Page 57 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

My phone dings, and it’s from Kylie, a link to a story. I click into it, and my stomach drops:

A lead weight anchors in my gut, the blood draining from my face as I stare at the screen. The words blur, but I can’t look away. Of course, they’d spin it like this. Of course, I’d end up in a tabloid-fueled mess with Alex. Again .

Photos of me in his lap at Vanguard, his hands halfway up my dress. Photos of us on the beach, me straddling him on the sand.

Fuck.

I set my phone aside, forcing myself to be present with my sister, though the headline lingers in the back of my mind, needling at me like a thorn I can’t pull out.

Despite my protests, Philippa insists I step out into the main gallery of the bridal boutique to show Carole and Father the dress she’s selected for me.

Carole’s face lights up the moment she sees me, gushing about the fabric and the fit. “Oh, Elena, it’s stunning on you.”

My father, however, is silent, though his face has changed.

Philippa notices immediately. “What do you think, Dad?” she asks, her tone expectant.

He exhales slowly before setting down his drink. “I have some thoughts, but it’s not about the dress.” The disappointment in his voice is unmistakable.

I recognize it well.

“Dad!” Philippa gasps.

Mortimer sighs before pulling out his phone. “My team sent me this.” He holds up the screen, and I don’t even need to look. I already know.

The fucking article.

“And what of it? Celebrities get photographed all the time.”

“Not with his hands up your skirt, Elena. Don’t you care what people will think or say?”

“It has nothing to do with you or your precious empire,” I snap, crossing my arms.

His eyes harden. “I could give a damn about that.”

The bluntness of his response throws me off, but before I can recover, he stands, leveling me with a look. “You’re going to allow yourself to be humiliated like this, reduced to a frivolous headline? Where is your dignity?” His voice is sharp, cutting straight through my defenses.

I’m stunned into silence.

“He has a reputation. Women come and go. He’s not serious, Elena. I know the type—he will break your heart, mark my words.”

There’s something in the way he says it, something almost resigned.

And then it hits me.

Of course, he knows the type.

He was the fucking type.

Stepping out on my mother multiple times during their marriage. Cheating, lying, wrecking everything in his path. And now he has the audacity to stand here and judge me? To sit across from me with his mistress-turned-wife and pretend to be the moral compass of my life?

My fists clench at my sides as fury bubbles up inside me, white-hot and uncontrollable. “Of course, you know the type, Mortimer . You are the fucking type.” My voice shakes, but it doesn’t waver.

“Elena, please, calm down,” Philippa whispers, gripping my arm as if she can physically hold me back.

But I’m past the point of being restrained.

“Who the fuck are you to dictate who I can and can’t date? You sure as hell didn’t rein yourself in when you were screwing half of Manhattan behind my mother’s back. And then—then you had the audacity to fucking marry your whore just to rub salt in the wound!”

The words rip out of me, raw and jagged, slicing through the room like a blade.

“Oh my God, Elena—Carole, I’m…” Philippa gasps, her eyes wide with horror.

Carole’s face falls, her hands trembling at her sides. She doesn’t say a word, just stands up and quietly leaves the boutique.

A moment of silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

I inhale sharply, my chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. “I appreciate your fatherly concern. It’s about eighteen years too fucking late, but I can handle my own relationships.”

Mortimer’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes flicker with something—rage, guilt, maybe both.

“Clearly, you can’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in the middle of yet another scandal,” he bites back. “And don’t you ever talk to my wife like that again.” His voice is firm and cold, slicing through me.

He doesn’t wait for a response. He gets up and walks out, leaving the tension crackling in his wake.

The breath I’d been holding finally releases, but instead of relief, all I feel is exhaustion. My knees buckle, and before I can stop myself, I collapse onto the floor in a broken heap.

Philippa is beside me in an instant, wrapping her arms around me as I shudder against her.

She doesn’t speak. She just holds me.

And for the first time in a long time, I let her.

After the heated exchange at the bridal store, Philippa and I return to my apartment, the weight of the day—one that started with such a high—now sits heavy on my shoulders.

I peel off my heels, tossing them carelessly near the door before flopping onto the couch.

Philippa follows, more composed, but I can tell she’s still processing everything.

She sits across from me, curling one leg under the other, her expression unreadable.

For a few moments, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then, finally?—

“What the hell happened back there?” Philippa asks, her voice quieter than I expected.

I exhale, rubbing my temples. “I don’t know, Pip. He…set me off.”

She studies me for a beat before tilting her head. “You said something…about Dad stepping out on Mom. About Carole being his mistress. That wasn’t true, was it?”

I freeze.

The exhaustion in my body is drowned out by a cold realization. She doesn’t know.

I sit up straighter, gripping the throw pillow in my lap, avoiding her gaze. “Philippa…”

She shakes her head, her brows knitting together. “No. Tell me. What did you mean?”

I hesitate. I could lie. I could brush it off, pretend I was lashing out, let her keep the version of our family she believes in.

But I’m tired. And I can’t unring the bell.

“You really don’t know, do you?” I murmur.

Philippa’s jaw tightens. “Know what?”

I fight the lump in my throat—the kind that rises when you know the next words will shatter someone’s world, and you’re the one saying them. “Carole wasn’t just some woman Dad met after the divorce, Philippa. She was the reason for the divorce.”

She lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “What? No, that’s—no. They got together after . I remember Mom saying—” She stops mid-sentence, her expression shifting, doubt creeping in.

I give her a knowing look. “What exactly do you remember her saying?”

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

I push forward. “Did she ever actually tell you that? Or did she…not tell you the truth?”

The color drains from her face. She looks away, shaking her head. “No. That’s not—Dad wouldn’t—Mom would’ve—” She stops again, realization dawning, the cracks in her belief system widening.

She’s piecing it together, whether she wants to or not.

I take a deep breath. “Carole was his mistress for years, amongst other women. Mom knew. She tried to fight for their marriage, but Dad gave her an ultimatum—stay and turn a blind eye, or leave and let him have full custody of you.”

Philippa flinches like I’ve physically hit her. “That’s not possible. Mom—Mom wouldn’t have left me.”

My throat tightens. “She didn’t want to. But he made sure she had no choice.”

She stares at me, eyes wide, glossy. “You’re lying.”

I shake my head. “I wish I was. But it’s the truth. You were a kid, Pip. We both were. You didn’t see what she went through after she left—the anguish, the resentment. The way she hated him for driving her away.”

Philippa blinks rapidly. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

I soften. “Because she didn’t want you to hate him.”

A beat passes, the weight of it all settling in.

And then Philippa does something I didn’t expect.

She laughs.

But it’s a broken, bitter laugh, the kind that barely makes it past her lips.

“You know,” she murmurs, voice hollow. “I spent so many years feeling abandoned. Wondering why she left me. Why you left me. If I wasn’t enough to make her stay.”

Her voice cracks at the last word.

“Pip…” I start, my chest tightening. “She never wanted to leave you. That was the hardest thing she ever did. But she thought she was protecting you.”

She shakes her head, brushing back tears.

“Do you know what it’s like to be nine years old and realize your mom isn’t coming back?

To go from having her tuck you in at night to being raised by nannies who come and go like you’re some chore?

” She swallows hard. “I spent so much time waiting for her to come back. Waiting for both of you to come back. Thinking maybe, if I was perfect, she’d change her mind. But she never did.”

I inhale sharply, guilt slamming into me.

Because I had Mom. I had years with her. Philippa only had fleeting moments, a few weeks or a month here and there, when she visited Australia.

“And then there was Carole.” Her voice wavers. “She wasn’t Mom, but she was there. She showed up. Remembered my birthdays, my ballet recitals. Helped me with my homework. She became…something close to a mother to me.”

Her gaze darkens. “And now you’re telling me it was all built on a lie?”

I don’t know what to say.

I hate Carole. I always have. But Philippa saw something different. She didn’t see the woman who tore our family apart. She saw the woman who stayed when our mother left.

“I know you hate her,” she cries, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “But I can’t. She was there for me when our mother wasn’t. In the same way you love Jack, I love her.”

It’s a gut punch.

I could never compare the love I have for Jack to Carole, but I understand. Carole was there for her. She was a source of comfort. The person who picked up the pieces when our mother left.

And that softens my resolve against her.

I don’t have to like Carole. But I can appreciate what she is to my sister.

Philippa lets out a ragged, unrestrained sob.

And I hold her.

For the first time, I don’t stop her.

Because what do you even say to someone whose entire world has just been rewritten?

I watch her go; my chest tight with emotions I can’t even name.

For so long, I’ve held onto my anger. My resentment. I thought I was the only one who suffered from our parents’ mess.

But now I see it clearly.

She lost something, too.

And despite everything, maybe…we’re more alike than I ever thought.

After Philippa leaves, I sink into the lounge, wine glass in hand, staring out at the cityscape. The lights shimmer across the skyline, flickering like distant stars, but my mind is elsewhere, sifting through the wreckage of today.

Everything with my father is a fucking mess, but somehow, I feel lighter. Like a thorn has been plucked from my heart. Having Philippa know the truth—it’s strangely healing. I’ve carried it alone for so long, assuming she was untouched by the same catastrophe that broke me.

I’m always so wrapped up in my own shit, and because Philippa appears to have it together, I forget that she’s hurting too. We’re both damaged by the same disaster.

The weight of it settles into me as a knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.

Riley probably forgot her key again.

I sigh, setting my glass down as I pad over to the door. But when I open it?—

It’s him.

Alex.

My breath catches.

“?lskling,” he murmurs, his voice warm, endearing.

I don’t hesitate. I throw myself into him, arms around his neck, burying my face against him.

He didn’t forget about me.

His arms tighten around my waist, holding me like he never wants to let go. “Congratulations on your performance this morning.” He breathes me in, slow and steady.

“I thought—” I say, pulling back slightly. “I didn’t hear from you all day.”

He brushes a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “I know. Press was nonstop. Interviews, appearances. I barely had a moment to breathe, let alone pick up my phone. I wanted to be the first person to call you, but by the time I could, it was already late.”

I nod, exhaling, letting the tension ease from my shoulders.

He tips my chin up, eyes searching mine. “I saw the article.”

I stiffen slightly, but he shakes his head. “Elena, Madison means nothing to me. She was at my birthday dinner because she happened to be in town, and mutual friends invited her. That’s it. There’s no ‘love triangle,’ no hidden meaning behind the photos. Just you and me.”

I bite my lip, feeling the weight of his words, of the certainty in them.

His fingers trail down my arm, threading through mine. “Let me make it up to you. Come with me.”

My eyes snap to his. “What?”

“Let’s get away from all this. Just us.” His eyes burn into mine, a flicker of something reckless and enticing in them. “We can leave tonight. I’ll take you to Sweden, to my family’s cabin. It’s remote, no press, no service, no distractions. Just you and me.”

My breath catches.

No media. No outside world.

Just him and me.

A chance to breathe. A chance to exist together without the world watching.

“Tonight?” I repeat, like I need to make sure I heard him right.

He nods. “Pack a bag, ?lskling. Let’s disappear.”