Chapter 1: The Billionaire Painter’s Last Letter

Julian Drake, the young genius painter, was gone. He’d taken his own life.

Those words didn’t feel real—more like a headline I’d scroll past in disbelief. No way, not him. But it was everywhere—on every phone, every TV, woven into every whispered conversation in the break room. There was no dodging it. No waking up to discover it was just some cruel rumor. Even now, his name—Julian Drake—kept echoing in my mind, slicing through my thoughts, sharp as a paper cut. Julian Drake. Over and over again.

People said that after he died, he left his entire fortune—billions—to the woman he loved most. Billions. To one person. I almost wanted to laugh. Who does that? It sounded so unreal, like something you’d see in a movie. And yet, it was all anyone could talk about. I could practically hear the cynics rolling their eyes.

It was like something out of a blockbuster, the kind of story that would set the internet on fire. A billionaire painter, gone too soon, leaving everything to the love of his life. People always want a love story, even in tragedy. Especially in tragedy. I guess we all crave a happy ending—even when there isn’t one.

But nobody could’ve guessed that the woman in question would turn out to be me.

Not his famous ex. Not some glamorous muse. Not an art world celebrity. Just me—Autumn Carter. Just another face in the crowd, someone you’d pass by without a second glance. I could almost hear the collective gasp when my name hit the news. All those strangers, shocked. I never wanted that kind of spotlight. Never.

In our last life, we’d both been too scared to say how we felt. Fate ripped us apart before we ever had the chance. But this time, I swore—this time, I get to be the one to save you. This time, I won’t let you slip away.

I made that promise in the quiet dark, clinging to memories that felt more real than anything outside my head. Memories that ached in my chest, so vivid it hurt to breathe. I’d failed him once. I wouldn’t do it again. Not if I could help it.

Julian Drake, the brilliant young painter, died by suicide. At home. In Silver Hollow. The news hit like a bomb and shot to the top of every trending feed. The world couldn’t look away.

Silver Hollow—just a sleepy upstate town where everybody knows everybody—suddenly became ground zero for a national tragedy. News vans jammed the curb outside Julian’s old Victorian, reporters jostling for a shot. Camera crews everywhere, microphones shoved in faces, the whole street buzzing. Every channel cycled the same story: prodigy gone too soon, genius lost, questions with no answers. Over and over. It felt like the world had stopped.

"How could such a promising young man take his own life?" The question was everywhere—on TV, on the radio, on strangers’ lips in the elevator and the subway. I heard it at the coffee shop, from people who had no idea who I was. The world couldn’t make sense of it. Honestly, neither could I.

"What a shame, what a waste—he was so handsome, only twenty-eight!" someone said, voice hushed but urgent.

"He had his whole life ahead of him. Did you see those eyes? Like something out of a painting," another chimed in.

"You guys just don’t get it," someone else insisted, as if they were an expert. "Artists are all sensitive. His family’s got a history—his mom was a painter too, had delusions, ended up killing her own husband."

People talked like they knew him, like reading a few headlines made them insiders. They didn’t know Julian. Not really.

But that didn’t stop the rumors, each one more dramatic than the last. Stories spread like wildfire. Nobody bothered to check the facts.

"Damn, that’s terrifying. Honestly, people like that are better off gone. Who knows if they’ll hurt someone? When someone with mental illness kills, they don’t even go to jail."

The words stung—sharp, careless, cruel. Sometimes I’d scroll through the comments just to torture myself, hating every single one. Why did people have to be like this?

"Exactly, exactly."

Just like that, the online chatter flipped. One minute, they were mourning a young genius; the next, they were wishing people with mental illness would just disappear. Like it would be better if they were never here at all.

It’s always easier to judge from a distance. To forget there’s a real person behind the headlines. But Julian was kind. He never hurt anyone. He started his own foundation to help foster kids—kids like him, abandoned by everyone else.

I remembered the stories he’d told me—about sleeping in too many beds that weren’t his, about always being the new kid, never feeling wanted. He’d built something good out of all that pain, but nobody seemed to care about that. Not really.

A coworker bustled over, patting my shoulder, practically bouncing with excitement to gossip.

"Look at this photo—this painter is seriously gorgeous! Broad shoulders, long legs—better looking than any movie star."

She shoved her phone in my face, the screen bright with a photo of Julian at some gallery opening. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a dream. I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn’t work. They just wouldn’t.

"I heard he was super devoted too. Before he died, he even made a will, leaving his entire fortune to a girl he was in love with. Her last name was Carter."

"Just a crush? They weren’t even together? What a pure love story."

Her voice was all starry-eyed, like she was talking about some fairytale prince. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t like that. Nothing about us was ever easy. Or perfect.

"Hey, what’s wrong?" she finally asked, noticing my tears.

She’d been so caught up in her story she didn’t notice me until she looked up and saw I was sobbing, totally shocked.

The tears hit me out of nowhere—hot, blinding. My chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped out my insides with a dull spoon. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. I could only sob as the world kept spinning, oblivious.

My heart felt like it was being carved out, the pain so sharp I could barely breathe. Huge tears splattered onto my phone screen, blurring everything.

On the screen, Julian Drake wore a black suit, his handsome brows slightly furrowed, his whole aura cold and distant. He blurred into the boy I remembered—the quiet, faraway kid in white, always just out of reach.

It felt like the universe was playing a cruel joke, making me see him everywhere I looked. Even now, I could hear his voice—soft, hesitant—asking if I was okay.

I tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t. I broke down, sobbing.

Because I was that girl. Autumn Carter.

Julian’s lawyer showed up at my office early the next morning. All business, he handed me the paperwork to transfer and settle Julian’s estate, and a letter—one Julian had written to me before he died. The handwriting was bold, powerful, heartbreakingly familiar.

He set the envelope on my desk like it was something sacred, something you shouldn’t touch unless you meant it. I stared at it forever before I could even open it, my hands shaking so hard I almost dropped it. The paper smelled faintly of turpentine and old books—so Julian it hurt.

In this life, no one ever told me they loved me. Thank you, for loving me.

Autumn, you have to live well, for both of us. In this life and the next, promise me you’ll be happy, okay? Your smile is adorable.

And I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I finally have the guts to say it—dumb Julian… loved you too.

I pressed the letter to my chest, reading the words over and over until the ink blurred with tears. It felt like he was right there, whispering in my ear, telling me all the things he’d never said out loud.

Tucked behind the letter was a painting—a portrait of me.

Under a bright blue sky, my eighteen-year-old self stood in a sea of sunflowers, wearing a faded denim jacket and a ponytail, glancing back over my shoulder with a playful, innocent smile. The smile seemed to leap out of the canvas, full of sunshine and life.

The colors were so alive, so warm, it was like stepping into a memory. I could almost feel the sun on my skin, the scratchy denim, the wildflowers brushing my ankles. He’d captured me in a way nobody else ever could.

"Julian, are you secretly painting me?"

"Of course not. I only paint landscapes, never people."

"Then what are you hiding?"

I leaned over to peek, teasing him with a grin. He quickly covered the painting, his ears turning red as he mumbled, embarrassed, "I told you, I’m not."

I could still see the way he’d duck his head, cheeks burning, trying to hide his smile. He was never any good at lying—especially not to me.

My eyes burned. I closed the painting, whispering through my tears,

"You really are… a dummy, Julian."