Elena's POV
I'm drowning.
Water fills my lungs. Cold. Dark. Pulling me down into nothing.
I try to scream but the ocean swallows the sound. My body tumbles through the waves like a broken doll. Something hard hits my back. Then my head. Then everything goes black.
Except it's not black anymore.
There's light. Warm and golden. And voices. Someone is shouting my name.
Strong arms wrap around me. Pull me up. Out of the water. Into air that burns my throat when I breathe.
I'm coughing. Choking. Dying.
"Breathe, Elena! Come on!"
More coughing. Water pours from my mouth. My lungs feel like they're on fire.
But I'm breathing.
I'm alive.
"That's it. Keep breathing. You're okay. You're okay."
The voice is British. Calm. Like he pulls drowning women out of the ocean every day.
I try to open my eyes but everything is blurry. Spinning. Wrong.
Then nothing again.
---
When I wake up for real, the first thing I feel is pain.
Not the emotional kind I've been carrying for weeks. Physical pain. Sharp and angry in my ribs. Throbbing in my head. Aching in every muscle.
I'm in a bed. A real bed. Not wet. Not drowning.
I force my eyes open.
The room is small. Stone walls. A fireplace with dying embers. One window showing gray morning light. Everything smells like wood smoke and salt water.
And sitting in a chair by the window is the most beautiful man I've ever seen.
He's tall even sitting down. Dark hair going gray at the edges. Strong jaw covered in stubble. And eyes—gray eyes that look like storm clouds. He's staring out the window like he's waiting for something terrible to happen.
"Don't move," he says without looking at me. His voice has that British accent from before. "You almost died. Twice."
I try to speak but my throat feels like sandpaper. Nothing comes out.
He stands and brings me a glass of water. Holds it to my lips while I drink. His hands are gentle but his face is stone.
"Where am I?" My voice sounds like a broken whisper.
"My cottage. In Lighthouse Cove." He sets the glass down. "You've been unconscious for eighteen hours."
Eighteen hours.
Memories crash over me like that wave. The car accident. Marcus breaking down the door. Running through the storm. The boat. The massive wave hitting us.
"The boat," I gasp. "We capsized. You—you pulled me out of the water."
"Yes."
"You saved my life."
"Yes."
No emotion. Just facts. Like saving my life was as ordinary as making breakfast.
"Why?" I ask.
That makes him look at me. Really look at me. Those gray eyes study my face like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
"Because letting you drown seemed rude," he says finally.
I don't know if he's joking. His face doesn't change.
"I'm Elena," I say.
"I know. Your phone told me everything before it died." He moves back to his chair by the window. "I'm Callum Thorne."
"Thank you, Callum. For saving me. For protecting me from Marcus. For—"
"Don't thank me yet." His voice is hard now. "Marcus is still out there. He spent all night searching the shore. When he couldn't find us, he went back to the village to get help. More people. More resources."
My stomach drops. "He's not giving up."
"Men like him never do." Callum stares out the window again. "He told the villagers you're mentally unstable. That you ran away from treatment. That I kidnapped you. Half the village is looking for us right now."
"But that's not true!"
"Truth doesn't matter when someone has money and power." He sounds like he's speaking from experience. "Marcus is offering a reward for information. Ten thousand pounds to anyone who finds you."
Ten thousand pounds. That's more money than most people in a fishing village see in a year.
"They'll turn me in," I whisper.
"Some might. But not all of them." For the first time, something that might be kindness crosses his face. "Old Margaret knows we're here. She brought supplies this morning. Food. Medicine. She told Marcus she hasn't seen us."
"She lied for us?"
"She doesn't like bullies. And she recognizes one when she sees one." Callum stands and brings me a bowl of soup. "You need to eat. Build your strength."
The soup is hot and good. I didn't realize how hungry I was until the first bite.
"How bad are my injuries?" I ask between spoonfuls.
"Three cracked ribs. Concussion. Multiple bruises and cuts. Mild hypothermia from the water. You'll survive, but you need rest."
"I don't have time to rest. Marcus will find us."
"Not if we're smart." Callum sits on the edge of the bed. Close enough that I can see the shadows under his eyes. He hasn't slept. "I have a plan. But you're not going to like it."
"Tell me."
"We wait until tonight. When it's dark. Then we take Tom's truck—he's another villager who owes me a favor—and drive to the next town. From there, you can catch a bus to London. Find a lawyer. Tell your story to someone who can actually help."
"What about you?"
"I stay here. Face whatever consequences come from helping you."
"No." The word comes out stronger than I expected. "You already lost your medical license because you helped someone. I won't let you lose anything else because of me."
His eyes narrow. "How do you know about my license?"
"Marcus mentioned it. When he broke into the lighthouse." I set down the soup bowl. "He said you killed a patient. That you're hiding here."
Callum's face goes completely blank. Like a door slamming shut.
"Is it true?" I ask gently.
"It's complicated."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." He stands abruptly. "Rest. We leave at nightfall."
"Callum, wait—"
But he's already at the door.
"I lost everything because I tried to save someone," he says without turning around. "My career. My reputation. My family. Even my sister." His voice cracks on the last word. "So don't think you owe me anything, Elena. I'm not a hero. I'm just someone who's too stubborn to watch another person get destroyed if I can prevent it."
He walks out before I can respond.
I sit in the empty room, my ribs aching, my heart breaking for this man who saved me twice but can't seem to save himself.
Outside, voices drift through the window. Villagers talking. Searching.
Looking for us.
I close my eyes and try to think. Marcus has money. Resources. The law on his side. What do I have?
A broken body. A destroyed reputation. And a stranger who pulls people from oceans even though he's drowning himself.
We're going to lose. I can feel it.
Unless...
An idea forms. Crazy. Dangerous. Possibly brilliant.
Marcus wants to control the narrative. He always has. Every story, every post, every interview—he controlled what people saw and heard about me.
But what if I took that control back?
I grab Callum's laptop from the desk. My hands shake as I open it. Find the internet connection—weak but present.
I know exactly what I need to do.
Callum comes back an hour later with more food. He freezes when he sees me at the laptop.
"What are you doing?"
"Fighting back." I turn the screen toward him. "I just emailed every journalist I know. Told them the truth about Marcus. About the affair. About the contracts. About everything."
His face goes pale. "Elena, that's—"
"Stupid? Reckless? Dangerous?" I smile, but it feels sharp. "Probably. But I'm done running. I'm done letting him write my story."
"He'll come after you even harder now."
"Let him come. At least this time, people will hear my side first."
Callum stares at me like I've grown a second head. Then, impossibly, he smiles. Just a little. But it transforms his whole face.
"You're either very brave or very foolish."
"Can't I be both?"
"Apparently." He sits down next to me. "What did you tell them?"
"Everything. I sent proof. Photos of the original contracts. Timestamps on my creative files. Screenshots of messages between Marcus and Jade. Everything I had backed up in my cloud storage."
"And if they don't believe you?"
"Then I'm no worse off than I am now." I close the laptop. "But Callum, I'm tired of being afraid. I'm tired of letting him win."
He looks at me with something that might be respect. Or concern. Or both.
"The emails will take a few hours to reach everyone," he says. "We should still leave tonight. Get you somewhere safe before—"
A loud knock on the door cuts him off.
We both freeze.
"Dr. Thorne?" A woman's voice. Old Margaret. "I know you're in there. I need to speak with you. It's urgent."
Callum moves to the door but doesn't open it. "What is it, Margaret?"
"There's news. About Miss Elena." A pause. "You need to hear this."
Callum looks at me. I nod.
He opens the door.
Margaret stands there, her old face worried. She's holding a tablet—someone must have lent it to her because she doesn't own one.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
Margaret doesn't answer. She just turns the tablet toward us.
On the screen is a news article. The headline makes my blood run cold:
MISSING INFLUENCER ELENA MORETTI FOUND DEAD—Body Discovered in Coastal Waters, Authorities Confirm Suicide
Beneath it is a photo. Of me. Pale. Lifeless. Floating in dark water.
I stare at the screen. At my own dead face.
But I'm not dead.
I'm standing right here.
"That's impossible," I whisper. "That's not—I'm not—"
"It went live twenty minutes ago," Margaret says quietly. "Every major news site is running the story. Marcus gave an interview. He's crying. Saying he tried to save you but was too late."
Callum takes the tablet. Scrolls through the article. His face gets harder with every word.
"This is doctored," he says. "That photo is fake. It has to be."
"Of course it's fake!" I'm shaking now. "I'm alive! I'm right here!"
"But the world thinks you're dead," Margaret says. "Marcus has made sure of it. There's even a quote from the local constable confirming they found a body matching your description."
"Then the constable is lying. Or Marcus paid him off. Or—" I stop. Look at Callum. "If everyone thinks I'm dead, what happens when I show up alive?"
His face goes grim. "Marcus gets to decide what that means. He'll say you faked your death. That you're mentally unstable. That everything you claimed about him was the ranting of someone who's not in their right mind."
"So I'm trapped. If I stay dead, he wins. If I prove I'm alive, he still wins."
"Not exactly." Callum's eyes are sharp now. Calculating. "If you're officially dead, you can't testify. Can't file charges. Can't fight for your business. But you also can't be committed to a psychiatric facility. He's made you legally dead to silence you."
"So what do I do?"
Callum and Margaret exchange a look. Some kind of understanding passes between them.
"You stay dead," Margaret says. "For now. While we figure out how to prove Marcus is lying. Gather evidence. Build a case so strong that when you come back from the dead, nobody can deny the truth."
"How long will that take?"
"Weeks. Maybe months."
Months of hiding. Months of being a ghost. Months of Marcus thinking he won.
But also months of planning. Preparing. Getting ready to destroy him the way he tried to destroy me.
"Okay," I say. "I'll stay dead."
Callum nods. "Then we need to move you somewhere safer. If Marcus thinks you're dead, he'll stop looking here. But we can't take chances."
"Where will I go?"
"The lighthouse. It's been abandoned for years. No one goes up there. You'll be safe."
Margaret leaves to gather supplies. Callum starts packing what little we have.
I'm staring at the photo of my "dead" body when my phone—Callum's actually, he lent it to me—buzzes.
An email notification.
From one of the journalists I contacted.
Subject line: RE: Your Story About Marcus Castellano
My hands shake as I open it.
Elena,
I received your email and all the evidence you sent. I believe you. I'm willing to publish your story. But I just saw the news that you're dead. If this is real, please contact me immediately. If you're alive, we need to move fast before Marcus controls this narrative completely.
I can protect you. I can get your story out. But you need to trust me.
Reply within 24 hours or I'll assume the death reports are true.
- Catherine Wright, Investigative Journalist
I show the email to Callum.
"It's a trap," he says immediately. "Marcus could be monitoring journalist emails. Waiting to see if you respond."
"Or it's the only chance I have to fight back."
"Elena—"
"No. Listen." I grab his arm. "I'm already legally dead. What else can Marcus do to me? This journalist believes me. She wants to help. If I don't respond, I lose the one person who might actually publish the truth."
"If you respond and Marcus finds out, he'll know you're alive. He'll come back with more than just local police. He'll bring lawyers. Investigators. People who won't stop until they find you."
"Then we have to be smarter than him. Faster than him." I look up at Callum. "You asked me earlier if I'm brave or foolish. I'm both. And right now, both is what I need to be."
Callum stares at me for a long moment. Then he does something unexpected.
He laughs. It's brief and rusty, like he hasn't laughed in years. But it's real.
"You're going to get us both killed," he says.
"Maybe. Or maybe we're going to win."
"I don't win, Elena. I haven't won anything in five years."
"Then it's time to start."
I begin typing a response to Catherine Wright. My fingers fly across the keyboard. Every word feels like a declaration of war.
Callum reads over my shoulder. Doesn't try to stop me.
When I'm done, my finger hovers over the send button.
"Last chance to change your mind," Callum says quietly.
"I'm not changing my mind."
"Then neither am I."
I press send.
The email disappears into the digital void. Somewhere out there, a journalist will read it. Believe it. Publish it.
Or Marcus will intercept it and come for us with everything he has.
Either way, the game has changed.
I'm not running anymore.
I'm fighting back.
Callum's phone rings. He looks at the screen and goes pale.
"It's Tom. The villager who owns the truck." He answers. "Tom, what's—"
He stops. Listens. His face gets harder.
"When?" Pause. "How many?" Another pause. "Understood. Thank you."
He hangs up and looks at me.
"Marcus is coming back. Tonight. With police. And a court order to search every building in the village."
"How long do we have?"
"Two hours. Maybe three."
"Then we need to move now."
We grab everything we can carry. Food. Water. Blankets. The laptop.
As we're heading for the door, Callum's phone buzzes again.
A text message. From a number neither of us recognizes.
He opens it. Goes completely still.
"What?" I ask. "What is it?"
He shows me the screen.
The message has no words. Just a photo.
It's Callum's cottage. Taken from outside. From the angle, whoever took it was hiding in the trees.
Watching us.
Right now.
And beneath the photo, a single line of text:
I see you.