Isla drops the jacket back into its box and presses her hands against her thighs to steady herself.
“Okay,” she says, voice tighter now.“What else did you hide, Keir MacLaren?”
Callum shifts beside her.“If he’s half as dramatic as he liked to think he was, this won’t be subtle.”
“Good,” Isla mutters.“I’m not in the mood for subtle.”
They open the next box together.
At first, it’s harmless: old programs, laminated backstage passes, crumpled set lists.Isla flips through them, recognizing venues, dates, the shape of a life lived in motion.
Then her fingers catch on something thicker.
A bundle wrapped in tissue paper.
Her stomach tightens, instinct warning her before her brain catches up.
She unwraps it carefully.
Photographs.
Not glossy publicity shots.Not images meant for fans or magazines.
Candid.
Private.
Her breath catches as she lifts the stack, fingertips brushing curled edges and brittle corners.The paper is thicker than modern prints, the colors slightly faded.
A life preserved.
She sinks to the floor without realizing she’s done it, legs folding beneath her.Callum shifts, crouching beside her, close enough that his warmth touches her in the cold air, but he doesn’t reach for her.
Doesn’t rescue.
He just stays.
Isla flips the first photo.
Keir, younger than she has ever seen him.His hair darker, his face less carved by exhaustion, his smile, God, his smile is easy.Real.
His arm is slung around a woman with dark hair and sharp eyes.
Alisa.
Isla’s chest tightens.She hates how her first instinct is to search her mother’s face for power even in a photograph.Alisa is smiling.Radiant.Triumphant.
Keir is looking at her like she’s the center of the room.
Isla flips to the next.
A wedding photo.
Formal.Bright.Her mother in a gown that glows against the darker background.Keir in a suit that looks like it cost more than Isla’s first apartment.
Alisa’s smile is wide, shining, almost victorious.
Keir looks… different.
