“Technically, we could,” I say, pretending to consider it. “I mean, they add a certain . . . rustic charm.”
“Rustic?” She snorts. “Please. You just don’t want to do any heavy lifting.”
I laugh, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her forehead. “Maybe, but I think I can make an exception for you.”
She grins, reaching up to brush her fingers lightly across my jaw, and for a moment, it’s like the boxes don’t even matter. The clutter, the mess, the unpacked life waiting around us—it all fades into the background. Right now, it’s just us, wrapped up in this quiet, beautiful morning, and I’m more than happy to stay like this forever.
But then her phone buzzes on the nightstand, breaking the spell. I glance at the screen, frowning as I see the same number flashing across it that’s been popping up for the last half hour. I pick it up and hand it to her, but she just waves it off, a small sigh escaping her lips. “Ignore it,” she murmurs, leaning back into the pillows. “It’s probably a spam call.”
The call ends, but almost immediately, the phone lights up again with the same number. I notice she’s already missed four calls from it. That’s a lot of persistence for spam.
“Maybe you should answer?” I suggest gently, glancing at her. But I know her—answering a strange number triggers that nervousness she’s always been open about, that anxiety that makes her hesitate, makes her imagine the worst.
She shakes her head, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “No . . . if it’s important, they’ll leave a voicemail.”
The phone buzzes a final time before stopping, but something about it doesn’t sit right with me. There’s an urgency to the call, a sense I can’t ignore. The next time it rings, I grab the phone and answer for her, pressing it to my ear. “Hello?” I keep my voice calm, even as a faint unease stirs in my chest.
There’s a pause before a professional-sounding voice responds. “Good morning. I’m looking for Ophelia Foster?”
I sit up straighter, sensing Ophelia’s eyes on me as I reply, “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Yale New Haven Hospital in Greenwich, Connecticut,” the voice says on the other side.
“She’s unavailable at the moment,” I reply, keeping my voice even despite the creeping tension beneath my skin. “But if you leave a message, I’ll have her contact you right away.”
“May I ask who’s speaking?” the woman asks.
“Haydn Wesford, her partner,” I say, the word slipping out naturally, as if it’s a fact I don’t have to think about.
There’s a pause, then a quiet scoff. “Partner?” she repeats, skepticism heavy in her voice. “Well, we’ve been trying to reach Ms. Foster regarding Keane Stone, her fiancé. He’s awake. As his next of kin, she needs to contact us or, if possible, come to the hospital immediately.”
Her words hit like a sucker punch. Fiancé. Next of kin. Keane Stone is awake.
For a moment, everything blurs. Keane Stone. The man she said she’d lost forever. The man I thought was gone. And now, he’s awake? Still her fiancé? Still considered her closest family?
I swallow hard, gripping the phone tighter as my stomach churns. “I . . . I’ll let her know,” I manage, though my voice sounds distant, hollow.
The woman thanks me curtly and ends the call. I’m left staring at the phone in my hand, my pulse pounding like a drumbeat that drowns out everything else. In an instant, everything has shifted. The ground beneath me feels as if it’s cracked wide open.
Keane Stone. Her fiancé. Awake.
What the hell? Wasn’t he supposed to be dead?
My mind races, trying to untangle the pieces. Her fiancé—the man who’s haunted her in ways I’ll never fully understand, the man she mourned, the man I assumed was gone forever—is alive. Awake. And he’s calling for her.
Before I can sort through my thoughts, Ophelia’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Who was it?” she asks, her brow knitting together. “Are you . . . are you mad?”
A dry laugh slips out, unguarded. “Mad?” I repeat, my tone firm. “Yeah, you could say that.” I hold her gaze, my voice edged with frustration. “I thought we told each other everything—that there weren’t any secrets. But maybe I was wrong. Because, unless I misunderstood, it seems like your fiancé is awake, Ophelia.”
Her face drains of color, her eyes widening as she stares at me in stunned silence. The word fiancé hangs between us, sharp and unforgiving, unraveling everything we thought we understood about each other.
She told me they dated. She said it was serious. But she didn’t tell me they were going to get married? And now, he’s alive?
Chapter Nine
Ophelia
Haydn’s voicecuts through the room, sharp and laced with disbelief. “Mad? Yeah, I guess you could say that.” His eyes bore into mine, raw with shock and anger. “I thought we told each other everything—that there weren’t any secrets. But maybe I was wrong. Because, unless I misunderstood, it seems like your fiancé is awake, Ophelia.”
