Elena's POV
The lighthouse is silent now.
The investigator left an hour ago, his threats hanging in the air like poison. Seventy-two hours. That's all the time I have before Marcus can legally force me into psychiatric evaluation.
I sit on the cold floor, laptop open, staring at the screen that holds my entire life. Or what's left of it.
Callum stands at the window, watching the village below. The constable came and went, telling the investigator to leave. But we both know he'll be back. With lawyers. With court orders. With whatever it takes to drag me back to New York.
"Show me the files," Callum says suddenly, turning from the window. "The proof you told Marcus about."
I navigate to my cloud storage with shaking hands. Five years of work organized in careful folders. Every original photograph. Every rough draft. Every piece of creative process that proves these images came from my mind, my eye, my talent.
"This is everything," I say. "Every photo I've ever taken for Wanderlust. The original files have metadata—timestamps, camera information, location data. It proves I created them."
Callum kneels beside me, studying the screen. "And Marcus has access to these?"
"No. I kept my creative files separate from the business accounts. He always complained about that, said I was being paranoid." I laugh bitterly. "Turns out paranoia sometimes saves you."
"Can he claim you stole these from the business?"
The question hits like a punch. "I... I don't know. Maybe? He controlled all the contracts. I never read them carefully because I trusted him."
"Never trust anyone with your signature." Callum's voice is hard. "I learned that lesson too late."
We sit in silence, the laptop's glow the only light in the darkening lighthouse. Outside, the storm has passed, leaving an eerie calm.
My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
I've been ignoring it since we got to the lighthouse, but the notifications keep coming. Hundreds of them.
"You should check that," Callum says quietly. "Know what you're up against."
I don't want to. Every notification feels like another nail in my coffin.
But he's right. I need to know.
I pick up the phone and immediately wish I hadn't.
The screen is flooded with notifications. Social media tags. News alerts. Email after email after email.
I open the first one. It's from a gossip website:
BREAKING: Influencer Elena Moretti Missing, Fiancé Fears Suicide
My blood runs cold. "He's telling people I'm suicidal."
Callum moves closer, reading over my shoulder. His jaw tightens. "That's a smart move on his part. It justifies the psychiatric hold and makes him look like a hero trying to save you."
I click on the article. Marcus's face stares back at me—handsome, concerned, the perfect worried fiancé. The article quotes him extensively:
"Elena has been struggling with depression and anxiety for months. After her breakdown at the gallery, she disappeared. We're terrified she might hurt herself. If anyone has seen her, please contact authorities immediately. We just want her safe."
There's a photo of us from happier times. His arm around me, both of us smiling. The caption reads: "Marcus and Elena before her mental health crisis."
"Mental health crisis," I whisper. "He's making it sound like I've been unstable for months."
"Has he posted on your social media?" Callum asks.
I switch to Instagram with dread pooling in my stomach. My account loads.
Marcus has posted twice since this morning. Both posts use photos from my archives—beautiful travel shots with his captions:
"I'm taking time away to focus on my healing. Thank you for your patience and understanding during this difficult time. - Elena"
Posted four hours ago. 250,000 likes. Thousands of comments:
Take all the time you need!Sending love and healing vibesSo brave to prioritize mental healthMarcus is such a supportive partner
The second post is worse. It's a photo of me sleeping—one Marcus must have taken without my knowledge. I look vulnerable, peaceful, unaware. The caption reads:
"Some days the depression is so heavy I can barely get out of bed. But I'm working on it. I'm getting help. Thank you to Marcus for never giving up on me. - Elena"
Posted two hours ago. 400,000 likes.
I posted neither of these. Marcus is literally speaking for me, controlling my narrative, making me into a fragile mental health story while I'm trapped here unable to respond.
"He's rebranding me," I say, my voice hollow. "Not as a travel photographer. As a cautionary tale about mental health. People will remember me as the influencer who had a breakdown, not the artist who created the work."
"Can you lock him out of your accounts?"
"I don't have my passwords. They're saved on my phone but..." I try to log into Instagram from my laptop. Password reset sends a code to my phone number—which Marcus controls because he set up all my business accounts. "He's locked me out of everything."
Callum stands, pacing the small lighthouse space. "There has to be a way to fight back. A lawyer who specializes in digital rights—"
"I can't afford a lawyer." The words taste like defeat. "Marcus froze my accounts. I have maybe two hundred dollars in cash. That's it."
"I have money."
I look up at him, surprised. "You can't—"
"I saved almost everything from my years as a surgeon. I don't spend much living here." Callum's voice is matter-of-fact. "If you need a lawyer, I'll pay for it."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I couldn't fight back when they came for me. I let them destroy my reputation without a battle. I won't watch you do the same."
Something breaks inside me. This stranger is offering to help me more than my own family did.
"My mother called me dramatic," I say suddenly. "After the gallery opening. She said I was embarrassing her. That Marcus is from a good family and I'm throwing away a good man."
"Your mother is wrong."
"My father agreed with her. Told me I was being hysterical. My younger brother sent me a text saying I need to apologize to Marcus and stop causing problems." I'm crying now, hot tears of rage and hurt. "My own family chose him over me. They believed him instead of me."
Callum kneels in front of me again. "Then your family are fools. But their opinion doesn't define your truth."
"What if my truth doesn't matter? What if Marcus's version is the only one anyone believes?"
"Then we make them believe yours." His gray eyes are intense, determined. "You have the evidence. You have the talent. You have the truth. That's more powerful than his lies."
I want to believe him. But I'm so tired. So broken. So completely overwhelmed.
My phone rings. My mother's name lights up the screen.
I stare at it, frozen. Part of me wants to answer. Wants to hear her say she's sorry, she was wrong, she believes me.
But I know better.
I answer anyway. "Mom?"
"Elena Margaret Moretti." Her voice is ice. "Where are you?"
"I'm... I'm safe. I'm—"
"Safe? You're hiding somewhere while your fiancé is sick with worry! Do you have any idea what this is doing to our family reputation?"
Not "are you okay?" Not "I was worried." Just reputation.
"Mom, Marcus lied. He and Jade have been—"
"Oh, stop with this paranoid nonsense! Marcus explained everything. You've been under stress, you're not thinking clearly, and you're making wild accusations that could destroy his career."
"Destroy HIS career?" My voice rises. "What about MY career? What about what he did to ME?"
"He's trying to help you! He's been nothing but patient and loving while you spiral out of control. And now you've run away like a child instead of facing your problems."
Each word is a knife. My own mother, defending the man who destroyed me.
"I heard them," I say, my voice breaking. "I heard Marcus and Jade planning to steal my business. I heard them laughing about how easy I am to manipulate. It's not paranoia if it's TRUE!"
"Elena, you need help. Real help. Marcus has found an excellent facility—"
"I'm not going to any facility!"
"You don't have a choice!" My mother's voice turns sharp. "Marcus has legal grounds to have you committed if you don't come back voluntarily. Is that what you want? To be dragged back in handcuffs? To make this even more humiliating for all of us?"
The world tilts. "You... you knew. You knew he was planning this."
Silence on the other end. Damning silence.
"Mom? Did you know Marcus was planning to have me committed?"
"He mentioned it might be necessary. For your own good. And honestly, Elena, after this behavior? Maybe he's right. Maybe you do need professional help."
I hang up.
My hands are shaking so badly I drop the phone. It clatters on the lighthouse floor.
My mother knew. My own mother knew Marcus was planning to have me declared incompetent, and she supported it.
"Elena." Callum's voice sounds far away. "Breathe. You need to breathe."
But I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except feel the crushing weight of betrayal from every direction.
My family has chosen Marcus. My friends—or who I thought were my friends—have abandoned me. My sponsors, my followers, my entire career... gone. All of it gone.
And in seventy-two hours, Marcus will come back with legal papers that could lock me away.
"I need to leave," I say suddenly, standing up too fast. Pain shoots through my ribs, but I ignore it. "I need to get out of this village. Out of the country. Somewhere Marcus can't find me."
"You can barely walk," Callum says gently. "You have three cracked ribs and a concussion. You're in no condition to run."
"I don't have a choice!"
"You always have a choice." His voice is firm now. "You can run and spend the rest of your life hiding. Or you can stay and fight."
"Fight with what? I have no money, no lawyer, no support—"
"You have me."
The words stop me cold.
Callum stands, moving close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes. "I know what it's like to be abandoned by everyone you trusted. To have your reputation destroyed by lies. To feel like running is the only option." His voice softens. "But running doesn't make the pain stop. It just makes you a ghost of who you used to be."
"Is that what you are? A ghost?"
"Yes." The admission is painful. "I've been a ghost for two years. Hiding in this village, punishing myself for things I couldn't control. Don't make my mistake."
"But you have a reason to stay here. Your sister—"
"My sister is dead." The words are brutal, broken. "And hiding here doesn't bring her back. It just wastes the life she would want me to live."
We stare at each other in the dim lighthouse. Outside, night has fallen completely. The beacon above us rotates steadily, sending light out into the darkness.
"What if I fight and lose?" I whisper. "What if Marcus wins anyway?"
"Then at least you fought. At least you tried. That's more than I did." Callum's expression is intense. "Don't let fear make your decisions. Don't let him take your voice."
My phone buzzes again. Another notification. Another headline. Another piece of my life being rewritten by Marcus's lies.
I pick up the phone and look at the latest alert:
Marcus Castellano Offers $50,000 Reward for Information Leading to Elena Moretti's Safe Return
Fifty thousand dollars. He's putting a bounty on my head.
I show Callum the screen. His face goes pale.
"That changes things," he says quietly. "With that kind of money, someone in the village will talk. Will tell his investigators exactly where you are."
"How long do I have?"
"Hours. Maybe a day if we're lucky."
We stand in the silent lighthouse, the weight of impossible choices pressing down on us.
Stay and fight with no resources, no allies, and a ticking clock.
Or run and spend forever looking over my shoulder.
"There's a third option," Callum says suddenly, as if reading my mind.
"What?"
He hesitates, then: "You go public. Right now. Before Marcus can control the narrative any further. You tell your story—the real story—to the world."
"No one will believe me. They already think I'm crazy."
"Maybe. But at least it will be your voice saying it. Not his." Callum pulls out his phone. "I know someone. A journalist who was the only person who tried to get my side of the story when I lost my license. She specializes in exposing abuse of power."
Hope flickers, small and fragile. "Will she help?"
"If the story is good enough? Yes." He starts typing. "But Elena, if you do this, there's no going back. You'll be declaring war on Marcus publicly. He'll come at you with everything he has."
"He's already coming at me with everything he has."
"True." Callum hits send on his message. "But once this is out there, you can't hide anymore. You'll have to see it through to the end."
The phone buzzes in his hand. A response already.
Callum reads it, his expression unreadable. Then he looks at me. "She wants to do a video interview. Tonight. She can have it published by morning on a major news site."
"Tonight?"
"She says if we wait, Marcus's narrative becomes truth. The first story people hear is the one they believe."
My heart pounds. This is it. The moment where I either speak up or stay silent forever.
I think about Marcus's smug smile. Jade's fake tears. My mother's cold voice.
I think about five years of work being stolen. My name being erased. My truth being rewritten.
I think about Callum's words: Don't let him take your voice.
"Do it," I say. "Set up the interview."
Callum nods and starts making arrangements. My hands won't stop shaking.
I'm about to tell the world what Marcus Castellano really is.
And there's no guarantee anyone will believe me.
But at least—finally—I'll be telling my own story.
Callum finishes the call. "She'll video chat in twenty minutes. She wants to record everything—what happened at the gallery, the affair, the contract manipulation, all of it."
Twenty minutes to prepare. Twenty minutes to decide exactly what to say. Twenty minutes before I burn every bridge and go to war.
I open my laptop and start pulling up files. Evidence. Proof. Everything I have.
"Elena," Callum says softly. "Whatever happens after this... you're doing the right thing."
I hope he's right.
The laptop chimes. An incoming video call. The journalist is early.
I look at Callum. He nods encouragement.
I accept the call.
A woman appears on screen—middle-aged, sharp eyes, professional. "Ms. Moretti. I'm Catherine Wright. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me."
"Thank you for listening."
"Before we start recording, I need to know: are you prepared for the backlash this will cause? Marcus Castellano has powerful friends and a compelling narrative. This won't be easy."
"Nothing about this has been easy."
Catherine smiles slightly. "Good answer. Let's begin." She presses a button. A red recording light appears. "Ms. Moretti, tell me what really happened at your gallery opening. And don't leave anything out."
I take a breath.
And I start talking.
I tell her about overhearing Marcus and Jade. About the eighteen-month affair. About the contracts designed to steal my business. About the gallery confrontation and how Marcus turned it against me.
I tell her about my family siding with him. About the sponsors dropping me. About the mental health narrative he created.
I tell her everything.
Catherine listens intently, occasionally asking clarifying questions. She takes notes. Pulls up Marcus's social media posts. Asks to see my creative files.
Forty-five minutes later, she leans back. "This is bigger than I thought. This isn't just influencer drama. This is systematic financial abuse and reputation destruction."
"Will you publish it?"
"Absolutely. But Elena, I need you to understand: Marcus will come after you hard. He'll claim you're lying. He'll produce 'witnesses.' He'll try to destroy what's left of your credibility."
"Let him try."
Catherine studies me through the screen. "You've changed since the gallery opening. The woman in that viral video looked broken. You look angry."
"I am angry."
"Good. Anger is useful. It means you're done being a victim." Catherine closes her laptop. "I'll have this published by 6 AM tomorrow. Major news site, wide reach. By noon, everyone will know your side."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you win."
The call ends.
I close my laptop and look at Callum. "It's done."
"It's just beginning," he corrects. "But at least now you're fighting on your terms."
We sit in the lighthouse as night deepens around us. Somewhere below, the village sleeps peacefully. Somewhere out there, Marcus is planning his next move.
And in six hours, the world will wake up to a very different story than the one he's been selling.
My phone buzzes one more time. A text from an unknown number:
I know you're in the lighthouse. I'm watching. You can't hide forever. - M
I show Callum. His expression hardens.
"He's bluffing. No one knows about the lighthouse."
But even as he says it, we both hear it.
Footsteps.
On the stairs.
Someone is climbing up from below.
Someone is inside the lighthouse with us.