Callum's POV
Marcus's smile haunts me all the way back to the village.
The police took him away an hour ago. Catherine Wright left to file her story. The constable apologized for the "misunderstanding" and promised a full investigation.
Everyone acts like it's over.
But I know better.
Men like Marcus don't go down easy. That smile meant something. A backup plan. A trap we haven't seen yet.
And I can't stop thinking about it.
"Callum?" Elena's voice pulls me back. We're walking through the village now. Villagers stare at us—the dead woman who came back to life and the broken doctor who saved her. "You're quiet."
"I'm always quiet."
"This is different. You're worried."
Smart woman. Too smart for her own good.
"We should get you checked properly," I say instead of answering. "Those ribs need X-rays. Your concussion needs monitoring."
"You already checked me. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You have three cracked ribs, a concussion, multiple contusions, and you nearly drowned twelve hours ago." My doctor voice comes out sharper than intended. "Fine is not what you are."
She stops walking. Forces me to look at her. "What's wrong? We won. Marcus is arrested. Catherine is publishing the truth. Why do you look like someone died?"
Because someone always dies. That's what I don't say.
I saved her from the cliff. From the ocean. From Marcus. But I couldn't save Rosie from her own broken heart. Couldn't save my career from one mistake. Couldn't save myself from five years of guilt.
Saving people is temporary. Loss is forever.
"I need to examine your injuries properly," I say. "My cottage. Now."
"Callum—"
"Now, Elena."
She follows because she's hurt and exhausted and has nowhere else to go. Not because she trusts me. Nobody should trust me.
Inside the cottage, I make her sit on the bed. Pull out my medical supplies—bandages, antiseptic, pain medication I'm not technically licensed to prescribe but keep anyway for emergencies.
"Take off your shirt," I say.
She hesitates.
"I'm a doctor, Elena. I need to see the damage."
"You were a doctor. You said they took your license."
The words hit harder than they should. "I still know how to treat injuries. Shirt. Off."
She pulls off her shirt slowly, wincing. The bruising on her ribs is worse than yesterday—deep purple spreading across her entire left side. Each breath she takes is shallow. Painful.
I've seen worse. Much worse. But something about seeing her hurt makes my chest tight.
Professional distance, I remind myself. She's a patient. Temporary. She'll heal and leave.
Everyone leaves.
I press gently on her ribs. She hisses in pain.
"Ribs two through four on your left side," I say. "Definitely cracked. Possibly fractured. You need X-rays to be sure."
"No hospitals."
"Elena—"
"No hospitals. Marcus has connections. Money. He could have someone there waiting to declare me incompetent. To lock me up." Her voice shakes. "I can't risk it."
She's right. I hate that she's right.
"Then you stay here. Rest. Let me monitor you." I start wrapping her ribs with compression bandages. My hands work automatically—muscle memory from thousands of procedures. "If you develop any symptoms of internal bleeding, we go to the hospital whether you like it or not."
"Okay."
Her agreement surprises me. I expected more fight.
I finish wrapping her ribs. Check her pupils—still reactive, no signs of brain swelling. Take her pulse—elevated but steady.
"Your concussion seems mild," I say. "But you need to wake up every few hours. Someone needs to check on you. Make sure you're not getting worse."
"You'll do it?"
"I'm the only doctor here."
"You keep saying that. That you're a doctor. But you also keep saying you're not." She's watching me with those too-observant eyes. "Which is it, Callum?"
I pack away my supplies. Keep my hands busy so I don't have to look at her. "I was a surgeon. Cardiac surgery. One of the best in London."
"What happened?"
"I made a choice. The medical board disagreed with it. They took my license." The words taste like ash. "End of story."
"That's not the end. That's barely the beginning."
"It's all you need to know."
"What about Rosie? Your sister?"
My hands freeze on the bandage I'm putting away.
"Margaret told you," I say flatly.
"She said Rosie died two years ago. That you blame yourself. That you've been punishing yourself ever since."
"Margaret talks too much."
"Callum—"
"This conversation is over." I stand up. "You need rest. I'll check on you in three hours."
I head for the door but her voice stops me.
"Running away doesn't make the pain stop. You told me that. Remember?"
I do remember. I said it when she wanted to flee the country. When she wanted to disappear forever.
Hypocrite. That's what I am.
"Get some rest, Elena." I leave before she can say anything else.
Outside, the village is quiet. Normal. Like nothing happened. Like a woman didn't nearly die on the cliff. Like Marcus didn't try to destroy her.
Like I didn't feel something when I wrapped her ribs. When I touched her skin. When she said my name.
No. Not happening.
I walk to the lighthouse. My sanctuary. The place where I come to remember why I can't let myself feel anything.
The light room at the top still smells like the sea. Through the windows, I can see the entire village. Elena's light is on in my cottage. She's probably resting like I told her.
Good. She'll heal faster that way. Heal and leave.
That's what I want.
I pull out the photograph I keep in my pocket. Rosie. Laughing. Hair blowing in the wind. Standing in this exact spot three years ago.
"I miss you," I tell the photograph. Like I do every night. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."
She doesn't answer. She never does.
My phone rings. Unknown number. I almost don't answer.
But something makes me pick up.
"Dr. Thorne?" A woman's voice. Not Catherine Wright. Someone else. Official. Cold. "This is Detective Sarah Morrison from London Metropolitan Police. I need to speak with you about Marcus Castellano."
My stomach drops. "He was arrested. Your colleagues here—"
"Have made a mistake." Her voice is sharp. "Mr. Castellano was released two hours ago. His lawyers proved the arrest was unlawful. Lack of evidence. Improper procedure. The charges have been dropped."
"That's impossible. We have recordings. Evidence. A journalist—"
"Had recordings obtained without proper consent. In a jurisdiction where such recordings aren't admissible in court." She sounds almost sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Dr. Thorne. But Marcus Castellano is a free man. And he's filing charges."
"Against Elena?"
"Against you."
The world tilts.
"What?"
"Kidnapping. Assault. Harboring a fugitive. Interfering with a police investigation. He's claiming you manipulated Miss Moretti, took advantage of her mental state, and used her to attack him." A pause. "The punch you threw was caught on police body cameras. That alone is assault."
"He tried to kill her! He faked her death!"
"According to Mr. Castellano, Miss Moretti faked her own death. You helped her. And now you're both facing serious criminal charges." Detective Morrison sighs. "I'm calling as a courtesy. There's a warrant being processed for your arrest. You have maybe twelve hours before officers arrive to take you in."
"This is insane."
"This is the law. Mr. Castellano has very good lawyers." She hangs up.
I stand in the lighthouse, phone in my hand, world crumbling around me.
Marcus didn't lose. He just changed tactics.
He can't get Elena directly. So he's going after me instead. Destroy me, and Elena loses her only ally. Her only witness. Her only protection.
Smart. Cruel. Effective.
I should run. Take Elena and disappear. Find somewhere Marcus can't reach.
But I've been running for five years. I'm tired of running.
I head back to the cottage. Elena needs to know what's happening. Needs to understand that staying with me will destroy her.
The cottage door is open.
That's wrong. I closed it. Locked it.
"Elena?" I call out, stepping inside.
Silence.
The bed is empty. Her jacket is gone. The medical supplies are scattered on the floor.
And on the pillow, written in red lipstick—her lipstick—is a message:
She came willingly. Don't follow. - M
My blood turns to ice.
Marcus took her.
But how? He was arrested. Released. He couldn't have gotten here that fast unless—
Unless he was never really gone. Unless the arrest was theater. A way to make us think we won while he planned his real move.
And I fell for it.
I grab my phone. Call Catherine Wright.
"Callum? What's wrong?"
"Marcus took Elena. He left a message. How did he—"
"Oh God." Catherine sounds sick. "The bail. I should have seen it. He arranged it beforehand. Had his lawyers ready. Everything was planned. The arrest, the release, all of it. He wanted us to think he lost so we'd let our guard down."
"Where would he take her?"
"I don't know. He has properties all over. And now that he's claiming she's mentally unstable, he could have her committed anywhere. Private facilities that don't ask questions if you pay enough."
I'm already moving. Grabbing supplies. My car keys. Anything useful.
"I'm going after her."
"Callum, there's a warrant for your arrest. If you leave the village—"
"I don't care."
"You should. Because Marcus is counting on you following. He wants you arrested. Wants you out of the way. This is a trap."
"I know." I head for my car. "But I'm walking into it anyway."
"Why? You barely know this woman. Why risk everything for her?"
I stop. Think about Elena's fierce determination. Her refusal to stay dead. The way she looked at me like I was someone worth saving.
"Because someone has to," I say. "And I'm tired of being the person who doesn't."
I hang up and drive.
The coast road is still damaged but passable if you're careful. I'm not careful. I drive too fast, taking corners that should kill me.
I don't know where Marcus took Elena. Don't know if I'll find her in time.
But I know one thing with absolute certainty:
I'm not losing another person I care about.
Not again.
Not ever again.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
I open it while driving. Stupid. Dangerous. But I have to know.
It's a video.
Elena. In a white room. Strapped to a bed. Drugged. Helpless.
Marcus's face appears on screen. Smiling that same terrible smile.
"Come find her, Doctor. If you can. But I wouldn't hurry. Where she's going, time moves very slowly. And by the time you arrive—if you arrive—she won't even remember your name."
The video ends.
I drive faster.
Behind me, police sirens start to wail.
They found me. The arrest warrant came through.
But I don't stop.
I can't stop.
Because somewhere ahead, Elena is trapped with a monster.
And this time, I won't fail to save her.
This time, I'll burn the whole world down if that's what it takes.