Ophelia
I pressthe phone to my ear, my heart racing as it rings. On the third ring, Pria answers, her voice laced with her usual charm and wit. “Well, this is a surprise. The famous Ophelia Foster is calling me,” she teases, a playful lilt in her tone. “Are you finally ready to leave your glamorous jet-set life as a photographer and come crawling back to work for me?”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Only Pria could make my life sound like something out of a high-fashion magazine. Sure, I’ve taken photos for a few notable publications, and yes, I’m working on a book, and my work has been featured in several galleries. But honestly, I’m just a small name in a vast sea of photographers—ones who truly know how to capture the world’s beauty in ways that make people stop and feel.
Do I want to be one of them some day? Sure, but it’ll take time and a lot of work to reach my dreams.
“Hi, Pria,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Though I’d love to say yes and get my old job back, I don’t think I have what it takes anymore. What exactly would I even be doing if I came back? Actually, scratch that. Dealing with celebrities is not something I want to do ever again. I’m happy with what I’m doing.”
“Sad to hear it, but whenever you want to change careers, I’ll have a position for you,” she replies, her voice carrying that playful edge I’ve missed. “Not that I don’t enjoy hearing from you, of course. But somehow, I have a feeling this isn’t just a social call. It’s not my birthday, it’s not a holiday . . . and you usually just text for those. So, what’s going on, Ophie?”
My breath catches at the nickname. It’s been years since I’ve been called that. Years. Suddenly I’m hesitant. How do I explain what just happened?
How do you tell someone that the man you were supposed to marry—the man you’ve mourned for years—is somehow, inexplicably, alive?
Taking a steadying breath, I finally say, “I need some help. Someone called . . . said they were from the hospital. They told Haydn that Keane is awake.” The words feel strange and unreal on my tongue, as if saying them out loud might somehow make this nightmare more real. “They said . . . they said I’m still listedas his next of kin. If he was alive, wouldn’t that be his parents? Why call me?”
There’s a pause at the other end, a silence that stretches just a beat too long, before Pria’s voice softens, almost hesitant. “So you’re telling me someone called you, claiming Keane is alive?”
“Yes. Not just alive, but apparently, he’s awake.” My voice wavers, and I grip the phone tighter. “And according to them, I’m responsible for him. Which makes no sense. His parents hate me. I doubt his mother would let me get close to him if this were true.”
Another pause. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?” I ask, dread creeping into my chest.
“Keane’s parents passed away. His mother died almost a year after he . . . after they disconnected him. And his father—Kit Stone, the one and only—died six months ago.”
I blink, the reality of her words settling over me like cold fog. “I had no idea,” I murmur, feeling a strange emptiness at the thought. “I stopped paying attention to anything the media said about them years ago.”
I want to ask about Rowan, his brother, but he was the black sheep of the family. I doubt anyone would want to reach out to him. Still, wouldn’t he be the first one to be contacted instead of me? They probably did and he said fuck Keane. Regardless, I choose not to bring him into the conversation.
“I wouldn’t expect you to keep track of them. After everything you went through,” she replies. “So let me get this straight. Someone called you, claiming he’s alive, and you’re in charge of what happens?”
“Yep. Well, all they said is, ‘he’s awake’ and for me to get back to them. Which is why I’m coming to you.” The words come out fragile, like they might shatter if I speak them too loudly. “I don’t know if it’s real. I don’t know if it’s some twisted prank. But . . . I need to know the truth. I need to understand what’s happeningbefore I . . .” My voice trails off as that familiar feeling of dread rises again, threatening to overwhelm me.
Pria doesn’t miss a beat, her tone hardening with fierce determination. “Alright. What hospital? Give me everything you know.”
I glance over at Haydn, who’s been watching me closely. Once I ask him for the information, he tells me the details he remembers, including the hospital name, then reminds me to give her the number in my caller ID that’s been calling over and over. I pass the information to Pria.
“I’ll call you within the hour,” she promises. “Whatever I find out, you’ll know. If someone’s trying to dig up a story and drag you into this mess, we’ll make sure they regret it. We’ll bury their careers before they even think about running it.” She pauses, a final edge to her voice. “But if there’s any truth to this . . . we’ll be here for you while you handle it.”
The line clicks off, leaving me alone with Haydn and the suffocating silence that fills the room. I try to steady my breathing, but the questions keep spiraling, relentless and impossible to answer.
“You can’t just create a person out of nothing, can you?” I murmur, clutching on to that single, impossible hope. Do I even want him to be alive?
Haydn watches me, something unreadable in his expression. Then he asks, almost hesitantly, “Lang, my agent, is also doing some digging. He doesn’t think it’s true, but Kit’s people are pretty good at hiding what Kit didn’t want people to see.”
“There was a funeral. I don’t actually think you can make that shit up.” I shoot him an exasperated look. “It was all over the news. It was televised—not that I watched it.”
“You didn’t go?”
“No,” I say, the word coming out louder than I intended. “I wasn’t invited. It was a private service—friends and family only.”A bitter laugh escapes me. “Only a few people knew we were together—that we were even engaged.”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “Is that why you don’t talk about him much?” he asks quietly. “Why you keep so much of it locked away?”
I nod, a flicker of sadness crossing my face. “You know the rule . . . ‘pictures or it didn’t happen.’ Plus there’s no point in rehashing the past.” I pause, feeling the weight of those memories pressing down. “Some things . . . some people are better left in the dark.”
He lets out a soft scoff, giving me a look that’s equal parts affectionate and exasperated. “Tell me about it. It took you almost two years to tell me who broke your heart so badly you didn’t want anything serious with me.”
