Chapter 3 - The First Cut
Now, under crystal chandeliers worth more than most Brooklyn brownstones, Wren stood on pristine white marble and watched strangers stare at her like she was a contagious plague.
Théo tied on a heavy rubber apron with the grim focus of a trauma surgeon. His top staff assembled behind him in protective masks and elbow-length gloves, moving with the brittle, nervous energy of people bracing for a toxic spill.
Adrian stayed rooted by the glass entrance doors, refusing to take a seat, his overcoat draped loosely over his injured side.
Wren's head snapped toward him, panic flaring in her chest.
He read the look instantly. "You said no cages, Wren. That door is unlocked. You can step out whenever you want."
The receptionist gasped audibly at the casual tone. Marco looked at his boss like he had completely lost his mind, standing guard outside on Fifth Avenue in broad daylight for a homeless woman.
Wren's gaze slid to the massive glass doors, where snow drifted lazily through the gray morning light and affluent pedestrians slowed down to stare before hurrying on.
Her dirty fingers dug into the threadbare rags at her chest. "I don't know where out even leads anymore," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the climate control.
The words hit Adrian somewhere deep and unguarded, cracking the thick armor he had worn since childhood. He nodded toward the porcelain washing station. "Then start here."
Théo examined the massive, matted rope of hair for nearly twenty minutes before speaking again. A heavy steel comb snapped clean in half against the hardened core. Industrial detangling oil did nothing but pool on the surface like water on grease. Finally, he stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead above his mask.
"We can save maybe two inches near the scalp," Théo said, his voice dropping its pretentious flair. "The rest is one solid, fused piece of keratin and debris. It's been dragging on her neck for years, from the look of the spinal strain. It's destroying her posture."
He turned to face Adrian directly. "She has to consent to this, Mr. Kane. Not you. If I cut this, her entire weight distribution will change instantly. It's a trauma."
For the first time all morning, Adrian felt a spark of genuine respect for the stylist.
He crossed the floor, stopping three feet from Wren so he didn't crowd her space. "You heard him. It's your choice. Only yours."
Her jaw tightened, her pale lips trembling. "If it's gone—people will see me."
"Yes," Adrian said quietly.
"If people can see me, they can find me."
Something inside Adrian went deathly cold and hyper-alert. The street boss in him took over. "Who is looking for you, Wren?"
The entire salon seemed to lean in toward her answer.
Wren reached back with trembling, blue-bruised hands and touched the heavy mass at the back of her skull. For one unguarded second, the wild, animalistic survival posture dropped away entirely, leaving behind someone unbearably young—not in physical years, but in deep, unhealed trauma. Like a terrified girl was still living somewhere under all that ruin.
"I don't remember most of the names," she said, her voice so faint it was almost swallowed by the room. "Just fire. Shouting. My mother's diamond ring hitting the floor before they dragged me out."
Adrian went very still. His lungs felt like they were filling with ice water.
"What is your full name?" he asked, stepping a inch closer.
Her face closed like a heavy iron door slamming shut. The wild, guarded look returned to her eyes. "Wren is enough."
She turned around, sat down in the hydraulic leather chair, and shut her eyes tight. "Cut it off," she commanded.
Théo lifted a pair of heavy industrial shears. The sound of the first cut—a thick, wet, crunching snap—echoed through the silent salon like a branch snapping in a winter forest.
May you like
Heavy sections of the matted rope hit the white marble floor with dull, solid thuds. With every inch that fell, Wren's shoulders twitched, as if invisible chains were being severed one by one.
And somewhere behind Adrian's ribs, a name he hadn't allowed himself to speak in ten long years began clawing its way back to the surface: Evangeline Vance.
