Or Keir’s reason is buried somewhere in this castle, waiting to be found.
And suddenly, he wants to help her find those answers.
Chapter11
Isla had had enough.It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself and do something.Walking down the hall, she came to Keir’s private study/musical storeroom with intention and determination to learn something.
Not anger.Not grief.Purpose.She’s here to learn what he’s hiding, and sitting at the piano will just have to wait until this afternoon, after she’s exhausted from going through his personal items.
She closed the door behind her and stands still for a moment, palms flat against the wood, letting the room settle around her.The castle hums softly beyond the walls, distant and indifferent, as if it’s watching her but refusing to intervene.
Yesterday still clings to her, the explosion, the shame that followed it, the way Callum had looked at her like she’d cracked something open neither of them knew how to fix.She doesn’t want that here.She doesn’t want him here at all.
This room is for facts.
Her mother’s version of Keir has always been brutally efficient.He left.He chose music.He chose himself.There was no mystery in it, no lingering doubt.Just cause and effect, abandonment wrapped in practicality, when he chose wine, women, and music, as her mother liked to say.Not her.
But this castle refuses to be practical.To show her his reasons for never seeing her.Even if he chose wine, women, and music, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have come to see her.
If she is going to stay here, if she’s going to endure ninety days surrounded by the echoes of a man who shaped her life by refusing to be part of it, then she needs something sturdier than memory and resentment.
She needs proof.
Paper doesn’t lie.
Usually.
Keir’s private office/musical storeroom smells faintly of dust and old leather, layered with something sharper underneath, ink, maybe, or the ghost of smoke long embedded in the walls.Morning light cuts through the tall windows at an angle that makes the desk gleam, not polished so much as worn smooth by use.
This room isn’t staged the way the rest of the castle is.There’s no attempt at grandeur, no careful curation for visitors.Old instruments lay scattered, an old desk layered with sheets of music and even some Diamond Record awards for the songs that sold over ten million sales are stacked against the wall.It’s filled with mostly private junk that only a rock-n-roll star would appreciate.
It feels private.
Defensive.His own personal space.
Isla starts at the desk, methodical, as if she’s cataloging evidence at a crime scene.She flips through stacks of sheet music and contracts, letters from managers and lawyers, tour schedules marked up with dates and arrows.The papers are dense with logistics and money, with signatures that mattered to everyone except her.
She resists the urge to read lyrics.
She is not here for poetry.He could pour emotion into songs by the dozen, but in the wreckage of his actual life, only Callum stands as proof he ever felt anything real.
She moves to the filing cabinets along the wall.The first drawer slides open easily, tax records, insurance documents, and correspondence with accountants.The second drawer sticks.
She yanks it harder than necessary, irritation tightening her chest.
Locked.
Of course, it is.
Her jaw tightens, but she forces herself to breathe.Anger will make her careless.Carelessness will turn this into exactly what her mother always accused her of being: emotional, impulsive, and impractical.
She kneels beside the desk and runs her fingers along the underside of the shelves.The wood is smooth where hands have brushed it again and again, worn down by habit.
Her fingers brush metal.
A key.
Her pulse jumps.
