“Be proud of yourself. Look at how far you’ve come. Even as you take this next step, remember—it’s not about the destination. It’s about what you’ve already proven to yourself.”
“I will,” I say, and for the first time, I really mean it.
“Take care, Ophelia. You’ve earned this peace.”
As I step out, there’s no lingering doubt, no gnawing uncertainty. Just a quiet sense of purpose and a feeling I’ve fought so hard to claim: hope.
Chapter Fifty
Ophelia
The morning air is crisp,biting against my skin as I stand outside the towering building. The sleek glass façade reflects the pale Seattle sunlight, shards of light scattering on the pavement beneath my boots. I glance up at the rows of windows. The light refracts, casting faint rainbows against the glass—a fleeting beauty I wish I could capture.
It’s such a shame I don’t have my camera with me. My phone is useless. Sure, they’re improving the cameras in this artifacts every year, but they’ll never have the lenses I need to do moments like this justice.
“What are you thinking?” Constantine asks, his voice pulling me back to reality. He stands beside me, arms crossed, his stance radiating his usual overprotective energy.
“That I shouldn’t have left my camera in the hotel,” I say with a small shrug, though my fingers curl tightly around the strap of my purse.
He rolls his eyes. “Maybe you’re thinking about your camera because deep down, you know this is a bad idea.”
“You’re wrong, this is an excellent idea,” I reply firmly. I straighten my shoulders, meeting his gaze. “I need this. For myself. For my future.”
He exhales, the sound heavy with reluctance. “We could leave, you know. Grab coffee, pretend we never made it here. He’s history, part of your past.”
I give him a small smile, the kind I reserve for when I appreciate his concern but can’t let it sway me. “You’ve been saying that since yesterday. We both know I need to do this. I need closure.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks like he might argue. But then he nods, stepping aside as if conceding to the inevitable. “All right. Let’s get it over with.”
We step through the glass doors into the lobby, where the warm air greets us, chasing away the chill from outside. My boots scuff softly against the polished floor as we make our way to the elevator.
Inside the elevator, the mirrored walls catch my reflection. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Jeans, hiking boots, and an old sweatshirt I stole from Haydn when I left his house. Okay I stole more than one. No one would blame me,they’re very comfortable. It’s a shame they don’t smell like him anymore.
Confession time: now I feel too . . . casual. Maybe I should’ve worn something dressier, something that said, Look, I’m a grown-up now. Look how far I’ve come. But then again, maybe this is better—honest, unpolished, just me.
The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open to a pristine hallway. It’s quiet—too quiet. Constantine follows without saying a word and I appreciate him for that.
The door to Rowan’s apartment looms ahead. I pause, taking a deep breath, and lift my hand to knock. The sound is louder than I expect, sending a ripple of anxiety through me. My heart pounds, each second stretching longer than it should.
The door swings open, and Rowan stands there. His gaze flicks between me and Constantine before finally settling back on me.
“You actually came,” he says, his tone tinged with disbelief as he steps aside.
“I told you I would,” I reply, stepping inside.
The apartment is flooded with natural light, the expansive windows framing the Seattle skyline like a perfect postcard. The view is stunning, almost surreal, but the space feels cold—modern, pristine, and hollow, as if it lacks the essence of those who live here.
Constantine stays close. He doesn’t acknowledge Rowan, just gives him a curt nod.
“Where’s Keane?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.
Rowan glances to his left, and then I see him. Keane is seated by the window, his silhouette outlined against the muted gray of the cityscape. He turns slowly, his eyes meeting mine. For a moment, the air feels thin, the tension pressing against my chest like a hand I can’t push away.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice carrying a flicker of the charm I used to know.
“How are you?” I ask, stepping closer.
He glances down at his body before nodding toward the guitar leaning beside him. “A lot better. I’m still a work in progress, but things are improving.”
