The color drains from his face, and for a moment, I think he might pass out. “What are you saying?”
I let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and grating. “I’m saying it could have been mine, Calum. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. But the pressure you put on her, the pedestal you forced her onto… That’s what broke her.”
“That’s not true.” His voice is barely above a whisper, his hands trembling as he grips the edge of the table. “She loved me.”
“She loved you the way a moth loves a flame,” I snap. “She couldn’t resist you, but you were burning her alive.”
He sinks into the nearest chair, his head in his hands. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the relentless pounding of the rain against the windows.
“Why are you telling me this now?” he asks finally, his voice raw.
“Because you deserve to know the truth,” I say, though the words feel hollow even to me. “And because she deserves to be remembered for who she really was, not the fantasy you’ve painted her into.”
He looks up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and despair. “You think you’re so righteous, don’t you? You think you knew her better than I did.”
“I didn’t just know her,” I say, leaning closer. “I loved her. The real her. Not the muse, not the dream. The woman. And she loved me too, whether you want to admit it or not.”
The room falls silent again, the storm outside mirroring the tempest inside us both. Calum stares at the painting, his face a mask of pain. “She would have told me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “If she was pregnant… She would have told me.”
“Maybe she planned to,” I say, my voice softer now. “Or maybe she didn’t want to burden you with the truth. Either way, she’s gone. And nothing we do or say will bring her back.”
He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the canvas. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say finally, turning toward the door. But before I leave, I glance back at him one last time. “Thinkabout what I said, Calum. Think about who she really was. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find some peace.”
With that, I step out into the storm, the wind and rain lashing against me. I’ve done what I came to do, but the weight in my chest hasn’t lessened. If anything, it’s grown heavier.
Annabel may be gone, but her ghost lingers in every corner of Holiday House. In every painting, every memory, every lie we told ourselves about who she was. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never be free of her.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to be. Love is the drug that kills the most slowly. A sickness I never want to cure.
Chapter Forty-Five
Calum
Pregnant.
I think of the painting, her hands cradling her swollen belly. The secret she carried. The secret that killed us. I know now this is what she wanted to tell me.
The studio is quiet now. Too quiet. The paintings, dozens of them, stare back at me. Each one a version of Annabel—laughing, serene, coy, and furious. Her eyes seem alive in every stroke, accusing, questioning, mocking. I’ve lost track of how many nights I’ve spent here, painting her over and over, trying to capture something I can’t even name.
I can’t do it anymore.
The thought hits me with the force of a wave, knocking the breath from my lungs. I can’t keep this up, can’t keep her locked in this house, in my mind, in my work. She’s here, always here, but not in the way I want her to be. Not alive.
And if I don’t let her go, she’ll take me with her.
I pace the studio, my footsteps muffled by the thick rug beneath me. The air feels charged, as if the storm has left behind a residue of its fury. My gaze lands on the painting, theone I finished last night, the one that feels more alive than any of the others.
Annabel stares back at me, her expression a heartbreaking mix of love and betrayal. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, her lips slightly parted as if about to speak. Around her neck is the locket, the same locket that Jonathan tried to burn in his pathetic attempt to erase her memory. The symbol etched into the locket is faint, almost invisible, but I can feel its weight pressing on my chest like a stone.
I reach for the painting, my fingers trembling as they brush against the edge of the frame. The oil paint is dry but still seems to shimmer, as if alive. I can hear her voice in my head, soft and distant, whispering words I can’t quite make out.
“You’ve always been the knife I twist inside myself. Is this love?” The pain vibrates through me. “What do you want from me?” I ask aloud, my voice breaking. “What do I have to do?”
The room grows colder, the air heavy with the scent of lilies and decay. A soft breeze stirs, though the windows are shut. And then I hear it—a whisper, faint but unmistakable.
“Let me go.”
