Chap 16.
I never thought I'd be here — under chandeliers that looked like they'd cost half of my "used to be" home, surrounded by people who said "welcome home" like it was a religion. It's meaningless.
The badge on my neck said Annasia Keller — Food & Lifestyle Creator.
Cute. Not real, of course. Nothing here was.
The blonde wig itched like hell, but at least it worked.
After the incident at the coffee shop, Lucas had already tried to squeeze the truth out of me. He wanted everything — the reason, the files, the why.
At least I gave him something.
I told him I just wanted to keep digging into my mother's death — which was true.
What I didn't tell him was the part that still kept me awake every night.
That I wasn't just looking for the person who killed her.
I was trying to find out who the hell my mother really was.
Start from this old man who screaming and have his name on a fucking tore paper sent to me at that night and a fucking old-fashioned name of a restaurant: De Maria.
I leaned over the white tablecloth, balancing my phone on a half-empty glass of sparkling water, pretending to get the best angle.
"Okay, followers," I murmured, my voice all sugar and irony. "Here's the deal — if this tart is as good as the chef claims, I might just stop eating instant noodles."
A few nearby influencers laughed, their smiles glittering with filtered joy and too much lip gloss. Perfect. Let them think I was one of them — another desperate wannabe with a ring light and a dream.
I twirled my fork, posed for a photo I'd never post, and waited for the murmurs around me to settle. Across the long dining hall, the De Maria Superfood Review Challenge banner shimmered under the lights — elegant gold on white, pretentious enough to scream money.
Money that smelled like old secrets.
MIU's report had been thin — deliberately, I suspected. But I'd read between the lines.
De Maria Superfoods, a health conglomerate built on "organic purity," just so happened to share offshore accounts with one of the shell corporations my mother had traced months before her death.
That was my real reason for being here.
Not to rate tarts.
To test the waters. To see who flinched when I said the wrong word.
I tapped "record," my fake smile ready.
Fuck it. Let's do this!
"De Maria's story," I said to the camera, "is fascinating, right? From a small family-run business to an international success overnight — must be something special in their formula."
That earned a few curious looks from the press table. One journalist even raised a brow. Good.
I kept talking, tone bright, hands gesturing as if I had no idea what kind of names I was tossing around.
"And rumor has it," I added lightly, "their new investment partner, a certain Mr. Leone, is the real magician behind their miracle growth. Maybe I should review him instead."
Laughter again — polite, dismissive — but not from everyone.
From the corner of the hall, a man in a grey suit paused mid-conversation, eyes flicking my way. His expression didn't shift much, but I saw it — the recognition, the calculation.
Bingo.
I lowered my phone, feigning embarrassment, the "oops, did I say something wrong?" look that always worked on clueless hosts. My heart, however, thudded like a drum.
I'd wanted attention — and now I had it.
From him.
Somewhere, under the applause and chatter, my mother's voice echoed in my head — calm, professional, warning: Never draw blood before you see the knife.
Too late.
Fame was never the point.
But tonight, it was the perfect disguise.
By the time the event began to thin out, I'd somehow become the accidental star of the night.
A few reporters hovered nearby, pretending to sip their champagne while watching me over the rims of their glasses. The questions came soft at first — harmless, surface-level things.
"Are you a professional taster?"
"Would you collaborate with De Maria again?"
"What inspired you to start reviewing food?"
I gave them answers like candy — light, pretty, wrapped in nothing.
"Pure boredom," I said with a grin. "And a chronic addiction to sugar."
They laughed. The photographers snapped. And somewhere behind it all, I caught sight of more chefs approaching, trays in hand — small gifts, wrapped pastries, chocolate boxes with their restaurants' names embossed in gold.
"For you, signorina," one of them said, pressing a neatly tied parcel into my hand. "So you'll remember De Maria fondly."
Another brought a glass jar of candied nuts.
Someone else, a slice of cake in a box so delicate it looked like it should come with an insurance policy.
I smiled, thanked them all — the perfect picture of grace.
But inside, I felt a strange tug.
Because all I could think about was Mona.
That small, fragile voice asking if she could have something sweet before taking her medicine. The way her eyes lit up when Maya sneaked her a cookie, like it was the best thing in the world.
So I started collecting the sweets — not for the show, not for myself. Just quietly, one by one, slipping them into a paper bag the hotel staff had handed me.
A ridiculous, tender little act that shouldn't have mattered at all.
But as I held the bag against my chest, I realized this was the first time in years I'd done something just because I wanted to bring it home to someone.
"Mommy, do you want some chocolate, here have a good dark chocolate you like….."
"Mommy.."
"Mommy"
"Mom…"
The rain had slicked the streets, and my car hissed as I rolled over wet asphalt. I was just settling into the rhythm of leaving the hotel when a figure stepped out of the shadows. Black coat, narrow brim hat, cigarette glowing like a warning in the mist.
CIA or something?
"Evening, Miss Keller."
I tensed. Something about him — the slow drawl, the way he didn't rush to greet — felt like walking into a trap I couldn't see the edges of.
"I think you're a bit lost," I said evenly, hiding the pulse in my throat.
He smiled thinly, eyes glinting under the brim. "Lost? Perhaps. But you… you're far more interesting than lost, aren't you?" His voice had that old, hard charm — like whiskey and ash. "I hear you've been poking around. Curious girl, sniffing into the wrong family's… business."
I tilted my head, careful. "And if I am?"
He exhaled smoke slowly, leaning against my car with the patience of someone who had seen decades of fools and hunters alike. "If you ruin what they've built… if you dare to spoil their family's legacy… you'll find out how creative a man can be when cornered."
I swallowed, but I didn't flinch. My voice stayed level, cold. "And yet here you are… standing in the rain, giving me a warning instead of…" I trailed off, letting the silence stretch.
"Instead of what?" he asked, almost kindly, but the edge in his eyes betrayed it.
I met it, seeing a flicker of something… old-fashioned, calculating. "Instead of doing it yourself?"
A small chuckle escaped him, almost amused, like I had guessed a riddle only half meant to be solved. "Ah… clever. I don't know who you are, truly. Not your face, not your blood. But I can see what you could be. Work for me… judge, taste, review. Prove yourself. Make my restaurant known above all else. And maybe… I'll consider you an ally."
He shrugged, leaning on the car with the calm cruelty of a man who had nothing to prove to anyone but himself. "Then… I do what any man of my age would. I let time and circumstance… teach you a lesson." His voice dropped almost to a whisper, dry and lethal. "Do you understand, Annasia Keller?"
The streetlights flickered over him, the rain catching in his coat, and for the first time, I felt the pulse of danger as sharp as steel. And yet… beneath it all, there was something else. Humor. Play. A challenge he wanted me to rise to.
I kept my jaw tight. "Leave your number."
He chuckled, the sound low and rasped with smoke. "Smart girl," he said, tapping the cigarette once before crushing it under his heel. "Not too quick to say no — that's how people stay alive in this business."
He pulled a small, creased card from his coat pocket and slid it into the space between my fingers like a secret. "You call that number, they'll know who you are. Or at least, who I say you are."
I glanced down — no name, no logo. Just a number, printed in red ink.
"Anonymous much?" I asked dryly, pocketing it.
He smirked, a flash of gold tooth in the half-light. "You think I'd hand out my name to every pretty girl with a recorder? No, lass. Consider it… an invitation."
"An invitation to what?"
He leaned closer, rain dripping from his hat brim, breath smelling faintly of smoke and bourbon. "To choose a side before the wolves start biting."
I held his gaze, refusing to look away. "I don't do sides."
He laughed softly, stepping back. "Everyone does, sweetheart. Some just don't realize until they're already bleeding."
And with that, he turned, disappearing into the blur of rain and neon — leaving behind only the smell of tobacco.
He didn't just want to hire me; he wanted to use me. Maybe I was the distraction, the bait, the crack in someone else's glass wall.
Or the bait for the bird is start to working well. They know me.
Just few days in Edinburgh, I already have some mob mafia hitting on me because of my stupid food preview. Great—this is them, stupid but mysterious.
By the time I reached home, the street had gone still—just the hum of the rain sliding off the roof tiles and the faint glow behind the curtains. The door creaked softly as I slipped inside.
Mona was asleep on the couch, her sketchbook still open on her chest. Maya had curled beside her, blanket half-fallen. The TV murmured some late-night show.
On the table, a folded letter rested neatly by the keys.
Lucas.
"The campaign's been moved ahead. England tomorrow. Don't get into trouble while I'm gone—though I know that's a wasted request. L."
No signature, just his usual sharp handwriting and a smudge from coffee.
I sighed, setting the sweets on the counter, and turned to see Maya's eyes half-open, the drowsy kind of awake. She blinked at me once, then smiled.
"You came back," she mumbled.
Something in my chest loosened. It was so small, so stupid, but for a second I felt it—the warmth of someone waiting for me.
"Yeah," I said quietly, crouching beside her and placing the box of sweets near her pillow. "Brought something for two of you."
Her eyes lit, just faintly, before sleep caught her again. I stayed there a moment longer, listening to her breathing even out, before I stood and turned off the light.
For the first time in a long time, the house didn't feel empty
I stood out on the balcony, the city breathing below — cars sliding through puddles, neon bleeding against the rain. The paper card in my hand was already damp at the corners.
I turned the card over again. Just a number.
The wind brushed against my hair, tugging at the cheap wig. I caught my reflection in the sliding glass door — the girl in the black turtleneck, pale face, blonde hair. The stranger I'd built to walk into rooms my real self never could.
Open the wig, let my ginger original hair fall down to my shoulders.
Everything feels so right also so wrong, I don't hiding, is just all for the plan.
Rubbing my face, lighting up a cigarette. Hoping the smoke will erase every trace of my guilt.
"Is just for the best, mother…", I whispered to myself.
"Tell me what you want, then that I can have your eyes and brain, Ms.Keller?"
A deal.
"…"
"…"
There so much things I already have in this life.
So much things I don't have.
Or I lost.
At least a people see me as….human.
I'm losing.
Click.
Hearing aids off. Leaving me with a pure silence and white noise.
The neon light keep flickering on the wall.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
What is my dreams…
What is my ambition..
A girl with no dreams.
At least someone need to deserve that.
Right.
Mona.
And Maya