Chapter 3

Two months passed. I threw myself into survival.

The design program was brutal but brilliant — I discovered I had an eye for it, a talent the old Ivy never had time to explore. My instructor, a no-nonsense woman named Diane, pulled me aside after the third week.

"You've got something, Castillo. Raw, but real. Don't waste it."

I wouldn't. Not this time.

Mom's treatment was holding steady. Not improving, but not worsening. Dr. Patel was still out of reach, but the current team was competent, and Mom was fighting. She'd always been a fighter. I just hadn't let her fight for herself before — I'd been too busy trying to sell my soul to save her.

Bree — yes, Bree existed in this life too, my loudmouthed guardian angel, a bartender at O'Malley's who'd taken one look at me and decided we were sisters — kept me sane.

"You look different," she told me one night over cheap wine. "Like you woke up from a coma or something."

If she only knew.

I thought I was safe. I thought I'd outrun him.

Then the scholarship email arrived.

"Congratulations, Ms. Castillo. You have been selected as the recipient of the Alistair Ashford Foundation Merit Scholarship for Emerging Designers."

My blood turned to ice.

Alistair Ashford. Dominic's dead grandfather. The foundation that bore his name.

I dug into it. The scholarship was legitimate — it had existed for years, funding dozens of students. But the timing was impossible to ignore.

Had Dominic engineered this? Was he watching me, tracking my enrollment, pulling strings from the shadows?

Or was this genuine coincidence — the universe's cruel joke, tying me to the Ashford name no matter how far I ran?

I almost rejected it. My finger hovered over the "decline" button for ten full minutes.

But the scholarship covered tuition, materials, and a living stipend that would let me cut back to one job instead of two, freeing me to actually be present for my mother's appointments.

Pride or survival. I chose survival. Again.

But I swore: I would take nothing else from anyone named Ashford.

Weeks later, my design portfolio started gaining traction. A small branding agency in SoHo offered me a paid internship — real work, real clients, not charity. I cried in the bathroom after accepting.

Mom noticed the change in me. "Mija," she said one evening, her thin hand finding mine. "You seem... older. Not tired-older. Wise-older. Like you've lived a whole life I don't know about."

I squeezed her hand and said nothing. Some truths are too heavy even for the people who love you most.

Then the gala invitation arrived.

A thick cream envelope, gold embossed. The Ashford Foundation Annual Benefit. As a scholarship recipient, my attendance was "warmly encouraged."

Dominic would be there. Of course he would. It was his family's foundation, his stage, his kingdom.

Every instinct screamed: don't go.

But Diane, my instructor, had connections at the event. She'd promised to introduce me to potential clients, people who could launch my freelance career. This was the kind of networking opportunity that didn't come twice for girls from Brooklyn diners.

I could avoid him. One night, a crowded room, a quick appearance, grab the business cards, and leave.

I could handle it.

I bought a dress from a consignment shop — deep green, simple, elegant. Not the kind of dress a contract wife would wear to impress her billionaire husband. The kind of dress a woman wears when she's dressing for herself.

The night of the gala, I walked into the grand ballroom of The Pierre hotel, chin up, shoulders back.

Crystal chandeliers. String quartet. A sea of silk and money.

And there, across the room, Dominic Ashford in a black tuxedo, a glass of whiskey in his hand, mid-conversation with a senator.

He hadn't seen me yet.

I turned toward Diane's group, deliberately putting my back to him.

For twenty glorious minutes, I was just Ivy Castillo, promising designer, making real connections, laughing at real jokes, feeling like a real person.

Then a voice behind me, low and dangerous and unmistakable:

"Green suits you."

Every nerve in my body fired.

I turned. Dominic stood three feet away, his gaze sweeping over me with an expression I'd never seen in my first life — not assessment, not calculation, but something raw and unguarded that vanished so quickly I almost doubted I'd seen it.

"Mr. Ashford," I said, keeping my voice even. "Lovely event."

"You're a scholarship recipient." Not a question. He already knew.

"I earned it."

"I know. I checked. I had nothing to do with your selection." He paused. "I wanted to. But I didn't."

That admission cost him something. I could see it.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you'd assume the worst. And for once, I wanted you to know the truth before you built a wall with it."

This was different. This wasn't the Dominic from the diner — commanding, transactional. This was a man choosing his words carefully, almost... cautiously.

It terrified me more than his coldness ever had.

"I should get back to my group," I said.

"Ivy." My name in his mouth, not Ms. Castillo. "I'm not going to chase you. I'm not going to trick you. But I need you to know — the offer I made wasn't just about the inheritance."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Then what was it about?"

His jaw worked. For a long moment, the noise of the gala faded, and it was just us, standing in a pocket of silence.

"I'll tell you," he said. "When you're ready to hear it."

He walked away. No pressure. No power play. Just that line, hanging in the air like a lit fuse.

I stood there, breathless, furious, and shaking.

Because the most dangerous version of Dominic Ashford wasn't the cold CEO who slid contracts across counters.

It was this one. The one who almost seemed human.

And I knew — with the bone-deep certainty of a woman who'd already died once — that "almost human" was exactly how the trap began.