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Chapter Forty

Calum

The path to Jonathan’s cottage is uneven, the sand slipping beneath my boots as I trudge along the coastline.

The air outside feels like it’s been wrung out of a wet cloth—heavy and suffocating.

The moon is cloaked in clouds, offering little light, and the only sound is the relentless crash of waves against the rocks below.

My fists clench with every step, my jaw tight, teeth grinding together.

Jonathan.

The name twists in my mind like a knife. He’s always been there, lurking at the edges of my life with Annabel. A shadow I could never quite shake, a rival I didn’t ask for but was forced to contend with. And now, he has answers I need—answers about her.

The windows of his cottage glow faintly as I approach, the warm light taunting me. Inside, Jonathan is likely sipping his whiskey, indulging in whatever twisted memories he holds of her. I don’t knock when I reach the door. I shove it open, the old hinges groaning in protest.

Jonathan is seated in a leather armchair near the fireplace, a glass of amber liquid balanced precariously on the armrest. He doesn’t flinch as I storm in, his eyes lifting lazily to meet mine.

“Calum,” he says, his voice smooth, maddeningly calm. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I slam the door shut behind me, the force rattling the windows. My eyes dart around the room, and then I see it: a locket on the table beside him, glinting in the firelight. Annabel’s locket.

“You have her things,” I say, my voice low, dangerous. “Why?”

Jonathan tilts his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Annabel and I had a history, as you well know. She left a few... reminders behind. I’ve held onto them.”

I stride forward, my chest heaving with barely contained rage. “That doesn’t belong to you. None of it does.”

He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip before setting it down. “And yet, here it is. Strange how that works.”

I’m inches away from him now, my fists trembling at my sides. “Where did you get it?”

“Does it matter?” He leans back, his gaze steady, unflinching. “Annabel’s gone, Calum. What difference does it make who has a few trinkets of hers?”

I grab the table, flipping it to the side. The locket clatters to the floor, and the stack of letters topples, some spilling open. My breath catches as I recognize her handwriting—looped and delicate, achingly familiar. I reach for them, but Jonathan moves faster, snatching them up.

“You don’t get to read those,” he says sharply, standing. His calm facade cracks, his voice tight with something raw, unspoken.

“They’re hers!” I shout, my voice echoing in the small room. “I have a right to know what she wrote. What she thought. You don’t get to keep her from me. ”

Jonathan’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’ll relent. But then, his gaze hardens.

“No,” he says, stepping back toward the fireplace. “You don’t.”

Before I can stop him, he throws the letters into the flames.

“No!” I lunge forward, but it’s too late. The fire hungrily devours the paper, the words—the pieces of her—curling into blackened ash.

I grab him by the collar, slamming him against the mantle. His whiskey glass shatters on the floor, shards scattering like broken promises.

“You son of a bitch,” I growl, my face inches from his. “What are you hiding?”

Jonathan doesn’t flinch, even as I press him harder against the stone. His eyes burn with defiance, but there’s something else there too—regret? Guilt?

“Let me go, Calum,” he says, his voice low and steady. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Why?” My grip tightens. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He stares at me for a long moment, and then his lips twist into a bitter smile.

“You really think you knew her, don’t you?

Annabel wasn’t some perfect creature, Calum.

She was messy. Complicated. And you—” He laughs, a harsh, broken sound.

“You suffocated her. You and your goddamned paintings, your obsession with capturing her. She told me how it made her feel, like she was drowning. Did she ever tell you that?”

The words hit like a slap, but I don’t let go. “And you think you were any better? You think chasing after her, trying to pull her away from me, was love? You didn’t know her any more than I did. Anyway, you betrayed her when you married her cousin, asshole.”

Jonathan’s smile fades, and for the first time, he looks vulnerable. “Maybe not,” he admits quietly. “But at least I didn’t try to turn her into something she wasn’t.”

I release him, shoving him away in disgust. He stumbles but doesn’t retaliate, his shoulders slumping as he steadies himself against the mantle.

The room feels unbearably small, the fire’s heat oppressive. My gaze falls to the locket, still lying on the floor amidst the chaos. I bend to pick it up, clutching it tightly in my hand.

“You should leave,” Jonathan says, his voice weary. “There’s nothing for you here.”

I look at him, his face shadowed and tired, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s right. But then I think of Annabel—her laughter, her tears, her secrets—and I know I can’t walk away. Not yet.

“You burned the letters,” I say, my voice shaking with anger. “But you can’t burn the truth.”

Jonathan doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the flames.

I turn and walk out, the locket cool in my palm. Outside, the wind has picked up, howling through the dunes like a mournful cry. The cottage disappears behind me as I make my way back to Ravensreach, the weight of what I’ve lost—what we’ve all lost—pressing down on me like the tide.