From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 1

**Storm Behind Sleeps by George Orwell**

**Chapter 1**

It had been six long years since the divorce, and fate had a peculiar way of bringing people together at the most unexpected moments. I found myself standing in the bustling lobby of the police station when I spotted Zachary.

He was there, adorned in his uniform, a decorated lieutenant now, serving as a guest speaker for a significant department training session. The way he commanded attention, handing out little bags of Jordan almonds—those traditional wedding favors—made him seem larger than life.

I was merely there to collect a death certificate. A mundane task, yet it felt monumental in its own right. As I stood there, our eyes locked across the crowded room.

The silence between us was palpable, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions.

I felt the urge to turn away, to escape the weight of that gaze. Just as I was about to walk out, I heard his voice, soft yet piercing through the noise of the station: “Wren… do you still hate me?”

The question hung in the air, a fragile thread connecting our past. I shook my head slowly, the motion almost instinctual.

It was hard to reconcile how he had transformed from my steadfast bodyguard into a celebrated hero cop—an undercover operative, a man draped in medals and accolades—while I had slipped from the status of an heiress to a mere shadow, living under a false identity as if I were perpetually on the run.

Yes, I had harbored hatred back then.

But hate is merely a reflection of love that has soured over time.

Now, six years later, I found that I was devoid of both feelings. I didn’t love him, and thus, I couldn’t hate him either.

In the background, a rookie cop continued to circulate the room, blissfully unaware of the tension that crackled between us: “Come on, everyone—grab some! Let’s all share in Lieutenant Hart’s good fortune!”

Zachary, however, was no longer the celebrated officer to me; he was a ghost from a life I had tried to forget. He stepped forward, blocking the hand that reached out toward me, and closed the distance between us in a few quick strides.

“Wait—what are you even here for? I can help—” His voice rushed out, laced with urgency.

I raised the paperwork in my hand, cutting him off before he could finish. “Already done.”

With that, I turned on my heel and continued walking, determined to leave the past behind me.

Ironically, this wasn’t our first encounter at this station.

This was the second time our paths had crossed here.

The first had been during the dark moment when my father was convicted.

Just as I was about to step out, Zachary reached out and grabbed my sleeve, compelling me to halt.

“Are you… doing okay?”

It was such a trivial question, devoid of substance.

My gaze dropped to the shiny wedding band that adorned his ring finger, a symbol of a life I no longer recognized. I responded with an equally empty reply: “I’m fine.”

He flinched as if my words had physically stung him, and his grip loosened.

Outside, Denny’s car was idling, waiting for me.

I glanced back one last time, feeling a strange mix of emotions. “My husband’s here.”

Zachary’s voice cracked slightly as he responded, “…Okay. See you.”

A part of me hoped that I would never have to see him again.

As I climbed into the car, I watched his tall frame recede in the distance until he vanished from view in the rearview mirror.

Denny broke the silence, his voice teasing. “So… are we gonna talk about how you just used me as a fake husband back there?”

He shot me a grin, clearly amused.

“That cop was this close to following you home. But wait—why does he look so familiar?”

I smoothed out the wrinkled paper in my lap, maintaining an even tone as I replied, “Zachary Hart.”

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