Page 4

Chapter Three

Calum–past

The waves are steady, rhythmic, like the soft percussion of a distant symphony.

My pencil glides over the page, tracing the jagged outline of the cliffs ahead.

Ravensreach’s shore stretches endlessly to my left, a rugged ribbon of sand and seaweed-draped rocks, abandoned by all but gulls and whispers of the past.

It’s peaceful here, the kind of peace that comes just before a storm. My hand falters, my lines becoming jagged as I glance up. And that’s when I see her.

She appears like a vision from my memory—no, like an intrusion, something too vivid for the muted grays and blues of this place.

Her hair tumbles wild around her shoulders, catching flecks of sunlight like a halo.

She’s barefoot, her toes sinking into the damp sand as she walks the tide line, occasionally stooping to pick up a shell or a smooth stone.

Her dress is white, too delicate for the salt breeze, and clings to her figure like a lover.

My breath catches, and for a moment, I forget myself. She’s like a story half-formed, something I need to finish, to capture before it slips away.

I keep sketching, my pencil now guided by instinct rather than thought. Her form takes shape on the page—a ghost, ephemeral and imperfect. But before I can lose myself in the act, a voice breaks the silence.

“Annabel!”

The name cuts through the air, sharp and warm, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

I turn to see a man approaching from the far end of the beach.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and golden, the kind of man who belongs in stories of gallant knights and daring heroes.

He carries a wicker picnic basket in one hand, swinging it lightly as if it weighs nothing.

His smile is easy, disarming, but there’s an edge to his eyes that sharpens when they land on me.

I don’t know him, but I know his type. Charming. Effortless. The kind of man who walks into a room and takes up all the space without trying.

Annabel turns at the sound of her name, and the way her face lights up—like the sun breaking through storm clouds—makes something inside me twist. She waves at him, then turns back to the shore, holding up her latest treasure, a piece of driftwood smoothed into an elegant curve.

“Look at this!” she calls to him, her voice carrying over the waves. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Jonathan laughs, a rich, genuine sound that grates against my nerves. “Beautiful, sure. But what are you going to do with it? Build a raft?”

She sticks out her tongue, a gesture so childish and unguarded that it takes me by surprise. She turns, her eyes scanning the beach until they land on me. For a moment, she studies me, and I feel pinned beneath her gaze, like a specimen under glass.

Then she grins .

“You there,” she calls, pointing at me with the driftwood. “Are you spying on me?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Spying?” I repeat, lowering my sketchbook. “Hardly. I’m drawing.”

Her grin widens. “Oh, an artist. How mysterious.”

Jonathan reaches her now, setting the picnic basket down and slipping an arm casually around her waist. The gesture is possessive but practiced, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. My stomach churns.

“Who’s this?” Jonathan asks, his tone light but edged with curiosity.

“I haven’t asked yet,” Annabel says, stepping forward and leaving his arm to trail uselessly at his side. She approaches me like one might approach a stray cat—curious but cautious. “So? Who are you?”

I stand, brushing sand from my hands. “Calum Vey,” I say, offering her a nod. “And you are?”

She tilts her head, studying me again, and I feel like she’s peeling back layers, seeing more than I want to show.

“Annabel Dupin,” she says finally, as if testing the sound of her own name.

Her name fits her—light and lilting, with a hint of sharpness beneath the surface. She gestures to Jonathan. “And this is Jonathan Grey.”

I glance at him, noting the subtle tension in his jaw. He doesn’t offer his hand, and neither do I.

“A pleasure,” I say, though it isn’t entirely true.

Jonathan smirks, a flash of white teeth. “You live around here, Calum?”

“My family owns Holiday House,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the cliffs. It’s a statement of fact, not a boast, but I see his smile falter slightly, and it pleases me more than it should.

“Ah,” he says, recovering quickly. “That explains the brooding artist act. ”

Annabel laughs, a sound like bells, and my irritation deepens. She looks at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So what are you drawing? Me, I hope.”

“Of course,” I say, meeting her gaze. “How could I not?”

Her laughter fades, and for a moment, something passes between us—an understanding, an unspoken challenge. Then she steps closer, leaning in to peer at the sketchbook still clutched in my hand.

Jonathan watches her, his expression unreadable.

“Well?” she says, tilting her head. “Are you going to show me?”

I hesitate, then hold out the book. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine briefly, and the touch lingers longer than it should. She flips through the pages, her expression shifting from amusement to something more serious.

“You’re good,” she says softly, almost to herself.

“Good?” Jonathan cuts in, stepping closer. “Let’s see.”

Annabel hands him the sketchbook, but her eyes remain on me. Jonathan flips through the pages, his brows furrowing.

“Impressive,” he admits grudgingly, though his tone suggests he’d rather say anything else.

I smile faintly. “High praise.”

Annabel steps between us, taking the sketchbook back and holding it against her chest. “You’re both ridiculous,” she says, her tone light but with an edge.

“Men and your egos. Jonathan is a writer—he’s working on the next great American novel.

He’s three years in and at this pace he’s at least a decade away from writing the end. ”

Jonathan laughs, but it’s forced. “Says the girl who lives off daddy’s oil money. So what’s your story, Calum? Just another summer in paradise?”

I shrug. “Something like that. And you?”

“Passing through,” he says, his tone clipped. “Spending time with Annabel. ”

His words are pointed, a clear claim staked in the sand. I glance at her, but she’s looking out at the waves, her expression unreadable.

“Well,” I say, my voice steady. “You’re lucky to have such good company.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Jonathan says.

The tension eases slightly, but it’s still there, an undercurrent beneath the surface. Jonathan steps closer to her, his hand brushing her arm. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean into him either.

“You should join us,” she says suddenly, surprising both of us. “We have enough food for three.”

Jonathan frowns, but I nod before he can protest. “I’d like that.”

The picnic is a strange affair. Annabel chatters endlessly, her words tumbling over each other like waves.

She talks about everything and nothing—her love of storms, her hatred of conformity, the time she almost drowned trying to rescue a dog.

Jonathan watches her with the same intensity I feel, though his is tinged with something darker.

I can’t take my eyes off her. The way she tosses her hair, the way she gestures with her hands, the way her laugh bubbles up like champagne. She’s magnetic, a force of nature, and I can already feel myself being pulled into her orbit.

Jonathan feels it too. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens when she laughs at one of my jokes, the way his eyes narrow when she leans closer to me to reach for the wine.

Annabel seems oblivious—or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she enjoys the tension, thrives on it. She’s like a flame, and we’re both moths, drawn to her light even as it threatens to consume us.

As the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, Annabel leans back on her elbows, her eyes half-closed. “This,” she says, her voice soft, “is perfect. ”

Jonathan glances at her, his expression softening. “It is.”

I look at her too, but my gaze lingers on her face, memorizing every detail. The curve of her lips, the line of her jaw, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.

She opens her eyes and catches me staring. For a moment, neither of us looks away. Then she smiles, and it feels like a challenge.

“Careful, Calum,” she says, her tone teasing. “I might start to think you like me.”

“Maybe I do,” I say, my voice steady.

Jonathan stiffens, but Annabel just laughs, her head tilting back as if the idea is the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “Oh, Calum,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re trouble.”

“Am I?” I ask, leaning forward. “Or are you?”

Her smile widens, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us. “There’s a festival next weekend, you should come to the masquerade ball.”

“Should I?” A smile curves my lips.

But then Jonathan clears his throat, breaking the spell. “It’s getting late,” he says, his tone clipped. “We should go.”

Annabel pouts, but she doesn’t argue. She stands, brushing sand from her dress, and offers me her hand. “Thanks for the company,” she says. “I hope we meet again. Maybe at one of your gallery openings.”

I take her hand, holding it a moment longer than necessary. “I’m sure we will.”

Jonathan doesn’t say goodbye. He just gathers the basket and walks ahead, his shoulders tense.

As they disappear down the beach, I pick up my sketchbook and stare at the page. Annabel’s face looks back at me, her expression caught somewhere between a smile and a secret.

I close the book, the edges of her laughter still echoing in my mind.