Malik rose to his full height.
I stood, too, as if guided by invisible strings.
Emily frowned, her forehead furrowing as she studied me.
I could feel her unspoken question.
What was this effect Malik had on me?
It wasn’t an attraction—not in the way I felt drawn to Roman.
It was something deeper, something ancient—like silvery strands of energy binding us, weaving something I couldn’t yet understand.
I’d mull over that later.
For now, the journal lay in my hands, compelling me forward, pulling me into a past I had long tried to forget.
And I had no choice but to follow.
Chapter 8
Roman
My head throbbed as I paced back and forth across Jack’s kitchen.
I was at a dead end.
No leads. No clues. No Tristan.
Frustration and helplessness twisted inside me so tightly I thought I might snap.
“Tristan must be located. There has to be something—an avenue you two missed.” I sounded desperate as I turned to Lee, who sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee.
As if we weren’t in a crisis.
Beyond him, through the open window, the trees stretched their leaves toward the sun, oblivious to my turmoil. Birds rustled in the branches, chirping their careless melodies while my patience burned to ash.
Lee set his mug down and stroked his chin, unhurried. “I used to be able to track him. He’s a predictable guy. I could find him anywhere.”
He took another long sip of coffee. “But now? Gone. No phone. No trace.”
He shook his head, his gaze distant.
“He was always a bit odd,” he admitted. “When Olivia started dating him, Jack and I thought he was well-mannered. Polite. But still a mystery. His mom had died, his dad was missing… He seemed lost—like he was searching for something none of us could give him.”
Lee rapped his knuckles against the placemat, his eyes darkening with thought.
My hands shot into the air. “How could you let your daughter fall in love with a man you knew nothingabout?”
Lee shrugged, unbothered by my outburst. “We knew some things.”
He leaned back, his tone thoughtful. “Tristan had a good job at the hospital. He adored Olivia—doted on her like she was the sun to his moon. What parent or caregiver would argue with that?”
He tipped back his cup, draining the last of his coffee. A satisfied “Ah” left his lips as he set the mug down.
“Tristan was polite. Mild-mannered.” His forehead creased, as something unsure crossed his face. “But… there was something off about him.”
I stilled. “What do you mean?”
