Elena's POV
Pain.
That's the first thing I feel when I wake up. Sharp, burning pain in my ribs. Dull, throbbing pain in my head. Everything hurts.
I try to open my eyes. The light stabs like knives. I squeeze them shut again, groaning.
"Don't move too quickly." A voice. Deep. British. Male. "You have a concussion."
My eyes fly open despite the pain. I'm not in a hospital. I'm in a small room with stone walls and wooden beams across the ceiling. A fire crackles somewhere. Rain pounds against a window.
And sitting in a chair by that window is the man from the cliff.
He looks even more intense in the firelight. Dark hair, slightly too long. Gray eyes that seem to see right through me. That scar along his jaw. He's wearing simple clothes—jeans and a dark sweater—but he carries himself like someone important.
"Where am I?" My voice comes out as a croak. My throat feels like sandpaper.
"Lighthouse Cove." He stands, moving toward the bed with careful steps. "A village on the coast. I'm Callum Thorne."
"Callum." I try to sit up. Pain explodes through my ribs, and I cry out.
"I said don't move." He's beside me in an instant, hands gentle but firm on my shoulders, easing me back down. "You have three cracked ribs. The more you move, the worse it gets."
Three cracked ribs. The words sink in slowly. "My car—"
"At the bottom of the ocean."
"My phone—"
"Destroyed in the crash."
"But I need—" Panic rises in my chest. I try to sit up again. This time his hands are firmer, holding me in place.
"What you need is to stay still before you puncture a lung." His voice is sharp now, commanding. "You also have severe bruising, a concussion, and a gash on your forehead that I've stitched. You're lucky you're not dead."
Lucky. The word feels wrong. Nothing about this feels lucky.
"How long have I been here?"
"Two days."
Two days. I've been unconscious for two days. Marcus and Jade have had two whole days to control the story. To paint me as crazy. To steal everything.
"I need to leave. I need to get back to New York. I need—"
"You can't leave." Callum moves back to his chair, putting distance between us. "The storm destroyed the coast road. It's the only way in or out of the village. It could be weeks before it's repaired."
Weeks.
The word hits me like a punch. "No. No, that's not—I can't stay here for weeks. I don't even know you!"
"Would you prefer I'd left you in the car?" His voice is cold now. Detached. "Because that was the alternative."
I open my mouth. Close it. He saved my life. He pulled me from a crashing car and carried me to safety and treated my injuries for two days while I was unconscious.
And I just sounded like an ungrateful brat.
"I'm sorry." The words stick in my throat. "I'm sorry. You saved me. Thank you. I just... I need to get back. People are counting on me. My career—"
"Your career will have to wait." He says it so simply, like it's nothing. Like my entire life isn't crumbling while I'm trapped in this stone cottage with a stranger.
I feel tears building. I try to fight them back, but I'm so tired. So hurt. So completely broken.
The tears come anyway.
Callum stiffens. He looks almost panicked, like crying is the worst thing that could happen. For a moment, I think he'll leave. Then he sighs and moves closer, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Don't cry." His voice is softer now. "Please don't cry."
"I can't help it." The words come out between sobs. "Everything's ruined. My fiancé was stealing from me. My best friend was sleeping with him. They made everyone think I'm crazy. My sponsors dropped me. My family won't talk to me. And now I'm trapped here and I can't even fight back and—"
I'm rambling. Crying and rambling like the unstable woman Marcus told everyone I was.
But Callum doesn't look disgusted. He looks... sad. Understanding, almost.
"Your fiancé," he says quietly. "Is he the reason you were driving like that? In the storm?"
I nod, wiping my eyes. "I heard them. Marcus and Jade. Planning to steal my business. My work. Everything I built. And when I confronted them at my gallery opening, they turned it around. Made me look paranoid and jealous. Everyone believed them."
"Why?"
The question surprises me. "What?"
"Why did everyone believe them over you?"
I don't have a good answer. Because Marcus is charming? Because Jade cries pretty? Because I've always been the people-pleaser who never makes waves?
"Because I let them," I finally whisper. "I spent so long being what everyone wanted me to be that when I tried to tell the truth, no one recognized me anymore."
Callum is quiet for a long moment. Then he stands and walks to a small table, returning with a glass of water.
"Drink," he says. "You're dehydrated."
I take the glass with shaking hands. The water is cold and clean and tastes like heaven. I drain the whole glass.
"Thank you."
He takes the glass back without a word.
"Are you a doctor?" I ask suddenly. "The way you talk about my injuries. The stitches. You're not just some guy who knows first aid."
His expression hardens. "I was a doctor. Not anymore."
"What happened?"
"That's none of your concern." He moves back to his chair by the window, putting distance between us again. "You need to rest. Your body needs time to heal."
"I can't just rest. I need to—"
"There's nothing you can do." His voice is flat. Final. "No phone. No internet. The village has minimal electricity. You're cut off from your old life, Miss Moretti. The sooner you accept that, the better."
Miss Moretti. So formal. So distant.
"Elena," I say. "Call me Elena."
He doesn't respond. Just stares out the window at the rain.
I lie back against the pillows, every movement sending pain through my ribs. The exhaustion is overwhelming. My body wants to sleep, but my mind is racing.
Marcus has two days' head start. What has he done in that time? What lies has he spread? What has he taken?
"My laptop," I say suddenly. "Was there a laptop in my car? A silver MacBook?"
Callum looks at me. "I pulled out what I could before the car went over. There's a bag downstairs. Some clothes. A laptop case. I haven't looked inside."
Hope flares in my chest. "Can you bring it? Please? I need to see—"
"You need to rest."
"Please." I hate begging, but I'm desperate. "I need to know what he's done. What I'm up against."
Callum studies me for a long moment. Then he sighs and stands. "Fine. But if your blood pressure spikes, I'm taking it away."
He leaves the room. I hear his footsteps on stairs. Hear him moving around below.
My heart pounds. If my laptop survived, maybe I can salvage something. Maybe I can start fighting back.
Callum returns carrying my laptop bag. He sets it on the bed beside me and steps back, arms crossed.
I open the bag with shaking hands. The laptop is there, slightly dented but intact. I open it, praying it still works.
The screen flickers to life.
I navigate to my email, dreading what I'll find. The inbox loads slowly—the internet here is weak, barely there.
Then the messages start appearing.
Hundreds of them.
My breath catches as I scan the subject lines:
Termination of Partnership - Luxe TravelContract Cancellation - Wanderlust BrandUrgent: Legal Action NoticeRe: Your Concerning BehaviorWe're Worried About You
I click on one from my agent. The words blur together, but some phrases stand out:
...given the recent public incident......mental health concerns......terminating our representation...
Another from a magazine editor who used to love my work:
...while we sympathize with what you're going through......can no longer associate......Marcus has been very cooperative...
Cooperative. Marcus has been cooperative.
My hands shake so badly I almost drop the laptop.
I open my Instagram app, though I'm terrified of what I'll see.
The app loads. My follower count appears at the top of the screen.
2.1 million followers last week.
Now: 876,000.
I've lost over a million followers in two days.
I click on my page. The most recent post isn't from me. It's from Marcus, posted on my account twelve hours ago.
A photo of him looking tired and worried. The caption reads:
"I want to thank everyone for the kind messages during this difficult time. Elena is struggling with some serious mental health issues, and we're all working to get her the help she needs. Please respect our privacy as we navigate this challenging situation. I still love her and just want her to be okay. - Marcus"
Posted. On. My. Account.
He has my passwords. He's posting as me.
The comments below are a mix of sympathy for him and anger at me:
You're such a good guy MarcusElena is so lucky to have youShe needs serious helpI unfollowed her, she's toxic
I scroll further. Someone's posted video from the gallery opening. I click it, though every instinct screams not to.
The video shows me on stage, tearing up the speech. I look wild. Desperate. My voice sounds shrill and paranoid as I accuse Marcus and Jade.
Then it cuts to Marcus's response—calm, concerned, heartbroken.
The video has three million views.
The top comment, with 50,000 likes: This is so sad. She's clearly having a breakdown. I hope she gets help.
I can't breathe.
I check my bank account next, fingers flying over the keyboard despite the pain.
The joint account Marcus and I shared for the business: Empty. Transferred out completely.
My personal savings: Frozen. A legal notice says it's part of an "emergency mental health intervention."
They've taken everything. Every dollar. Every opportunity. Every piece of my life.
And worse—they've made it look like they're doing it to help me.
"Elena." Callum's voice cuts through my panic. "Your breathing is too fast. You need to calm down."
"He took everything." My voice sounds far away. "Everything. My money. My accounts. My followers. He's posting as me, making me look crazy, and everyone believes him."
The laptop screen blurs. I'm crying again, but this time it's different. Not sad tears. Angry tears. Desperate tears.
"I have to go back. I have to fight this. I have to—"
"You can barely sit up," Callum says quietly. "How exactly do you plan to fight anything?"
He's right. I hate that he's right.
I'm broken. Broke. Trapped. Alone.
Marcus has won.
I close the laptop and push it away, unable to look at it anymore. The movement sends pain shooting through my ribs, but I barely feel it. Physical pain is nothing compared to this.
"I'm sorry," Callum says. It's the first time he's sounded genuinely kind. "I'm sorry this happened to you."
"It's not your fault."
"I know. But I'm still sorry."
We sit in silence. The fire crackles. Rain drums on the window. Somewhere outside, I hear the ocean waves crashing against rocks.
"Why did you save me?" I ask suddenly. "You don't know me. You didn't have to risk your life pulling me from that car."
Callum is quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then he says, "Because I couldn't save the last person who needed me. I couldn't let that happen again."
There's so much pain in those words. So much guilt.
"Who?" I ask softly.
His jaw tightens. "My sister."
Before I can ask more, there's a knock on the door downstairs. Callum stands immediately.
"Stay here. Don't move."
He leaves, closing the bedroom door behind him. I hear voices downstairs—Callum and someone else, an older woman by the sound of it.
I strain to listen, catching fragments:
"...saw the smoke from your chimney..." "...the girl from the crash..." "...they're looking for her..."
My blood runs cold.
They're looking for me?
The door opens. Callum comes back in, his expression grim.
"That was Margaret from the village store. She monitors the emergency radio. There's been a missing person report filed."
Hope surges. "Someone's looking for me? Maybe my family—"
"Your fiancé filed it." Callum's voice is careful. "Marcus Castellano. He's claiming you're mentally unstable and potentially dangerous to yourself. He's hired a private investigator to find you."
The hope dies instantly. "He doesn't want to find me because he cares. He wants to—"
"Control the narrative," Callum finishes. "Make sure you can't fight back. If he finds you, he can force you into psychiatric evaluation. Have you declared incompetent."
The room spins. "He can't do that. That's not—"
"With the right lawyers and the right story? He absolutely can." Callum moves to the window, looking out at the storm. "The village doesn't show up on most maps. The coast road is destroyed. For now, you're invisible. But if he's hired investigators, it's only a matter of time."
"What do I do?"
Callum turns to face me. In the firelight, his expression is unreadable. "You heal. You get strong. And then you decide if you're going to run or fight."
"I don't know how to fight someone like Marcus."
"Then you learn." There's steel in his voice now. "Because men like him count on you being too weak, too scared, too broken to stand up. That's how they win."
I stare at him. This stranger who saved my life. This man with secrets and pain in his eyes. This person who seems to understand exactly what I'm going through.
"Why are you helping me?" I whisper.
His expression softens, just slightly. "Because someone should have helped me when I needed it. And they didn't."
Before I can respond, the bedroom door crashes open.
A teenage boy stands there, soaking wet, breathing hard. "Dr. Thorne! Come quick! My da fell from the boat—he's bleeding bad—we can't stop it—"
Callum is already moving. "Apply pressure. I'll get my kit."
He looks back at me. "Stay here. Lock the door after I leave. Don't answer it for anyone but me."
"Why? What's—"
"Just do it, Elena."
He's gone, thundering down the stairs with the boy.
I sit frozen in the bed, my heart pounding.
Lock the door. Don't answer for anyone but me.
Why? What is Callum afraid of?
I force myself out of bed, ignoring the screaming pain in my ribs. I hobble to the bedroom door and lock it like he said.
Then I move to the window and look out.
The storm is still raging. Rain and wind and darkness. But through it all, I see lights in the distance. A boat, maybe. Or cars.
Someone is out there in this weather.
And suddenly I know with absolute certainty—Marcus's investigator is closer than Callum thinks.
My laptop pings from the bed. A new email notification.
I hobble back and open it, though every instinct tells me not to.
The email is from an unknown address. No subject line. Just one sentence:
"We know you're in Lighthouse Cove. We're coming for you. - M"
My hands start shaking so badly the laptop nearly falls.
Marcus knows where I am.
And he's coming.