[Six Months Later...]
One hundred and eighty-two days of waking up in a cold bed, reaching for a hand that wasn't there. For Claire Emerson—the woman the world once called Ava Brooks—time hadn't healed anything; it had only made the ache more familiar.
Providence, Rhode Island, was a city of fog and gray stone, a perfect reflection of Claire's soul. In the small apartment above her bookstore, she kept a wooden box hidden under her floorboards. Inside wasn't money or jewelry. Inside was a single, jagged scrap of gold silk—a piece of the gown she had torn to run for her life—and the digital chip. Sometimes, at night, when the wind howled against the window like a wounded beast, she would hold that scrap of silk to her face. It no longer smelled of his expensive cologne; it smelled of dust and lost time.
She missed him. It was a physical pain, a constant pressure in her chest that made it hard to breathe. She missed the way his brow would furrow when he was thinking. She missed the terrifying, electric heat of his gaze. She even missed the "Ice King" persona, because at least then, she was part of his world. Now, she was just a ghost watching a stranger on a screen.
Every morning, Claire would sit in the corner of 'The Gilded Page,' a cup of black coffee getting cold beside her, and stare at the financial news.
"Moretti Liquidates Volkov Assets."
"The Tyrant of Wall Street: Is Liam Moretti Losing His Mind or Gaining a Kingdom?"
The photos showed a man she barely recognized. His face was leaner, his eyes darker, almost hollow. He looked like a man who had burned his soul to keep his throne. Every time she saw his picture, she wanted to reach through the paper and touch his cheek, to tell him that she was still waiting, just like he asked. But then she would remember Eleanor's cold voice and the sirens, and she would pull her hand back, trembling.
"You're not Ava anymore," she would whisper to her reflection, her voice cracking. "Ava died in that fire. You're just Claire. A girl who sells books and waits for a dead man's promise."
The loneliness was a slow poison. She had no friends, no family. To talk to anyone was to risk his life and hers. She lived in a silence so absolute that the sound of her own heart felt too loud.
Then came that rainy Tuesday.
The bell chimed. Claire didn't look up. She was busy tracing the letters of a name she wasn't supposed to say on the dusty cover of an old novel.
"We're closing in ten minutes," she said, her voice hollow
.
"I'm not here for a book, Claire."
The world tilted. That voice didn't belong in Providence. It belonged in a world of power, blood, and diamonds. Claire's breath hitched, a sob catching in her throat before she could even see his face. She looked up, her vision blurred by tears she had been holding back for half a year.
It was Marcus.
He looked like he had been through a war. The scar on his temple was a brutal reminder of the night their lives shattered. When Ava saw him, she didn't see a bodyguard; she saw a bridge back to her soul.
"Marcus?" she gasped, stumbling back, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a cry. "Is he... is he..."
"He's alive, Ava," Marcus said, his own voice softening as he saw the sheer devastation in her eyes. "But he's not whole. He's spent every second of these six months turning himself into a monster so that no one could ever hurt you again. He's cleared the path, but the cost was his humanity."
"I don't care about the cost!" Ava cried, hot tears finally spilling down her cheeks. She ran from behind the counter and grabbed Marcus's coat. "Take me to him. I have the chip. I have the secrets. I don't want this safe life! I want the fire! I want him!"
Marcus looked at her with a heavy, fatherly sorrow. He reached into his pocket and placed the black velvet envelope in her shaking hands.
"He told me to tell you one thing," Marcus whispered. "He said that every night at midnight, he looks at the New York skyline and imagines you're looking at the same stars. He said that's the only time he feels like he's still breathing."
Ava collapsed against the bookshelves, clutching the envelope to her chest as if it were Liam himself. She felt the gold key inside—the key to a future she thought was gone forever.
"The Ice King is waiting, Miss Brooks," Marcus said, turning to the door. "But be careful. The man you find in Zurich might not be the one you left in the bunker. He's colder now. Much colder."
As Marcus left, Ava tore open the envelope. The ticket to Switzerland was more than just a flight; it was her resurrection. She looked at her reflection in the window—the blonde hair, the glasses, the plain clothes.
"I'm coming back for you, Liam," she whispered, her eyes finally igniting with the old fire. "And if you've turned to ice, I'll burn until we both melt."