Something was not right.
Meanwhile, Danika remained blissfully unaware. She made her way back to me, clutching a pearlescent shell in her tiny hand. “Mommy, look!” she called out, eyes shining with pride as she presented her treasure for my admiration.
Before I could even lean down to acknowledge my daughter, Dante stepped forward and scooped her up with surprising gentleness. Danika let out a delighted gasp, her excitement quickly enveloped by the warmth of her father’s embrace. Dante remained silent; he did not speak or offer a greeting. Without hesitation, he turned and began walking away, moving past the others with Danika nestled securely against his chest.
The casualness of his action, combined with the complete lack of acknowledgment, sent a cold tremor through me. I stood frozen, unable to react as I watched the shell slip from my daughter’s grasp and land forgotten in the sand. The easy joy that filled the moments before vanished, replaced now by a persistent, gnawing sense of unease.
My gaze shifted to Sinclair, Rowen, and Sypher. The atmosphere between us was heavy, carrying a silent tension that neither the crashing surf nor the streaks of sunset could dissolve. Rowen stood apart, his eyes locked on the distant horizon. His shoulders slumped, as if bearing the weight of an unseen tempest, and his entire posture seemed to brace against an invisible storm threatening to break. Sypher, meanwhile, kept his eyes lowered, avoiding my glance entirely. A muscle in his jaw twitched in silent agitation, betraying an inner struggle, and his hands curled into tight fists, knuckles pale with the effort of restraint.
Sinclair, however, met my gaze. While the others seemed closed off, lost within themselves, Sinclair held my gaze, creating a fragile connection between us in the stillness that followed.
His eyes, which had always seemed unwavering and stoic, now brimmed with sorrow so deep and raw that it startled me. The sadness etched across his features was not just visible—it radiated outward, touching something hollow and aching in my own chest. In that silent exchange, while the vast ocean stretched out behind us and the sky grew ever darker,understanding passed between us. The grief Sinclair carried mirrored my own, and in that moment, I knew; something irrevocable had shifted, and nothing would ever be the same.
Something terrible had happened.
Something really bad.
“Melissa.” Sinclair’s voice, usually a bastion of calm, was choked with an unfamiliar, raw vulnerability that clawed at something deep inside me. He stepped forward, the others a silent, resolute wall behind him, refusing to look at me, their collective stillness a suffocating blanket. The air, thick and oppressive, felt like a physical weight, stealing my breath and crushing my chest. My heart, a frantic bird trapped in my ribs, hammered a desperate rhythm of dread as I slowly began to shake my head, my eyes watering, unable to comprehend what he was about to say.
Don’t look at him. Don’t listen to him—the command thundered in my mind, loud and urgent, yet so foreign it startled me. Still, there was no mistaking it belonged to me, a desperate plea from some hidden, frightened part of myself that knew instinctively what was coming.
Every nerve in my body screamed for escape, the urge to run so strong I almost felt myself dissolve into the dusk. But my legs refused to obey. They were leaden, rooted to the sand, and all I could do was stand there as the suffocating dread crept deeper. I felt trapped, ensnared by an invisible thread of fear that bound me in place. Deep down, I already knew—whatever Sinclair was about to reveal, it would destroy something vital inside me, a part of myself I wasn’t sure could ever be restored. My thoughts spiraled in panic, urging me to flee, to shield my heart from what was coming, to block out his voice before it could break me.
I blurted out the first thing I could grasp, anything to derail the words I knew were on his tongue. “Dante took Dani, why?” My question tumbled out, brittle and trembling, my voice barelymore than a whisper. It was a desperate attempt to cling to some reality, any distraction, as everything around me seemed to tilt and shift into a nightmare I could not escape.
Sinclair’s jaw tightened, his gaze holding mine with an unwavering, heartbreaking intensity. “Melissa.” That one word—my name—was spoken so reverently, so cautiously, as if uttering it caused him pain. He drew a trembling breath before continuing, “I am so sorry, sweetheart, but Ghost... didn’t make it.”
Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat echoing painfully through my ears as I tried to comprehend the enormity of Sinclair’s words. The ache in my chest grew until it eclipsed everything else—a relentless pressure, sharp and insistent, threatening to break me apart from the inside. I searched his face for even the smallest sign that this was all a mistake, a cruel misunderstanding, but found only sorrow reflected in his eyes. And when his words actually registered in my mind, my world tilted on its axis, as everything familiar suddenly unmoored and spun away from me.
Ghost.
My Ghost.
Gone.
I tried to breathe, to find something solid to hold on to, but there was only air and loss. My knees buckled beneath the weight of that grief as my world fractured into a kaleidoscope of pain. The last sensation I registered was Sinclair’s strong, steady arms, lowering me gently to the cold, damp sand and holding me as my screams shattered the twilight. They were the only testimony left to a love that had been cruelly severed, stolen away, and a future I would never know. I folded in on myself, clutching Sinclair tightly as I screamed until my voice grew hoarse, until all I could do was lean against him, his strongpowerful arms holding me tight until the stillness around me was absolute, broken only by the distant crash of waves.
Chapter Sixteen
Rowen
I sat on the floor in my room, my fingers curled tightly around the two envelopes my brother had given me, their edges biting into my palms as I refused to let go. The room was thick with the scent of old laundry and the lingering trace of his cologne, making my chest ache with every breath. The memory of his words and the weight of the promise I’d made pressed heavily on me, echoed by the faint murmurs and a soft, muffled sob drifting through the thin walls.
For a fleeting moment, I had a brother; that knowledge—so fragile and precious—now tore at something deep within me. I traced my thumb over the sealed flaps, wishing the paper could somehow hold on to the warmth of his presence, the sound of his laughter, or the gentle cadence of his voice. Instead, there was only silence and the ache of knowing it was over far too soon, the somber hush broken only by the quiet crying across the hall—his woman, mourning a life she barely got to live, searching for comfort I couldn’t provide.
He was gone before I ever got the chance to truly know him, to hear his stories or share in his dreams. The only connection I had left to him was Melissa, who sobbed quietly in her room just steps away. Her cries seeped through the night, blending with the creak of the old floorboards and the distant sounds of the ocean, amplifying my own grief. I wanted to scream, to rage at the unfairness of it all, but all that escaped was a shaky breath as tears slid silently down my cheeks, mingling with the cool night air and the emptiness he’d left behind.
The night stretched endlessly, the hush in the house thick and oppressive, as I tried to make sense of a world that had shifted so violently beneath my feet. The letters felt heavier with every passing minute—full of everything unsaid, everything unfinished.
Somewhere beyond these walls, life continued on, indifferent and unstoppable, but in this small room, time was suspended, holding me captive between a few vague memories and the ache of loss I could barely understand.
“Rowen?”
Sinclair kneeled before me, his expression marked by clear worry and concern. I looked up at him, unsure of the reason for his presence, yet acutely aware of the comfort it offered in that moment. His presence alone stirred confusion in me—I couldn’t quite understand why he had come, nor could I decipher the emotions his concern sparked within me.
Struggling to find the words, I finally spoke, my voice trembling as tears continued to fall. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I admitted, feeling both embarrassed and vulnerable. “I barely knew him.” The grief felt disproportionate, and yet I could not stop myself; the tears came, betraying the emptiness and loss that lingered even in the absence of a true connection.
Sinclair reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled me close, enveloping me in his strong arms. Outside, the steady sounds of the surf mingled with the rhythmic sound of our breathing. The warmth of his arms wrapped around me was a stark contrast to the cool, damp air of my room, and I felt the reassuring pressure of his chest as he held me close. “It’s all right to grieve,” Sinclair murmured, his voice wavering with emotion but still steady enough to anchor me amidst my turmoil. I could smell the faint trace of his cologne and the salty sea spray leaking in from outside, grounding me in the moment. “Sometimes, lossisn’t measured by time, but by the space someone occupies in your heart—even if only for a moment.”
