Too Late For Redemption: The Runaway Princess

Genevieve POV

The crystal chandeliers of Foley Manor didn’t just shine; they glared, casting a harsh, diamond-hard brilliance over the hundreds of guests.

I stood in the corner, clutching a glass of water like a lifeline.

Ignatz had insisted we come.

"It's essential for networking," he’d claimed.

He didn't know that every step I took on this marble floor felt like walking on shattered glass.

I wasn't Genevieve Foley here.

I was just Ignatz's wife, a nameless woman in a dress that was two seasons out of fashion.

Across the room, my father sat on his throne-like chair.

He hadn't looked at me once.

Not when I entered. Not when I passed him.

To him, I was less than air. Air was necessary. I was nothing.

The party was for his nephew, the new golden boy of the family.

He stood in the center of the room, soaking up the adoration like a sponge.

He was handsome in a cruel way, possessing the same predatory gaze as the Don.

Everyone was bringing him gifts.

Watches. Car keys. Envelopes thick with cash.

He took them all with a bored smile.

Ignatz nudged me.

"Go say hello. Maybe he remembers you."

"He doesn't," I said, my voice tight.

"Just try, Gen. For the plan."

I swallowed my pride, a bitter pill I choked on daily.

I walked toward the nephew.

He saw me coming.

A smirk played on his lips.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in," he said, loud enough for the inner circle to hear. "The cousin who ran away to play house."

The circle laughed.

It was a polite, sharp sound.

"Happy birthday," I said quietly.

He stepped closer, invading my personal space.

He smelled of top-shelf scotch and entitlement.

"I don't want your well-wishes, cousin. I want a gift."

"I don't have anything to give you."

He leaned down, whispering in my ear.

"I know you have your mother's sketchbooks. The ones with the tower designs."

I froze.

Those were the only things I had left of her.

They were my soul.

"Hand them over," he said. "I want to burn them. She was weak. Just like you."

I looked at him, really looked at him.

He was a monster in a tuxedo.

"No," I said.

The word hung in the air.

People stopped talking.

"You don't say no to the future Don," he hissed.

I turned around.

I walked away.

I could feel their eyes on my back, burning holes into my cheap dress.

I heard Ignatz running after me.

"Gen! What are you doing? You embarrassed him!"

I kept walking, out the heavy oak doors, into the cold night air.

I didn't stop until I reached the bus stop.

Ignatz didn't follow me.

He stopped at the threshold, torn between his wife and his ambition. Ambition won. He stayed for the networking.

I went back to our cramped apartment.

It was midnight.

My birthday.

I sat at the small kitchen table, staring at a cupcake I had bought for myself from the discount bakery.

I lit a single candle.

The flame flickered, weak and lonely.

Flashbacks hit me.

I remembered showing my father my architectural drawings when I was sixteen.

Blueprints for a community center.

I was so proud.

He had glanced at them for a second before tossing them into the trash.

"Pretty drawings are for trophy wives, Genevieve. Not for Foleys. Learn to shoot or learn to shut up."

I had learned to shut up.

But in the silence of this apartment, while my husband laughed with wolves who wanted to eat him, I opened my laptop.

I opened the design software I had pirated.

I looked at the plans I had been working on in secret.

A shelter.

A safe place.

Ignatz's business plan had a launch date.

Thirty days.

If it worked, we would have money.

If we had money, I could leave this city.

I could leave the ghost of Genevieve behind.

I blew out the candle.

Happy birthday to me.