Elena's POV
I wake up screaming.
The nightmare is always the same—Marcus's laugh, Jade's smirk, my mother's disappointed face. But this time, when I open my eyes, there's a hand on my shoulder. Warm. Steady.
"You're safe," Callum says quietly. "Just a dream."
I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter. It's been three days since I woke up in this cottage, and the panic attacks keep getting worse, not better. Every time I close my eyes, I see Marcus announcing my "breakdown" to the world. I see my Instagram comments exploding with hate. I see everything I built turning to ash.
"I can't breathe," I gasp. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can." Callum sits on the edge of the bed, his gray eyes locked on mine. "Look at me. Breathe with me. In through your nose, count to four."
I try. Fail. Try again.
"Good. Hold it. Two, three, four. Now out through your mouth."
We breathe together until my heart stops racing. Until the room stops spinning. Callum doesn't let go of my shoulder until I nod that I'm okay.
"This is the third nightmare this week," he says, standing up. His voice is careful, clinical. "You need to talk about it."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You have PTSD from the betrayal. Your body is processing trauma." He moves to the window, putting distance between us like he always does. "Keeping it inside will make it worse."
"What do you know about keeping things inside?" The words come out sharper than I mean them to.
Callum's jaw tightens. "More than you think."
He leaves before I can apologize.
By noon, I'm restless. My ribs still hurt, but I can't stay in this cottage another second. I need to move. To see something other than these stone walls.
I pull on the borrowed sweater—too big, smells like wood smoke and something uniquely Callum—and step outside.
Lighthouse Cove looks like it fell out of time. Tiny stone cottages cling to cliffs. Fishing boats bob in a harbor that's barely more than a cove. Old men mend nets while women hang laundry that whips in the constant wind. No cars. No phones. Just the crash of waves and the cry of seagulls.
It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like a trap.
"You shouldn't be walking yet," Callum's voice comes from behind me.
I don't turn around. "I'm not an invalid."
"You have three cracked ribs and a concussion."
"I also have legs that work." I start down the path toward the village, ignoring the pain in my side. "I need to see the damage to the road. I need to know when I can leave."
Callum catches up to me in three strides. He doesn't try to stop me, just walks beside me. Silent. Protective.
The village is smaller than I thought. Maybe fifteen buildings total. Everyone we pass stares at me—the outsider, the broken city girl. An old woman sweeping her doorstep watches us with sharp eyes. Two men repairing a boat stop working to look.
"They hate me," I mutter.
"They don't know you yet," Callum says. "This village doesn't trust easily. Can you blame them?"
"Can you blame me for wanting to leave?"
He doesn't answer.
We reach the coastal road—or what's left of it. A massive section has collapsed into the sea, leaving a gap too wide to cross. Equipment sits abandoned. A sign reads: ROAD CLOSED - REPAIRS ESTIMATED 6-8 WEEKS.
My stomach drops. "Eight weeks?"
"Could be longer if storms come." Callum's voice is matter-of-fact, but something flickers in his eyes. "You're stuck here, Elena. You might as well accept it."
"I can't be stuck here! I have a lawyer to call, contracts to fight, a life to—" I stop. Because what life? Marcus stole everything. My career, my reputation, my future.
The panic rises again. I turn away from Callum, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together.
"I had two million followers," I whisper. "Two million people who thought they knew me. Who watched my perfect life. And it was all fake. Every single post was a lie I told myself to believe I was happy."
"Then maybe losing it wasn't the worst thing."
I spin around, anger flashing hot. "Easy for you to say. You chose to disappear. I didn't have a choice!"
"Didn't you?" Callum's gray eyes are sharp now, cutting through my defenses. "You saw the red flags with Marcus. You knew Jade was jealous. You felt something was wrong. But you ignored it because facing the truth was scarier than living the lie."
The words hit like a punch. Because he's right. I knew. Deep down, I knew.
"I trusted them," I say weakly.
"No. You were afraid to be alone. There's a difference." He takes a step closer. "I'm not saying what they did wasn't horrible. It was. They're criminals who deserve to lose everything. But Elena, you gave them power over you. You can take it back."
"How?" I'm crying now, hating myself for it. "How do I take back power when I can't even leave this village? When I can't call a lawyer or access my accounts or fight back?"
Callum reaches out, then stops himself. His hand hovers between us before dropping. "You start by healing. Really healing. Not just your body."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Neither do I." His voice drops, raw and honest. "But maybe we can figure it out together."
Something shifts in the air between us. Something dangerous and real.
Before I can respond, a voice calls out: "Dr. Thorne!"
An old woman rushes toward us, face pale with panic. "It's young Tom! He fell from the cliffs! He's bleeding bad!"
Callum doesn't hesitate. He's already running toward the harbor, medical training taking over. I follow, ribs screaming, because I can't just stand here.
By the time we reach the docks, a crowd has gathered. A teenage boy lies on the wooden planks, blood pouring from a gash on his leg. He's conscious but pale, terrified.
Callum drops to his knees beside him. "Tom, look at me. You're going to be fine."
"It hurts," Tom gasps. "It hurts so much—"
"I know. I'm going to help you." Callum's hands move with incredible precision—checking pulse, examining the wound, applying pressure. "Elena, in my bag. Suture kit, antiseptic, gauze."
I grab his medical bag and hand him supplies. Watch as he cleans the wound, numbs it with local anesthetic, begins stitching with hands that don't shake even once.
This isn't some village doctor playing at medicine. This is a surgeon. A brilliant one.
The crowd watches in awed silence as Callum saves Tom's leg with perfect technique. When he finishes, he bandages it carefully, checks Tom's vital signs again, gives quiet instructions to Tom's crying mother.
"He'll need rest and antibiotics," Callum tells her. "Change the bandages twice daily. If you see any signs of infection—redness, fever, swelling—come get me immediately."
"Thank you, Doctor," she sobs. "Thank you so much."
Callum stands, and I see the exhaustion in his eyes. The weight of being the only medical professional for fifty people. The pressure of performing surgery without a license, without backup, knowing one mistake could destroy him completely.
"Why aren't you working in a hospital?" I ask as we walk back to his cottage. "You're too good to be hiding here."
His expression closes down. "I told you. I killed someone."
"I don't believe that."
"Believe what you want." He opens his cottage door. "You need rest. And I need to check your ribs again."
Inside, he makes me sit while he unwraps my bandages with careful hands. His fingers brush my skin—professional, clinical, but something sparks anyway.
"Tell me what really happened," I say softly. "Why you left London."
Callum's hands pause. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then: "I made a choice during surgery. The patient lived. The medical board said I violated protocol. They took my license and dragged me through public scandal. My fiancée left. My family disowned me. And my sister—"
His voice breaks. He turns away, but not before I see the devastation in his face.
"What happened to your sister?"
"She died. Two years ago. Because I was too damaged to notice she was sick." He stands abruptly. "That's why I'm here, Elena. That's why I'll never leave. Because I deserve to be trapped just as much as you feel trapped."
"Callum—"
"Get some rest. Tomorrow we'll start getting you stronger. The sooner you heal, the sooner you can leave."
He walks out, leaving me alone with the terrible truth: I don't want to leave anymore. Not if it means leaving him.
That night, I can't sleep. I keep thinking about Callum's hands—so gentle on my injuries, so steady while saving Tom's leg. Hands that should be in an operating room, not wasted in this forgotten village.
Around midnight, I hear footsteps outside.
I peek through the window and see Callum walking toward the lighthouse, carrying something in his arms. A photograph?
Without thinking, I follow him.
The lighthouse door is unlocked. I climb the spiral stairs, ribs protesting, until I reach the top. The light rotates steadily, casting its beam across black water.
Callum stands at the window, holding a photograph of a young woman with his eyes. She's laughing, hair whipping in the wind. Beautiful. Alive.
"Rosie," he says without turning around. "My sister. She loved this lighthouse. Said it made her feel safe."
I move closer. "Tell me about her."
"She was brilliant. Funny. Kind. After my scandal, she developed severe anxiety. Couldn't leave the house. So I brought her here. Thought isolation would heal her." His voice cracks. "Instead, she died. Heart condition I never noticed because I was so focused on her mental health. I'm a cardiac surgeon, and I missed my own sister's heart condition."
"That's not your fault—"
"Yes, it is!" He spins around, eyes blazing with pain. "Everything I touch dies, Elena. My career, my sister, my entire life. And now you're here, and I—" He stops himself. "You should go. Back to the cottage. Now."
"Why?"
"Because I can't—" He takes a shaky breath. "I can't let myself care about you. I won't survive losing someone else."
The words hang between us. Raw. True. Terrifying.
I take a step forward. "Then don't lose me."
"You're leaving the moment that road is fixed."
"Maybe I don't want to."
Callum stares at me like I've spoken a foreign language. "Your entire life is out there. Your career, your fight against Marcus—"
"My life was a lie. Maybe this is my chance to build a real one."
Before he can respond, my phone—the one I thought was destroyed—buzzes in my pocket.
Impossible. There's no cell service here.
I pull it out with shaking hands. The screen is cracked but somehow working. And there's a text from an unknown number:
"Found you. Coming for what's mine. Should arrive tomorrow. Don't run again, Elena. You can't hide from me. - M"
My blood turns to ice.
Marcus found me.
And he's coming.