When the plane landed at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport, a light rain was falling over the city.
I dragged my suitcase out of the terminal, the cold wind slipping through my collar.
The moment I turned on my phone, sixty-seven messages flooded in.
From Rhys.
From Mom.
From Dad.
Graham had sent twelve voice messages.
The last one was from three in the morning.
I didn’t listen to any of them.
I blocked everyone immediately.
I kept only one number.
My faculty advisor’s.
She was waiting for me at the exit, holding a sign with my name on it.
“Sloane Fontaine?”
“That’s me.”
“Welcome to Paris.”
She handed me a key.
“Your student housing is in the 13th arrondissement.”
“It’s small, but it’ll be enough for one person.”
One person.
I held the key in my hand.
And suddenly, it felt more precious than any gift I had ever received.
For the first week, I barely left my room.
It wasn’t because of jet lag.
It was because of the silence.
Too much silence.
No sound of Tahlee crying
No Rhys lecturing me.
No Mom saying,
“Just let her have it.”
I lay on my bed, listening to the French broadcasts outside my window.
I couldn’t understand a single word.
But somehow, I felt comfortable.
By the second week, classes had started.
The design school moved at a fast pace.
On the first day, my design professor dropped a stack of assignments onto my desk.
“Three days.”
“Submit a themed design assignment.”
“The topic is: Where do you come from?”
I sat in the studio, staring at the blank canvas in front of me.
Where did I come from?
From a home where everything I had could be taken away.
From a place where my 18th birthday gala could become someone else’s celebration.
From a world where the song I composed wasn’t mine.
Where the dress I designed wasn’t mine.
Where even my own life didn’t feel like it belonged to me.
I picked up my pen.
And drew an empty chair.
On the chair sat a pearl tiara, a family crest brooch, and a necklace.
Underneath it were footprints left behind by someone who had already walked away.
My design professor stared at it in silence for a few seconds.
“This is very good.”
“Painful experiences often become the strongest inspiration.”
“But don’t let pain become the only thing you create.”
“Next time, when you’re ready…”
“Draw where you want to go.”
That night, I received an email.
It had been forwarded by the Fontaine family legal department.
The subject line read:
“Special Board Resolution Regarding the Change in Designated Heir”
I opened it.
The message was short and straightforward.
Because Sloane Fontaine had voluntarily withdrawn, the designated heir position was temporarily vacant.
The Fontaine family’s voting rights would be temporarily suspended for ninety days.
Within those ninety days, if no eligible heir submitted an application, the Fontaine family’s controlling interest would be transferred to the board of directors.
In other words—
If I didn’t return, the Fontaine family would lose control of the company.
I closed the email.
Then I opened a new canvas.
And started my second assignment.
The topic was:
Where do you want to go?
I painted an open window.
Outside the window, there was nothing.
Only light.