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“I know what’s at stake.” My voice sounds tired even to my own ears.

I pick up the tickets, feeling their weight. Ben keeps sending them. Despite everything, despite the silence and the yearsbetween us, he keeps reaching out. And I keep pushing him away.

“When’s the last time you left this cabin?” Marcus asks.

I don’t answer because we both know it’s been two weeks. Two weeks of brooding over a woman whose real name I don’t even know, building an art studio for a ghost, driving myself crazy with what-ifs and maybes.

“Fine,” I say finally, the word dragging out of me. “I’ll go.”

Marcus grins and claps me on the shoulder. “Good. And for fuck’s sake, shave before then. You look like a serial killer.”

I run a hand over my jaw, feeling the thick growth of beard. “Maybe that’s the look I’m going for.”

“Well, it’s working.” He gestures to the bottle of rum. “Now, are we going to open this or what? I didn’t fly it back from Fiji just to look at it.”

“You just want those ringside seats,” I joke, reaching for glasses in the cabinet.

Marcus laughs. “Damn right, I do.”

I grab two glasses, grateful for the distraction. As Marcus pours, I find myself wondering if going to the fight is really about reconnecting with Ben or simply escaping the cabin that now feels haunted by Elizabeth’s absence.

The rum burns pleasantly as it goes down, but it does nothing to fill the emptiness that’s taken up residence in my chest. Nothing will, I suspect, except finding her.

And I will find her. And when I do, I’m going to bring her back where she belongs. Here. Home.

With me.

SIX

AUDREY

“Audrey!”Lucille’s voice cuts through my daydream and yanks me back to reality. “Audrey, are you listening?”

I blink rapidly and find her staring at me with thinly veiled irritation.

Instantly, I straighten in my chair. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The roses, dear.” She gestures to the elaborate floral arrangements spread across the table before us. “White or blush for the centerpieces?”

I glance down at the flowers and try to focus. “Um, the blush ones. They’re beautiful.”

The florist, Marguerite, beams at my selection.

“Excellent choice, Miss Worthington. The blush roses will complement the ivory linens beautifully.”

We’re sitting in Petals & Blooms, the most exclusive floral boutique in Wyoming. The shop is a converted Victorian house, with original hardwood floors and delicate crown molding. Crystal vases filled with exotic blooms line antique shelves, and the air is heavy with the mingled scents of roses, lilies, and freesia. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching on the diamond that weighs down my left hand.

This is the third wedding appointment this week. Yesterday was the caterer, tomorrow the venue coordinator. Lucille has orchestrated every detail with military precision, as if rushing through the planning might prevent me from changing my mind. Not that I have that option.

I should be paying attention to these details. This is, after all, my wedding.

But my mind keeps drifting back to San Diego.

“The roses will pair wonderfully with the peonies we discussed for the bridal bouquet,” Marguerite continues, flipping through her portfolio to show us examples. “And for the ceremony arch, I was thinking cascading orchids with?—”

My attention drifts away from the cascade of wedding details spilling from Marguerite’s perfectly glossed lips. Her voice becomes background noise, blending with the soft classical music playing overhead as my mind drifts back to San Diego.

In my mind, I’m back in that hotel room. I can almost feel the weight of Reign’s arms around me, the scratch of his beard against my neck, the way his voice rumbled through his chest when he growled my name.