She didn’t respond, just looked at me with those wide, unblinking eyes that saw through everything, that saw through me. And then she smiled, that infuriating, intoxicating smile that made me hate her and love her in equal measure.
The storm has passed by the time I wake, the first light of dawn creeping through the windows. The house is quiet now, the only sound the distant cry of gulls over the water. I sit up, my head heavy, my chest tighter than it should be.
The ghosts are still here, lurking in the corners, waiting for me to acknowledge them. I ignore them, for now. There’s work to be done, a life to be sorted, a woman to be mourned.
But not today.
Today, I’ll drink my coffee, stare at the sea, and pretend that she’s just out for a walk, that she’ll come back, that everything will be okay.
Because the alternative is unthinkable.
Chapter Three
Calum–past
The waves are steady, rhythmic, like the soft percussion of a distant symphony. My pencil glides over the page, tracing the jagged outline of the cliffs ahead. Ravensreach’s shore stretches endlessly to my left, a rugged ribbon of sand and seaweed-draped rocks, abandoned by all but gulls and whispers of the past.
It’s peaceful here, the kind of peace that comes just before a storm. My hand falters, my lines becoming jagged as I glance up. And that’s when I see her.
She appears like a vision from my memory—no, like an intrusion, something too vivid for the muted grays and blues of this place. Her hair tumbles wild around her shoulders, catching flecks of sunlight like a halo. She’s barefoot, her toes sinking into the damp sand as she walks the tide line, occasionally stooping to pick up a shell or a smooth stone. Her dress is white, too delicate for the salt breeze, and clings to her figure like a lover.
My breath catches, and for a moment, I forget myself.She’s like a story half-formed, something I need to finish, to capture before it slips away.
I keep sketching, my pencil now guided by instinct rather than thought. Her form takes shape on the page—a ghost, ephemeral and imperfect. But before I can lose myself in the act, a voice breaks the silence.
“Annabel!”
The name cuts through the air, sharp and warm, like a blade sheathed in velvet. I turn to see a man approaching from the far end of the beach. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and golden, the kind of man who belongs in stories of gallant knights and daring heroes. He carries a wicker picnic basket in one hand, swinging it lightly as if it weighs nothing. His smile is easy, disarming, but there’s an edge to his eyes that sharpens when they land on me.
I don’t know him, but I know his type. Charming. Effortless. The kind of man who walks into a room and takes up all the space without trying.
Annabel turns at the sound of her name, and the way her face lights up—like the sun breaking through storm clouds—makes something inside me twist. She waves at him, then turns back to the shore, holding up her latest treasure, a piece of driftwood smoothed into an elegant curve.
“Look at this!” she calls to him, her voice carrying over the waves. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Jonathan laughs, a rich, genuine sound that grates against my nerves. “Beautiful, sure. But what are you going to do with it? Build a raft?”
She sticks out her tongue, a gesture so childish and unguarded that it takes me by surprise. She turns, her eyes scanning the beach until they land on me. For a moment, she studies me, and I feel pinned beneath her gaze, like a specimen under glass.
Then she grins.
“You there,” she calls, pointing at me with the driftwood. “Are you spying on me?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Spying?” I repeat, lowering my sketchbook. “Hardly. I’m drawing.”
Her grin widens. “Oh, an artist. How mysterious.”
Jonathan reaches her now, setting the picnic basket down and slipping an arm casually around her waist. The gesture is possessive but practiced, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. My stomach churns.
“Who’s this?” Jonathan asks, his tone light but edged with curiosity.
“I haven’t asked yet,” Annabel says, stepping forward and leaving his arm to trail uselessly at his side. She approaches me like one might approach a stray cat—curious but cautious. “So? Who are you?”
I stand, brushing sand from my hands. “Calum Vey,” I say, offering her a nod. “And you are?”
She tilts her head, studying me again, and I feel like she’s peeling back layers, seeing more than I want to show.
“Annabel Dupin,” she says finally, as if testing the sound of her own name.
