THE FACE SHE STOLE

CHAPTER TWO: THE GIRL WHO LIVED

Amelia pov

many years later.

“Promise me you’ll call every day.”

Mom’s voice trembled even though she tried to sound cheerful. She stood by the train, clutching my hands like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go.

I smiled, though my throat was tight. “Mom, it’s just New York, not another planet.”

Her eyes glistened. “You’ve never been this far from home, Amelia. The city can be… overwhelming.”

Dad laughed softly from behind her, adjusting his glasses. “She’ll be fine, love. Our girl’s stronger than she thinks.”

I wanted to believe that. I really did.

The train hissed, the engine growling like some restless creature. Around us, the platform buzzed with people saying their goodbyes — lovers, friends, families, all tangled in moments that felt too short. I hugged them both one last time, breathing in the scent of home — rain-soaked wood, salt from the ocean breeze, Mom’s lavender perfume. I’d miss that more than anything.

“I’ll make you proud,” I said quietly.

Mom touched my cheek. “You already have.”

The whistle blew. I stepped onto the train before I could change my mind.

As the landscape rolled away, I watched the waves crash against the shore until they became nothing but streaks of white. My hometown — small, kind, and slow — faded into memory. Ahead was New York City, the place I’d dreamed of since I first held a sketchbook in my hand.

Blackwell Industries. The name itself felt heavy with promise. A fashion empire, sleek and untouchable. And somehow, by some miracle, I’d been chosen to work there.

Still, beneath the excitement, there was a quiet ache. Like something had always been missing — a hole I couldn’t name. It had been there since I was a child.

Mom once told me I came into their lives by miracle — a baby no one expected, a second chance they’d prayed for but I’ve always felt like a borrowed soul. Alive, yes, but… incomplete.

---

By the time I arrived in the city, the sky was dim and restless. New York had a pulse — loud, alive, impatient. Taxis honked like they were arguing, people rushed past without looking, and the air smelled of ambition.

I dragged my suitcase to a small apartment I’d rented online — warm and beautiful, too clean. The kind of place that made you feel both free and lonely at once.

That night, I sat by the window sketching — loose strokes of dresses and patterns, the kind of designs I’d always dreamed of seeing under real lights. But my hand trembled slightly. I wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or fear.

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” I whispered to myself.

---

The next morning, I stood in front of the Blackwell Industries building, craning my neck to take in its impossible height. Glass walls gleamed like mirrors, reflecting the city back at itself. I felt small, like the world might swallow me whole.

Inside, the air was cool, scented faintly with expensive perfume and coffee. Everyone moved with purpose — heels clicking, voices low but confident. I clutched my folder tighter, praying I didn’t look like the lost new girl I was.

The receptionist smiled politely. “Name, please?”

“Amelia Rivera,” I said, trying to sound steady.

She typed something, nodded, then handed me a visitor’s badge. “Welcome to Blackwell. Mr. Blackwell will see the new design team this afternoon.”

My heart skipped. Mr. Blackwell. Ethan Blackwell — the man whose name sat on every magazine cover, whose fashion shows were spoken of like myths. They said he was brilliant, ruthless, impossible to impress. And now, somehow, I worked for him.

---

Hours later, the meeting room felt colder than it should have. The man at the head of the table didn’t need to introduce himself. Ethan Blackwell had presence — the kind that filled a room even when he wasn’t speaking.

He was younger than I expected, early thirties maybe, tall and sharp in a tailored suit. His expression was unreadable, his voice low and precise. “Blackwell Industries does not chase trends,” he said. “We set them.”

Everyone nodded, eager, nervous. I took notes, but my mind wandered — to the rhythm of his voice, the way he spoke like he’d already seen the future. There was something magnetic about him, something controlled yet restless. The kind of man you couldn’t read but couldn’t look away from either.

At one point, his gaze passed over me — not stopping, not lingering — just enough to make my pulse trip. Then he turned away, already onto the next point.

After the meeting, I walked out trying to calm my racing heart. The city outside was buzzing, golden with late afternoon light. I should’ve felt proud, but all I could think about was how enormous this world was… and how easily it could swallow someone whole.

---

That night, I dreamed again.

Fire.

Screaming.

A woman’s voice calling two names through the storm.

Amelia.

Adeline.

I woke with a gasp, my sheets tangled around me. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The dream felt too vivid — the woman’s voice too real. I pressed a hand to my chest and whispered into the dark, “Who’s Adeline?”

No answer. Just the city humming outside, alive and indifferent.

I tried to shake it off, but something inside me whispered that the storm from my dream wasn’t just a dream. That it was where everything had begun — and where everything might end again.

---

The next evening, after my first exhausting day at work, I trudged back to my apartment building, my heels clicking against the pavement. My shoulders ached from trying too hard to smile, trying too hard to prove I belonged. My brain buzzed with color palettes, fabric textures, and a dull throb that felt like the price of chasing dreams.

I reached my door, juggling my purse and keys, and pushed it open.

The air felt wrong.

The lights were on. I didn’t remember leaving them that way.

A faint smell of coffee drifted through the air — fresh, not from this morning. My pulse quickened. I dropped my bag by the door and took a cautious step inside.

A coat I didn’t own hung over the back of the chair. A half-empty mug sat on the table, thin steam still curling from it.

My stomach twisted.

“Hello?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

No answer.

From down the hall, a soft creak — a footstep. Then another.

I took a step back, my hand hovering over my phone. Maybe I should call someone but who?. Maybe I should run. But something in me needed to see who was there, to prove I wasn’t losing my mind.

I crept toward the bedroom, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

And then I saw her.

I froze. A woman stood in my room, her back to me. She turned slowly, calm, as if she’d been waiting. My keys slipped from my hand.

Who’s she, what’s she looking for in my apartment, and how did she get in?