Elena's POV
The email stares back at me from the laptop screen: "We know you're in Lighthouse Cove. We're coming for you. - M"
My hands won't stop shaking. I read it again. And again. Each time, the words get worse.
Marcus knows where I am. After everything—the crash, the storm, the destroyed road—he still found me.
I slam the laptop shut and immediately regret it. Pain shoots through my ribs, stealing my breath. I lean against the bed, gasping.
Think, Elena. Think.
But thinking is impossible when your heart is trying to punch through your chest.
The storm howls outside. Rain hammers the windows. Somewhere in that darkness, Marcus is coming. Or his investigator. Or whoever he's hired to drag me back to New York.
I need to tell Callum. He needs to know.
But Callum left to help someone who's bleeding. He told me to stay here. Lock the door. Don't leave.
I hobble to the window and press my face against the cold glass. Through the rain, I see lights moving in the village. Flashlights, maybe. People running toward the docks where Callum went.
Then I see something else.
Headlights. On the cliff road.
My stomach drops.
The road is destroyed. Callum said so. No one can get in or out.
So whose headlights are those?
The lights move slowly, carefully. Getting closer to the village.
I back away from the window, my breath coming in short gasps. The locked door suddenly feels like paper. Like it couldn't stop anyone who really wanted to get in.
I'm trapped. Injured. Alone. With Marcus's threat burning in my mind.
"No," I whisper to myself. "No, you're not doing this. You're not falling apart."
But my body doesn't listen. My legs shake. My vision blurs. The room tilts sideways.
I've had panic attacks before. Usually when I disappointed my mother or made a mistake at work. Marcus always told me I was being dramatic. That I needed to be stronger.
This isn't dramatic. This is survival.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like my old therapist taught me before I stopped going because Marcus said therapy was "for weak people."
The breathing helps. A little.
I move back to the bed and grab my laptop, opening it with shaking hands. Maybe the email was a trick. Maybe I imagined it.
But it's still there. Still real.
I scroll through my other emails, looking for anything useful. Most are termination notices and legal threats. But then I see one that makes my blood run cold.
The sender is Jade. The subject line reads: I'm Sorry.
I shouldn't open it. Nothing good can come from reading Jade's fake apology.
But I can't help myself.
Elena,
I know you won't believe me, but I really am sorry. Not for what happened—you brought that on yourself by being so difficult. But I'm sorry it had to be so public.
Marcus and I never meant to hurt you. We just realized that you were holding the brand back. Your anxiety, your need for constant validation, your inability to make hard decisions. The business needed someone stronger at the helm.
Marcus tried to tell you gently for months, but you wouldn't listen. You clung to him like a child. It was exhausting.
We're rebranding Wanderlust with me as the face. The sponsors love it. Your followers are already moving to my account. Everything you built is becoming what it should have been from the start—mine.
The mental health narrative was Marcus's idea. Brilliant, really. Now when you try to fight back, everyone will just think you're having another episode. You should really thank him. He could have destroyed you completely, but instead, he gave you an out. A way to fade away quietly.
Don't try to come back. There's nothing left for you here.
Jade
I read the email three times. Each time, the words cut deeper.
You brought that on yourself.You were holding the brand back.Everything you built is becoming mine.
This isn't an apology. This is a victory speech.
And the worst part? Some of it sounds true. I was anxious. I did cling to Marcus. I was terrified of being alone.
But that didn't give them the right to steal from me.
Rage floods through me, hot and sharp. It burns away the fear, the panic, the crushing weight of helplessness.
Marcus wants me to disappear quietly? To fade away while he and Jade take everything I worked for?
Not happening.
I open a new email and start typing. My fingers fly across the keyboard despite the pain in my ribs.
To: Marcus CastellanoSubject: You Don't Know Me At All
Marcus,
I got your cute little threat. "We're coming for you"? Really? Did you think that would scare me into signing your contracts?
Here's what you don't understand: I have nothing left to lose. You took my money. My reputation. My followers. My career. You made everyone think I'm crazy.
But you forgot one thing.
I'm the one who built Wanderlust. Every photograph. Every caption. Every creative decision. Me. Not you. Not Jade. Me.
And I have proof. Five years of creative files. Timestamps on every original photo. Early drafts that show my process. You might have the business, Marcus, but you don't have my creativity. You never did.
So come find me. Bring your lawyers. Bring your investigators. Bring your fake concern and your mental health narrative.
I'll be waiting.
Elena
My finger hovers over the send button.
This is stupid. This is incredibly, dangerously stupid. I'm provoking him. Making things worse.
But I'm so tired of being afraid.
I click send.
The email whooshes away into the digital void. No taking it back now.
My heart pounds so hard I think it might explode. What did I just do?
Before I can spiral into regret, I hear footsteps on the stairs. Fast, urgent.
The door handle rattles. "Elena! Open the door!"
Callum's voice.
I unlock the door and pull it open. Callum stands there, his sweater soaked with blood. Not his blood, I realize. Someone else's.
"Is he okay?" I ask. "The man who was injured?"
"He'll live. I stitched the wound." Callum's eyes scan me, checking for problems. "Why aren't you in bed? You're pale. Are you in pain?"
"I got an email from Marcus."
Callum's expression darkens. "Show me."
I hand him the laptop. He reads the threat email, his jaw tightening with each word. Then he sees my response.
"You responded?" His voice is carefully controlled. Too controlled. "You told him you'd be waiting?"
"I was angry. I wasn't thinking—"
"Clearly." Callum runs a hand through his wet hair. "Elena, you just confirmed your location and threw down a challenge. If his investigator was still searching, he's not anymore. He knows exactly where to look."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "I'm sorry. I just... I couldn't let him think I was hiding. That I was afraid."
"You should be afraid!" Callum's voice rises, then he catches himself. He takes a breath, forcing calm. "Marcus isn't playing games. Men like him don't stop until they win. And you just made yourself a target."
"I've been a target since the day I met him." The words come out bitter. True. "At least now I'm fighting back."
Callum stares at me. Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe. Or respect.
"You really mean that," he says quietly. "You're actually going to fight him."
"What choice do I have?"
"You could disappear. Change your name. Start over somewhere he'd never find you."
"Is that what you did?" I ask. "When you lost your medical license? Did you disappear to this village and hide?"
The words are cruel. I know it the second they leave my mouth. But I'm tired of everyone treating me like I'm fragile.
Callum's face goes cold. "That's different."
"How?"
"Because I actually did something wrong. I made a mistake that cost me everything. You? You're just a woman who trusted the wrong people."
"And now I'm going to make them pay for it."
We stare at each other. The air between us crackles with tension. Outside, the storm rages on.
Then Callum's expression changes. He moves to the window, looking out.
"The headlights," he mutters. "They're closer."
"I saw them earlier. I thought—"
"Someone drove in on the damaged road." Callum's voice is tight. "Which means they really want to get here."
My mouth goes dry. "Marcus?"
"Or his investigator. Either way, they'll be in the village in minutes."
Panic floods back. "What do I do?"
Callum turns from the window. For the first time since I met him, he looks genuinely worried. "You need to hide. If they search the village, they'll check every building."
"Where can I hide that they won't find me?"
He hesitates. Then: "The lighthouse. No one goes there except me. It's considered bad luck by the villagers."
"Why?"
"Because my sister died there." The words are flat. Painful. "The lighthouse is where she had her heart attack. The villagers think it's cursed."
I understand what he's offering. His most painful place. The one spot he keeps sacred.
"Are you sure?"
"No." Callum moves toward the door. "But I'm out of options. Get dressed. We're leaving now."
He starts to leave, then stops.
"Elena? That email you sent Marcus. The one where you said you have proof of your creative work?"
"Yes?"
"Did you actually keep files? Timestamps? Evidence?"
I think about my cloud storage. The backups I made obsessively because I was terrified of losing my work. "Yes. Everything. Five years of original files."
A small smile touches Callum's lips. The first real smile I've seen from him. "Then maybe you actually have a chance."
Before I can respond, we hear it. The sound of a car door slamming. Voices. Someone shouting orders.
They're here.
Callum's eyes meet mine. "Move. Now."
I grab my laptop and shove it in its case. Callum hands me a jacket—his jacket, too big but warm. I slip it on, ignoring the pain in my ribs.
We move downstairs quickly. Callum grabs a flashlight and a bag I didn't notice before—packed with supplies, like he was planning for this.
"Out the back," he says quietly. "Stay close to me. Don't make a sound."
We slip out the back door into the storm. The rain is freezing, immediately soaking through the jacket. Wind tears at my hair.
Callum takes my hand, pulling me forward. We move through the darkness, away from his cottage, toward the cliffs.
Behind us, I hear pounding on his front door. A man's voice: "Dr. Thorne! Open up! We need to talk about Elena Moretti!"
Not Marcus's voice. Someone else's.
We keep moving. My ribs scream with every step, but I don't slow down. Can't slow down.
Callum leads me up a narrow path that climbs the cliff face. The lighthouse appears above us, its beacon cutting through the storm in steady sweeps.
We're almost there when I hear it.
A shout from behind us. "There! On the cliff path!"
Flashlight beams cut through the rain, searching for us.
"Run," Callum says.
We run.
Up the cliff path, rain and wind fighting us every step. My lungs burn. My ribs feel like they're tearing apart. But I keep moving.
We reach the lighthouse door. Callum fumbles with keys.
The flashlights are getting closer. I can hear footsteps now, boots on stone.
"Hurry," I gasp.
The door opens. We tumble inside. Callum slams it shut and throws a heavy bolt.
Immediately, someone pounds on the other side. "Ms. Moretti! We know you're in there! Mr. Castellano just wants to talk!"
Callum and I stand in the dark lighthouse, breathing hard, dripping wet.
"There's no other way out," I whisper. "We're trapped."
"I know." Callum moves deeper into the lighthouse. "But they can't get in. This door is solid iron. And they can't break the windows—they're too high up."
"So what do we do?"
"We wait." He pulls out his phone—surprisingly, he has cell service here. "I'm calling the village constable. Technically, this is trespassing. They have no legal right to force their way in."
He makes the call while I collapse against the wall, clutching my ribs.
Outside, the pounding continues. The man's voice is getting angry now. "Ms. Moretti! This is Tom Bradley, private investigator. Mr. Castellano is very worried about you. We just want to help!"
Help. The word makes me laugh, bitter and sharp.
Callum finishes his call. "Constable's coming. Twenty minutes."
Twenty minutes. An eternity.
I look around the lighthouse. Spiral stairs leading up. Old equipment. And on a small table, a framed photograph of a young woman with bright eyes and Callum's smile.
"Your sister?" I ask softly.
"Rosie." His voice breaks on her name. "She loved this lighthouse. Said it was like a guardian, keeping everyone safe."
"I'm sorry I brought trouble here."
"You didn't bring trouble. You just refused to be a victim." Callum looks at me, and there's something new in his eyes. Understanding. Connection. "That takes courage."
The pounding stops suddenly. We both tense.
Then Tom Bradley's voice comes through the door, cold and calculating: "Ms. Moretti, I'm authorized to inform you that Mr. Castellano has filed emergency mental health paperwork. If you don't come out voluntarily, we'll have you removed by force within 72 hours. Think about that."
Footsteps retreat down the cliff path.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold floor. "He's really going to do it. He's going to have me declared incompetent."
Callum sits beside me. "Not if we fight back first."
"How? I have no money. No lawyers. No proof that anyone will believe."
"You have your creative files. And you have me."
I look at him, this stranger who's risked everything to protect me. "Why are you doing this? You don't owe me anything."
Callum is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Because two years ago, I needed someone to believe in me. To fight for me. And no one did. Everyone abandoned me when things got hard."
"Your fiancée?"
"Among others." His voice is hollow. "My family. My colleagues. People I'd known for decades. The moment I was accused of malpractice, they all disappeared."
"Were you guilty?"
"No." The word is sharp. Final. "I made a judgment call during surgery. It saved my patient's life but violated protocol. The hospital used me as a scapegoat for their own systemic failures. They stripped my license and destroyed my reputation to cover their tracks."
"That's not right."
"Life rarely is." Callum looks at me. "But I gave up. I ran here and hid. I let them win because I was too broken to fight back. I won't watch you make the same mistake."
Something warm spreads through my chest. Not attraction—not yet. Something deeper. Recognition. This man understands what it feels like to be betrayed by the people you trusted most.
"So what do we do?" I ask.
"We document everything. Build your case. Find a lawyer who'll take you on pro bono—they exist if you know where to look. And we prepare for Marcus to come back." Callum's voice is steady now. Determined. "Because he will come back. Men like him always do."
"I'm scared," I admit.
"Good. Fear keeps you sharp." He stands, offering me his hand. "But don't let it control you. That's how they win."
I take his hand and let him pull me up. Pain shoots through my ribs, but I stay standing.
Outside, the storm is finally starting to ease. The rain becomes lighter. The wind calms.
But the real storm is just beginning.
And this time, I'm not running.