He exhales and forces his mind to work.Isla’s world is schedules, venues, and hotels.She would go to a hotel, not her mother’s.She had told him she had concert commitments.And she’d mentioned Long Island, but she said she wasn’t going home.
Callum reaches for his phone with fingers that don’t quite cooperate.
He scrolls until he finds the number Isla’s assistant had called him with to coordinate something with him, before the assistant was replaced by her mother’s voice in every decision.
He hesitates.Pride tries to rise.
He crushes it.
This is not the time for pride.
He calls.
It rings.
Once.Twice.
A woman answers, brisk.“This is Kendra.”
“This is Callum Fraser,” he says.His voice is rough, and he doesn’t soften it.“I need to know where Isla is.”
A pause.Wariness.“Mr.Fraser?—”
“Please,” Callum says, and the word surprises him with its nakedness.“Tell me where she is.”
Silence stretches.
Then Kendra exhales.“She checked into the Larkwell in Manhattan.Under her name.No press.No entourage.Just her.She’s fired everyone but me.”
Shocked, Callum closes his eyes in relief so sharp, it hurts.She’s cleaning house, getting rid of the parts that hurt.Taking control.“Thank you.”
“Is she okay?”Kendra asks quietly, the briskness gone.
Callum swallows.“She’s… trying to be.”
Another pause.“Do you want me to tell her you’re coming?”
“No,” Callum says immediately.
Because this can’t be managed into safety.It can’t be coordinated, smoothed, made convenient.
He needs to show up.
He ends the call and turns back to packing, faster now.
Mrs.Grant steps forward.“What about the castle?”
Callum stares at her.“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“No,” she says.“That’s the excuse.”
He closes his eyes, jaw clenched.
He grabs the legal papers from Isla’s bed and shoves them into a folder.He can’t leave them scattered.He can’t pretend they don’t exist.But he can’t let them be the anchor that keeps him here.
When he passes Keir’s office, he walks to the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out one of Keir’s old guitar picks, little scraps of plastic Keir never threw away, like he believed even the smallest tool mattered if it made music.
Callum holds one in his palm, a ridiculous talisman.
