The ninety-first day.
The suspension period ended.
The announcement of Fontaine family’s transfer of control to the board of directors was released at 10 a.m.
The news outlets went wild over it all day.
While I was having lunch at the campus dining hall, my phone screen lit up.
A message from Rhys.
Only one photo.
His wrist.
The heart rate monitor was gone.
Underneath it was one line:
“I took it off. You asked me to. So I did.”
I stared at it for a few seconds.
I didn’t reply.
But I didn’t delete it either.
That afternoon, Graham’s message came through.
“I won’t come looking for you anymore. As long as you’re happy, that’s enough. I put the necklace away. If you ever want it, just let me know. If you don’t, that’s okay too.”
“Okay.”
No extra warmth.
But no hatred either.
That night, Mom’s email arrived.
It was long.
She started with the year I turned six.
She wrote about the year Tahlee first came to us—how sorry she felt for Tahlee, and how she wanted to give her a little more love.
She wrote about how she kept giving and giving, until she forgot I was there too.
She wrote that she thought I had everything, so she didn’t need to give me anything.
And at the end, she wrote:
“I’m not asking you to forgive me. But I want you to know—after you left that day, I sat in your room all night.”
“There was nothing left in your room.”
“That was when I realized… after all these years, I hadn’t left anything for you either.”
I finished reading the email.
Then I closed the page.
I didn’t reply.
It wasn’t because I couldn’t forgive her.
I just wasn’t ready.
Maybe it would take a long time.
On the ninety-third day, it was the final design project review.
My work was selected for the semester exhibition.
My design professor wrote in the evaluation:
“This fashion designer knows where she came from, and she knows where she wants to go.”
On the day of the exhibition, I wore the dress I designed myself.
No diamonds.
No pearls.
Only clean lines and a piece of fabric I had chosen myself.
Someone asked me what the dress was called.
I thought about it.
“It’s called ‘Mine.'”
That night, I walked alone along the Seine River.
It wasn’t crowded.
I didn’t have to move aside for anyone.
I took the music box out of my bag.
I turned the winding key.
The tiny melody drifted through the night by the river.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
It sounded like someone calling my name from far away.
But this time…
I could keep moving forward.
My phone buzzed.
It was from Rhys.
“When is your next exhibition? I want to see it.”
I hesitated for a few seconds.
“We’ll see.”
Now, I could finally decide for myself when to let someone into my life.
The music box kept playing.
I held it up toward the Paris night sky.
No crown. No family crest brooch. No heirloom necklace that was never mine.
Just this repaired music box. And finally… myself.