After Avery dropped me off at home, I got in my car and drove straight to the studio on the boardwalk. The sun painted a rippling path of red, orange, and gold across the water’s surface. I barely registered it. Didn’t care. My mind had been locked down since Luke’s rejection.
It was after hours. I punched in the code Luke had given me when I’d lived here before for the side door’s keypad. His family owned the building, but it was rented to a community art collective.
The lock clicked open, and I hesitated.He never changed it.My mouth pulled down, and I shook my head. It was oversight, not symbolism. I couldn’t let it mean more.
Once inside, I flipped the switch and made my way to the paint studio—the one place I could bleed without making a sound. My fingers brushed across the canvas of my old oil painting. Ocean waves. A small boat in the middle of nowhere. Crisis captured in pigment and grief. Fitting. Once again, I was that boat.
I moved to the back room where my supplies were kept. After working the lock on my cabinet, I pulled out a sketchbook andgraphite pencils. Color didn’t suit me right now. The world was gray, stripped, raw. Graphite matched the mood.
Disgust crawled over my skin, phantom fingers dragging across me. Even I was getting tired of the drama looping in my chest.
My hand hovered over the metal spiral before flipping the cover open to a page where I’d sketched him—eyes shadowed, mouth tight, something raw barely caged behind the lines of his face. Not cold. But guarded, struggling. The sketch captured what I’d seen in him that night—the fight to hold it all together.
My throat burned. I tore the page out, crumpled it in one tight fist, and threw it toward the trash. I didn’t check where it landed. Didn’t need to.
Restless, I wandered the studio halls. My paintings, mixed among other artists, watched in silence. Their textures shadowed in the low light, but they were still here. Still mine. Some part of me—sacred and stubborn—refused to be erased.
I’d run most of my life—because of situations Mom and I found ourselves in. It was survival. Instinct. Since I was a kid, I was always leaving behind towns, schools, people, hope. But this time? I wanted to stay. Even if it was hard. Especially when it hurt. Stranded in the echo of what I’d lost. And maybe… what I’d almost had.
I drifted to the boardwalk window. Outside, the ocean blinked with scattered lights, waves swallowing the shore in slow motion. I let it all settle—my chest, my limbs, my thoughts. Let the quiet take over.
And somewhere in that stillness, a promise solidified—never again will I hand someone a piece of me without knowing they’ll hold on to it.
An hour later and back home, I lay face-down on my bed, eyes red-rimmed, throat raw. My shirt twisted to one side, theblanket tangled around me—a trap I didn’t have the energy to escape.
A soft knock tapped the door. Then it creaked open. “Mila, are you all right?” Concern punctured Mom’s softly spoken question.
I didn’t answer.
She crossed the room and sat beside me, tugging the blanket back, her fingers smoothing down my hair. “Did Elise do something? Is that what’s wrong?”
I blinked. “What?” My voice cracked. “No. Why would I care about her?”
“You asked me for information on Dunn. I thought you were trying to get leverage against her.”
Her words drifted, not quite connecting. I forced myself to sit up, swiping my hands over my still wet cheeks. “No. It’s not about Elise.”
She studied me, a slow dawning horror settling behind her eyes. “Is this about Luke King?”
The silence that followed was answer enough.
“Oh, Mila.” She stood up too fast and paced, ripping the elastic band from her hair. “I never thought you’d let him back in. Not again.”
My heart thudded. “What are you talking about?” I shifted on the bed, dropping my legs over the edge. “What are you keeping from me?”
She didn’t respond, and determination solidified inside me to push for answers. “Mom? Why are we really back here? And not the reasons you’ve already given me. I want the real one, the root cause of us returning to Blackwood.”
Her lips pressed together as she looked at me over her shoulder before pivoting and retracing her steps back to the side of my bed.
“Mom, why does it feel like we walked back into a minefield?”
More silence, but at least she’d stilled. Then, carefully,“Because we are.”
I froze. The air in my bedroom thickened, as if it knew what was coming before I did. “Say that again.”
“I didn’t want to bring you back. Not this way. But they found me. Said they had a job—clean up some books, make a few irregularities disappear. Big money, quick timeline, no paper trail. And before I could say no, they said your name.”
My chest tightened. “Who?”
