to start working.

Not for Dominic, who would probably pay me more than I'm worth just to be generous. But for Sophie, in the bookstore.

"You don't have to do this," Sophie says when I ask if she has any positions available. "Dominic's already covering the costs of your education."

"I know," I say. "But I need to. I need to earn my own money. I need to feel like I'm building something for myself, not just accepting things that are given to me."

Sophie considers this, then nods.

"Okay," she says. "I could use someone to help manage the inventory and do some customer service. But I have to warn you—retail is not glamorous. You'll deal with difficult customers, long shifts, and probably some people who think they're better than you because you work here."

"I've had plenty of experience with people who think they're better than me," I point out. "How bad could it be?"

The answer is: pretty bad.

My first week working in the bookstore is humbling.

I don't know how to use the cash register at first. I don't understand how to recommend books to customers because I haven't read most of the books in the store. I misstock boxes because I don't understand the organizational system. I call Sophie over to help with transactions multiple times a day.

One customer, a woman who looks vaguely familiar, actually asks if I'm "really the appropriate person to be helping her" when I make a mistake on her order.

I recognize her vaguely—she's someone who came to Blackstone Manor occasionally when I was there. She doesn't recognize me, but she clearly knows there's something off about me. Something that marks me as less-than.

It stings, but I recover.

"I apologize for the error," I say, keeping my voice professional. "Let me help you find what you're looking for."

Sophie watches the interaction from across the store, and when the customer leaves, she comes over.

"You did good," she tells me. "That woman is always difficult. Most people would have gotten defensive."

"I'm used to people thinking I'm worthless," I say, and it comes out more bitter than I intended. "It's actually kind of nice when it's just a customer instead of my entire family."

The days blur together over the next few weeks. I wake up, work on my schoolwork for a few hours, then work my shift at the bookstore. In the evenings, I have therapy or tutoring sessions. On Sundays, I rest and catch up on assignments.

It's exhausting and exhilarating simultaneously.

My coworker at the bookstore is a college student named David who's studying to be a writer. He's patient with my mistakes and genuinely interested in the books we're selling.

"What are you reading?" he asks one day when we're shelving books.

"I'm finishing this book for my English class," I say, holding up the worn copy of *To Kill a Mockingbird* that I've been working through. "I don't really understand what's so special about it yet, but I'm only halfway through."

"Oh man, wait until you get to the trial scenes," David says. "That book is incredible. Have you ever read anything that just... changes how you see the world?"

I think about it.

"I haven't read enough to know," I admit. "But I'm starting to understand why people love books. They're like windows into other people's lives."

David grins. "Okay, that's actually a pretty good take for someone who just started reading."

Over the course of working with David, I start to understand the power of literature. I start to recognize that books aren't just entertainment—they're tools for understanding the world and yourself within it.

One day, about three weeks into my job, a customer comes in and I recognize them immediately.

It's my mother.

She's older than I remember—or maybe I'm just noticing details I didn't notice before. Her hair has more gray in it. There are lines around her eyes that suggest she's spent a lot of time either smiling or crying.

She's browsing the fiction section, and she doesn't seem to have noticed me.

I freeze, unsure what to do.

Sophie, who's working the register, catches my eye. She nods encouragingly, as if to say "go talk to her."

I don't feel brave, but I move toward the fiction section anyway.

"Hello," I say quietly.

My mother looks up, and I watch the recognition dawn in her eyes. Her expression shifts from polite customer interest to shock to something more complicated.

"Eleanor?" she whispers.

"Hi, Mom," I say, and the word "Mom" feels strange and foreign in my mouth.

She looks around the bookstore as if to confirm that this is real, that I'm actually here, working in a bookstore like a normal person.

"You're working here?" she asks.

"Yes. I'm also in school. Online, but still. I'm working on my GED and thinking about college after that."

My mother's eyes fill with tears, which is shocking because I've never seen her cry before.

"I wanted to contact you," she says quietly. "So many times. But I was afraid. I was afraid of what Marcus would do. I was afraid of messing up your life even more than it was already messed up."

"I know," I say. And somehow, I do. I understand that my mother was trapped too, just in a different way.

"Can we talk?" she asks. "Somewhere more private?"

I glance at Sophie, who nods.

"Of course," I say. "Let me take my break."

We go upstairs to the apartment, and my mother sits on the edge of the couch like she's afraid to settle in completely, like she's ready to flee if things go wrong.

"I'm sorry," she says immediately. "I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for not fighting harder. I'm sorry for letting you grow up in that house. I'm sorry for abandoning you."

I sit down next to her, and I realize that for the first time in our relationship, we're having an actual conversation instead of me serving her or being invisible to her.

"Why didn't you leave?" I ask.

My mother is quiet for a long moment.

"Because I was afraid," she finally says. "I was afraid of Marcus. He made it very clear that if I tried to take you or fight for custody, there would be consequences. He told me that he'd make sure your father never found us, that he'd make sure I never saw either of you again. And I was weak. I believed him, and I let fear paralyze me."

"Where was my father?" I ask. "All this time, where was he?"

"Living in another country," my mother says. "Waiting. He's always been waiting for the day he could reach you. Marcus had people watching him, making sure he couldn't contact you. But I managed to send him a letter, years later, letting him know you were alive and in Marcus's care. He's been trying to figure out how to bring you to him ever since."

Everything is clicking into place now. The letter from my father. The secrecy. The desperation.

"I want to meet him," I say.

My mother nods.

"He'll be so happy to hear that," she says. "Eleanor, he's been dreaming of this moment for eighteen years."

After my mother leaves, I sit in the quiet apartment and think about everything that's happened. I think about the invisible girl in the grey dresses. I think about Dominic showing up at the party. I think about Sophie and the bookstore and Dr. Rodriguez and Dr. Chen and all the people who've helped me become a person rather than just a ghost.

And I think about my father, waiting in another country, for his daughter to be ready to meet him.

I'm ready.

The next day, Dominic tells me he's discovered something about Marcus's activities that suggests my uncle might be involved in more than just unethical business practices. He suggests we go to the police, which would mean making my story public and facing my family's power directly.