Here is Chapter Four of A Rebel's Love.
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Chapter Four: Learning to Stand Alone
Alina didn't expect healing to feel like heartbreak all over again.
For the first week after Kian's disappearance, she barely left her room. She ignored texts, muted group chats, and let her carefully arranged life unravel thread by thread. Her mother tried everything—new dresses, spa appointments, even bringing in a college admissions counselor for an unscheduled meeting.
Nothing worked.
"You're throwing your future away over some... boy from a garage?" her mother snapped one night over dinner.
Alina didn't respond. What could she say? That she missed the sound of an old motorcycle more than her piano lessons? That a boy who barely said ten words at a time had seen more of her soul than anyone ever had?
She wasn't ready to explain that.
Not yet.
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By the second week, the fog began to lift.
Not because she stopped missing Kian—but because she started missing herself. The parts of her that had begun to bloom when she was with him. The honesty. The edge. The hunger for something more than champagne brunches and picture-perfect selfies.
So one Saturday morning, she pulled her hair into a messy bun, left her makeup untouched, and walked out of the house wearing sneakers and jeans—no chauffeur, no stylist.
She took the bus.
The looks she got were sharp and confused, but she didn't care.
She didn't want to be the old Alina anymore.
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She got a part-time job at a small café near the local skate park—much to her parents' horror.
"Do you know what people will say?" her father asked, nearly spitting out his coffee.
"They'll say I'm finally doing something real," Alina replied calmly.
He stared at her like she'd grown two heads.
She didn't flinch.
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The café wasn't glamorous. Her first day, she burned her hand on the espresso machine and knocked over a whole tray of croissants. But there was something liberating in the way no one cared who she was. She wasn't Alina Bennett here—just Alina, the new girl who needed to learn how to wipe tables without soaking the floor.
It was humbling. And oddly thrilling.
One of the regulars, a tattooed artist named Myra, started chatting with her during slow shifts.
"You don't look like the type who works for tips," Myra had said with a smirk.
"I don't," Alina answered truthfully, "but maybe that's the problem."
Myra raised an eyebrow. "Running from something?"
Alina paused. "No. Trying to find something."
"Good. Just don't lose yourself looking."
That line stuck with her.
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Sometimes, on her breaks, Alina sat by the window and stared at the street—half hoping to see