As the wind picks up, I look back toward the cliffs, my gaze falling on the jagged rocks below. The waves crash against them with relentless force, their roar a symphony of anger and despair.
The fisherman’s words echo in my mind, mingling with Jonathan’s confession and the memories of Annabel that refuse to fade. There are pieces missing, fragments of a story I can’t quite piece together. But one thing is clear: I won’t stop until I uncover the truth.
Even if it destroys me.
Chapter Thirty
Annabel
The gallery lights are too bright, reflecting off the glass of champagne flutes and art pieces, casting fractured beams that ricochet around the room. I stand in the center, a fixture among fixtures, a piece of Calum’s curated collection. My dress is red—his favorite color—and clings to me like a second skin. He’s always wanted me to look like this: something striking, something impossible to look away from.
“Can I talk to you?” the familiar voice comes from over my shoulder.
I bristle instantly. “No.”
Jonathan clears his throat, moving to face me directly. “So you’ve heard.”
“About your wedding? Yes, I’ve heard.” I remain cold, detached.
“There wasn’t a wedding, we eloped.”
“As if this makes the fact that you married my cousin any better,” I scoff. “How could you? Do you hate me?” My eyes finally meet his. He looks like a broken puppy, empathy and pain swirling in this stormy irises.
“I wish I hated you,” he finally says. “I just wanted to hurt you.”
“Well, now I hate you,” I seethe under my breath. He clutches my elbow but I tear myself from his grip. “Don’t.” I shake me head, fighting tears. “How could you do that to her? She’s young–naïve.”
“I wanted to feel loved–you–you–”
“Stop it. You’re weak, broken–how could I ever love you?”
“Annabel–just listen–” he reaches for my arm again but I back out of his reach.
“Don’t do this. Not here–I won’t let you ruin this night for Calum.”
Jonathan’s eyes cloud with anguish. “I made a mistake–I–I need you. Just give me a few minutes to explain.”
I shake my head, fighting back stubborn tears.
“Annabel, you’re radiant.” Someone interrupts us then. The voice is familiar–an investor often in attendance at Calum’s shows. I turn to find the older man, his silver hair slicked back, his suit impeccable. He looks like money—old money, the kind that doesn’t shout but whispers, and somehow still commands the room.
“Thank you,” I say, offering him the smile I’ve perfected for nights like these. “Calum’s work does most of the radiating.
He laughs politely, raising his glass. “And yet, it’s clear who his muse is. Every brushstroke screams your name.” His eyes flick from me to Jonathan. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you.”
“No–it’s nothing,” I turn away from Jonathan and sip my champagne, letting the conversation drift to safer waters—Calum’s meteoric rise, his talent, his vision. Always Calum. Even in his moment of triumph, I am an accessory, a piece of art complementing the exhibit.
Across the room, I catch sight of him. He’s magnetic tonight, his presence pulling every eye, every conversation intohis orbit. He’s in his element, charming patrons and collectors, speaking passionately about his work. Aboutme.
He saunters slowly to me then, smiling that boyish grin that makes people trust him instantly.
“Mind if I steal my muse for a while?” he asks the silver-haired man, his hand finding the small of my back. The man raises his glass in good humor and retreats, leaving us in our own little bubble of light and expectation. “Did you have fun?” he asks.
“It was perfect. They all loved you, Calum. Loved your work.”
His eyes flicker across the room to land on Jonathan’s brooding gaze trained directly on us. “And you?”
“I always love your work.” I smile and slide off the bar, my gaze holding his. “Don’t let Jonathan get in your head,” I say softly. “He thrives on chaos.”
