Page 45

Chapter Forty-Four

Jonathan

“You look like death, Calum.” My voice cuts through the silence.

I find him in the studio, as expected, hunched over another portrait of her.

He’s painted her a hundred times, maybe more.

Each one a desperate attempt to bring her back, to immortalize her in strokes of oil and pigment.

But no amount of paint will undo what’s been done.

“Have you eaten? You look hollow–sunken in. Like you’re vanishing before my eyes. ”

Calum flinches, his hand jerking and smearing the brush across the canvas. He turns to me, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. “What are you doing here?”

I ignore him and ask, “when’s the last time you ate?”

“I don’t remember,” comes his quick reply.

I sigh. I don’t bother with pleasantries. There’s no point. Not anymore. “We need to talk.”

He narrows his eyes, suspicion flickering across his face. “About what?”

I glance at the painting behind him. Annabel in one of her many moods, this time serene and wistful. But her eyes—those damn eyes—seem to accuse us both.

“About her,” I say, nodding toward the canvas.

Calum follows my gaze, his shoulders tensing. “What about her?”

I step closer, the storm outside rattling the windows. “You think you knew her, don’t you? You think she was this perfect, ethereal creature, your muse, your everything. But she wasn’t. She was human, Calum. Flawed. And she was drowning under the weight of your expectations.”

His jaw tightens, his hand curling into a fist at his side. “Don’t you dare?—”

“She was pregnant.” The words leave my mouth like a gunshot, reverberating in the small room.

Calum freezes, his face a mask of disbelief. “What?”

“You heard me,” I say, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me. “Annabel was pregnant when she died.”

His mouth opens, then closes, as though he’s struggling to process the information. “That’s… That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it?” I challenge, stepping closer. “You were so wrapped up in your work, in turning her into this idealized version of herself, that you didn’t even see what was happening right in front of you.”

His eyes dart to the painting, as though searching for answers in her painted likeness. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Maybe because she couldn’t.” My tone softens, just slightly. “Maybe because she didn’t think you could handle it. Or maybe because she didn’t know if it was yours.”

The color drains from his face, and for a moment, I think he might pass out. “What are you saying?”

I let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and grating. “I’m saying it could have been mine, Calum. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. But the pressure you put on her, the pedestal you forced her onto… That’s what broke her.”

“That’s not true.” His voice is barely above a whisper, his hands trembling as he grips the edge of the table. “She loved me.”

“She loved you the way a moth loves a flame,” I snap. “She couldn’t resist you, but you were burning her alive.”

He sinks into the nearest chair, his head in his hands. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the relentless pounding of the rain against the windows.

“Why are you telling me this now?” he asks finally, his voice raw.

“Because you deserve to know the truth,” I say, though the words feel hollow even to me. “And because she deserves to be remembered for who she really was, not the fantasy you’ve painted her into.”

He looks up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and despair. “You think you’re so righteous, don’t you? You think you knew her better than I did.”

“I didn’t just know her,” I say, leaning closer. “I loved her. The real her. Not the muse, not the dream. The woman. And she loved me too, whether you want to admit it or not.”

The room falls silent again, the storm outside mirroring the tempest inside us both. Calum stares at the painting, his face a mask of pain. “She would have told me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “If she was pregnant… She would have told me.”

“Maybe she planned to,” I say, my voice softer now. “Or maybe she didn’t want to burden you with the truth. Either way, she’s gone. And nothing we do or say will bring her back.”

He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the canvas. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I say finally, turning toward the door. But before I leave, I glance back at him one last time. “Think about what I said, Calum. Think about who she really was. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find some peace.”

With that, I step out into the storm, the wind and rain lashing against me. I’ve done what I came to do, but the weight in my chest hasn’t lessened. If anything, it’s grown heavier.

Annabel may be gone, but her ghost lingers in every corner of Holiday House. In every painting, every memory, every lie we told ourselves about who she was. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never be free of her.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to be. Love is the drug that kills the most slowly. A sickness I never want to cure.