"Not a chance," Mallory said firmly, crossing her arms as she stared at Stella with an expression that brooked no argument.
"Mal, please," Stella pleaded, her voice carrying a desperate edge. "This is my only chance to move on. If I don't do this, I'll never be able to let go."
Mallory's gaze softened for a brief moment, but she didn't waver. "Why do you need to do this so badly?" she asked, searching Stella's face for an answer she could accept.
Stella shook her head, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "I need to know if it's really him, Mal. It can't just be a coincidence. Someone doesn't just die and then show up again, looking exactly the same." Her voice was steady, but there was an undeniable tremor beneath it—a crack in her usually controlled demeanor.
Mallory exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples as though trying to will away the conversation. "Stella… Rocco saw the body," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "It was Simon. It was him, Stella. Completely burned. There's no way he survived that. I'm sorry, but you have to accept it."
Stella's throat tightened, but she refused to back down. She reached out, grasping Mallory's hands in her own, squeezing them tightly as if anchoring herself to the only person who still had a thread of patience left for her.
"Please," she whispered, her green eyes filled with a quiet, desperate determination. "Just these two spells, Mal. That's all I ask. After this, I swear I'll never bother you again about him."
Mallory closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply as though weighing the decision in her mind. When she finally opened them again, Stella could see the resignation settling in.
"Fine," Mallory muttered, shaking her head as she reached for her notepad. She flipped through a few pages before she started jotting something down, the faint scratch of the pen filling the tense silence between them.
"My plants are still saplings," Mallory explained, tearing the page from the notepad and handing it to Stella. "I don't have the right ingredients yet. You'll need to get these from the black market."
Stella nodded, taking the list without hesitation.
"Ask Rocco," Mallory added, her tone firm. "He knows his way around and can get what you need without causing trouble."
But Stella didn't plan on asking Rocco. She had no intention of waiting or relying on anyone else.
Now, standing in the heart of the black market, surrounded by danger and the suffocating weight of secrets lurking in every shadow, she clutched the crumpled list in her gloved hand. The dim lighting cast eerie shapes along the cracked stone walls, the air thick with the scent of unfamiliar herbs, burning wax, and something metallic—something that hinted at the kind of business that took place here.
Each item on the list was more than just an ingredient; each one brought her a step closer to the truth she had been chasing for years. The truth that no one else wanted to believe in. The truth that Simon Winchester might not be as dead as they thought.
She had lied to Mallory. She wasn't going to ask Rocco for help. She had to do this herself.
Stella's gaze flickered around the bustling black market, her senses sharp despite the thick tension in the air. People moved like shadows, exchanging goods wrapped in secrecy, their whispers laced with danger. She had been careful, covered from head to toe, her mask concealing her identity.
She had to know. No matter the cost.
Stella sighed, weaving through the crowd as she searched for the last few ingredients needed for her spell. The market was a maze of shadows and whispers, every stall offering something more dangerous than the last.
If Simon was alive—if there was even the slightest chance—she had to know.
But as she made her way through the dimly lit stalls, collecting the rare ingredients one by one, a chilling thought crawled into her mind.
What if she found an answer she wasn't ready to face?
She moved swiftly, careful not to draw attention, plucking a vial of powdered obsidian from a shelf before slipping it into her bag.
Just as she turned to leave, a sudden uproar broke out nearby. Raised voices, shouts of alarm—something was happening.
Curiosity got the better of her. Stella made her way toward the commotion, stepping up behind a tall man and leaning over his shoulder to get a better view.
Then—
Boom.
The explosion tore through the air, the shockwave knocking everyone off their feet. Stella hit the ground hard, the world spinning as her ears rang painfully. For a moment, it was as if she were back there—trapped in the remnants of fire and wreckage, the memory of the plane crash gripping her in invisible chains.
No.
She clenched her fists tightly, forcing herself to focus. The world around her was spinning—smoke, debris, the muffled shouts of panicked voices. Her ears rang from the explosion, a sharp, relentless buzzing that dragged her back to a nightmare she had spent years trying to forget.
Weight pressed down on her. Someone had fallen against her.
She sucked in a sharp breath, forcing her eyes open—and found herself staring into dark brown ones, mere inches from her face.
For a split second, neither of them moved. His breath, warm even through the mask, ghosted against her skin. His hand splayed across her waist in a firm, almost protective grip, as if anchoring her amidst the chaos.
A shiver of something unnameable rushed down her spine.
Then, disgust flooded her veins.
With a sharp shove, she pushed him off, the force sending him back as she scrambled to pull her mask into place. She didn't wait to see his reaction, didn't care if he was hurt. Every instinct screamed at her to get away.
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, her heart pounding, her pulse roaring in her ears.
But the man didn't move. He simply lay there, staring after her, his expression unreadable.