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Chapter Forty-Two

Jonathan–past

The necklace bites into my palm as I clutch it, the sharp edges digging into my skin, grounding me in this nightmare.

The wind tears at my clothes, whipping my hair into my face, and the rain needles against my skin, cold and relentless.

I stand on the edge of the cliffs, staring down at the churning waves, searching for any sign of her.

But there’s nothing. No trace of Annabel. The sea has swallowed her whole.

“Annabel!” I scream, the word ripped from my throat, raw and broken. The storm answers with a deafening roar, the waves crashing against the rocks below, mocking me with their indifference. She’s gone. She’s really gone.

My legs give out, and I fall to my knees, the wet earth slick beneath me.

I can barely feel the rain anymore, though it soaks through my clothes, heavy and suffocating.

My body trembles, a violent shudder that wracks me from head to toe.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. She wasn’t supposed to win.

I look down at the necklace in my hand, the tiny pendant glinting faintly in the storm’s dim light.

It’s a cruel, mocking thing—a symbol of everything she was, everything she took.

The edges are smeared with mud now, tarnished, just like her love.

My knuckles ache from the grip I have on it, but I can’t let go. Not yet. Not ever.

“This is your fault,” I mutter, my voice barely audible over the storm, but the words taste like venom on my tongue. “All of this is your fault.”

The storm seems to agree, its howling wind echoing my accusation.

I lift my head and stare up at the sky, the dark clouds swirling in a chaotic dance.

Lightning streaks across the horizon, illuminating the tempest for a brief, blinding moment.

My face twists with grief and fury, the emotions colliding inside me, tearing me apart.

Calum. He’ll know. I’ll make sure of it. He deserves to know the truth about the muse he worshiped, the goddess he painted over and over as if she were perfection itself. He’ll see her for what she really was—what she did. And he’ll feel the weight of it, just like I do now.

Annabel thought love would save her. She thought it was enough to keep us tethered to her, to keep us fighting for her. But she was wrong. Love didn’t save her. It destroyed her. It destroyed all of us.

And now, it’s my turn to destroy.

The necklace feels heavier in my hand, its weight pulling me down like an anchor.

The storm rages on around me, but I barely notice.

All I can see is her face, her eyes wide and wild, her lips curled in defiance as she stepped off the edge.

She chose this. She chose to leave, to escape, to take control in the only way she knew how.

But she didn’t escape me. Not really. She never will.

I rise to my feet, the necklace still clutched tightly in my hand. The rain washes over me, but it doesn’t cleanse. It can’t. Nothing can. I turn away from the edge, the roar of the ocean fading into the background as a new resolve takes root in my chest.

Annabel’s gone, but the story isn’t over. Not yet. And I’ll be the one to write the ending.

The storm rattles the windows of Holiday House like an angry beast, rain hammering the roof in relentless sheets.

Inside, the dimly lit studio glows with a soft golden light, the kind that would be warm if it weren’t so suffocating.

Calum sits before the canvas, his brush moving with maddening precision, every stroke a whisper of obsession.

He has no idea what’s just happened at the cliffs, no idea that Annabel’s secrets have unraveled into the abyss.

I stand in the doorway, my clothes soaked through and clinging to my skin. The storm follows me in, dripping onto the pristine floorboards, but Calum doesn’t even notice. His entire world is that canvas. Annabel. Always Annabel.

“Still at it, I see,” I say, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of his focused breathing.

Calum flinches, the brush freezing mid-stroke. His head jerks toward me, eyes wide, as though I’ve shattered some sacred spell. “Jonathan. What the hell are you doing here?”

I step inside, shaking the water from my coat. The scent of turpentine and oil paint fills my nose, acrid and sharp. “Clearly, I’m interrupting something important. You’ve been so consumed with your work, I’m shocked you even noticed me standing here.”

His frown deepens, and for a moment, his gaze flicks to the painting. The curve of her lips, the slight tilt of her head, the glint in her eyes that seems both coy and haunting. A muse immortalized. A ghost conjured by paint and obsession.

“What do you want, Jonathan?” he asks, his voice wary.

I let out a dry laugh, stepping closer, the storm still roaring outside. “What do I want? That’s rich. I came to talk about her. Annabel. ”

Calum’s face tightens, and his grip on the brush grows rigid. “What about her?”

I move further into the room, the heat of the space suffocating against my storm-chilled skin. “She’s dead.”

His expression hardens, his jaw clenching. “You’re sick. You’re a sick and twisted liar.”

“I wish I was.” My voice rises, sharper now, edged with the storm raging in my chest. “We were arguing. She threw herself off the cliff.”

“You bastard–” Calum growls, his eyes hard and anger.

“It’s true,” I say, my voice cold. “And it’s your fault.” I take another step closer, the heat of anger blooming in my chest. “You were too blind to see it because you made her into some untouchable masterpiece in your head. But I knew her. I knew the real Annabel.”

Calum stands, his brush clattering to the floor. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

“Oh, I don’t?” I snap, my words cutting through the air like the lightning slicing across the sky outside. “She was never going to choose you. Not really. She loved the idea of you, the artist, the dreamer. You were her escape, Calum, never her reality.”

His face twists with anger, but there’s something else there too—doubt. It’s a small crack, but I see it, and it spurs me on. “You’re wrong,” he says, but the words sound hollow. “Annabel loves me.”

“Did she?” I take another step forward, closing the distance between us.

“Or did she love the pedestal you’ve put her on?

You trapped her in this fantasy, this gilded cage of your making.

She didn’t love you, Calum. She loved what you represent.

And you didn’t love her. Not really. You loved the version of her that existed in your head.

She was a wild, wicked girl and she burned too bright for this world. And now she’s dead. ”

The room falls silent, the storm outside echoing the turmoil inside.

“If she’s dead it’s because you pushed her.” Calum’s hands tremble at his sides, his fists clenching and unclenching as if trying to hold onto something that’s slipping away.

I shake my head, bitterness choking out my thoughts.

“Get out,” he says finally, his voice low and trembling with barely contained rage. “Leave. Now.”

I hesitate, my breath ragged. I could push harder, break him entirely. But there’s something in his eyes—something fragile and raw—that makes me pause. I step back, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.

“You’re a fool, Calum,” I say, my voice softer now, laced with pity. “And one day, you’ll see it. One day, you’ll finally see her for who she really was. And it will destroy you.”

His eyes burn with hatred as I turn and walk away, my footsteps heavy in the stillness of Holiday House. The storm rages on outside, but inside, the silence is deafening.

As I reach the door, I glance back. Calum is staring at the painting, his shoulders slumped, his hands limp at his sides. The light from the storm flickers across Annabel’s face on the canvas, her eyes seeming to mock him with their knowing sadness.

The storm batters against the walls as I step out into the night, the cold rain hitting my face like needles. Somewhere in the distance, I think I hear her laughter—haunting, hollow, and triumphant.