From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 110

**Chapter 7**

As I pulled my suitcase through the bustling airport, the humid air from the ocean rushed to greet me, its salty kiss a stark reminder of my new beginning. The warmth enveloped me, a sensation both foreign and oddly comforting.

I found a quaint little seaside apartment, its charm radiating from the elderly woman who owned it. With her silver hair glistening in the sunlight, she handed me the keys, her smile brightening the dim corridor. “Honey,” she said, her voice like a soft melody, “this place has good karma. Everyone who moves in here gets a fresh start.” The sincerity in her eyes made me believe her.

As I stepped inside, my gaze fell upon the peeling wallpaper, adorned with crooked sunflower stickers that seemed to have lost their battle against time. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, pulling me back to a simpler time when my mother nurtured sunflowers on our windowsill.

“Sunflowers are perfect, aren’t they?” I mused aloud, my voice barely above a whisper. “They follow the light, and even when they fall down, they can pick themselves back up.”

Suddenly, tears sprang to my eyes, uninvited and overwhelming. I quickly turned away, desperate to hide my vulnerability. In that moment, I collided with the old lady, who had leaned in the doorway, holding a small pot cradling a tiny green sunflower sprout.

“The last tenant left this behind,” she said softly, pressing the pot into my hands, her smile warm and genuine, etched into the lines of her face. “I think you two are meant for each other.”

Her words wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, and I felt an inexplicable connection to that little sprout.

Just three days later, an email pinged in my inbox, an invitation for an interview at a boutique design studio. My heart raced as I approached the glass-walled office overlooking the ocean, my portfolio clutched tightly against my chest like a lifeline.

Inside, the gentle ocean breeze fluttered through the design sketches strewn across desks, creating a symphony of rustling paper. The man seated at the main desk looked up, his gaze igniting with recognition behind his gold-rimmed glasses.

River stood up, his long fingers delicately tracing the struggling bird patterns in my sketches, his admiration palpable. “Anyone who can draw freedom after having their wings clipped is inherently fascinating,” he remarked, his eyes crinkling into crescents as he pushed up his glasses.

“I was one of the judges that year,” he continued, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “I gave you the highest score, actually.”

My heart soared at his words, a flicker of hope igniting within me.

“Start tomorrow,” he declared, his tone decisive. “I’ll pay you triple what you were making before, on one condition—you have to finish the ‘Caged Birds’ series.”

“Deal!” I exclaimed, a smile breaking across my face, the promise of a new beginning shimmering before me like the ocean waves outside.