Paris had a way of pretending it never changed.
The same gray-blue sky. The same slow river of traffic curling around Haussmann buildings. The same morning light slipping through tall windows like it owned the place.
But Dera had changed.
Four years was enough time for a person to stop being who they used to be... and start believing they had always been this version of themselves.
She woke up in her apartment in the 16th arrondissement.
Not luxury in the loud sense. Nothing screaming wealth or excess. Just quiet elegance. Cream walls, soft linen curtains, curated art pieces that looked like they had feelings of their own.
The kind of place that didn't ask questions.
For a moment, she just lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of Paris waking up.
Then she got up.
The bathroom mirror greeted her like an old witness.
Dera leaned in slightly, water dripping from her fingertips as she finished washing her face. Skincare bottles lined the counter in soft order, each step deliberate, almost ritualistic.
She paused.
And looked at herself.
Really looked.
Four years ago, she had left London carrying nothing but confusion, heartbreak, and silence she didn't know how to name.
Now...
Her reflection didn't look like someone running away anymore.
It looked like someone who had survived it.
Her features were sharper now. Not just in face, but in presence. Confidence sat on her skin like something earned, not gifted.
She no longer wore glasses. Contact lenses gave her eyes a clearer, more direct gaze—like she refused to blur anything in front of her anymore.
Her hair, once a simple natural curl she struggled to manage, now fell in soft waves that framed her face with intention.
Even her body had changed. Gym discipline had carved quiet strength into her frame—not dramatic, just noticeable. A presence that filled space without asking permission.
She exhaled once, slow.
Then turned away from the mirror like she didn't owe it any more reflection.
Getting dressed felt like stepping into a role.
White shirt. Clean lines. Slightly oversized at the sleeves, tailored at the waist. A thigh-length skirt that moved softly when she walked. Five-inch heels—not for attention, but for alignment. Like she needed the extra height to match who she had become inside.
She didn't hesitate anymore when she chose outfits.
That was new.
_
The kitchen was already warm with morning light.
And breakfast was already waiting.
A plate set neatly on the counter. Fresh fruit. Eggs. Coffee brewed exactly how she liked it—strong but not bitter.
Tade.
Of course.
He always did things like this. Not loudly. Not performative. Just consistent care, like love was something he practiced daily rather than declared occasionally.
