Callum's POV
The coffee mug shatters against the floor.
I don't remember dropping it. One moment I'm holding it, staring out the lighthouse window at the storm, and the next moment there's broken ceramic and hot liquid spreading across the old wooden planks.
But I'm not looking at the mess. I'm looking at the headlights.
They're moving too fast on the cliff road. Way too fast for this weather. The rain is coming down so hard I can barely see the village below, and whoever is driving that car is going to die.
I know this road. I've lived here for five years. I've seen what happens when people underestimate it.
The car swerves. Once. Twice.
Then it crashes through the guardrail like it's made of paper.
"No." The word rips out of me.
I'm already running.
Down the lighthouse stairs—my footsteps echoing like thunder. Through the door—the wind nearly tears it off its hinges. Into the storm—rain hitting my face like needles.
I shouldn't care. That's what I tell myself as I sprint toward the cliff edge. I gave up caring about saving people two years ago when I couldn't save the one person who mattered most.
But my legs keep moving. My doctor brain—the one I've tried to bury—kicks into emergency mode. Calculating time, distance, injuries. The car went over maybe thirty seconds ago. If the person inside is still alive, they won't be for long.
The cliff edge is crumbling. I can see where the guardrail used to be—now just twisted metal and broken posts. Below, about twenty feet down, the car is wedged between rocks. The front end is completely smashed. The engine is smoking.
If that engine catches fire, whoever is inside will burn alive.
I look for a way down. The rocks are wet and slippery. One wrong step and I'll fall too. But there—a narrow path fishermen sometimes use. It's dangerous in good weather. In this storm, it's suicide.
I start climbing down anyway.
Rosie's voice echoes in my head: "You always think you can save everyone, Cal. But you can't. Sometimes people are meant to—"
I shut the memory down. Hard.
My hands find holds in the rock. My feet slip twice, but I catch myself. The rain makes everything slick. The wind tries to push me off the cliff. I keep going.
When I reach the car, I see her through the shattered window.
A woman. Young. Dark hair matted with blood. Her head is tilted at an angle that makes my stomach drop. But her chest is moving. She's breathing.
She's alive.
"Can you hear me?" I shout over the storm.
No response.
The driver's door is crushed. I circle to the passenger side. That door opens with a screech of metal. I lean in, my hands automatically going to her neck to check for spinal damage.
I'm not a doctor anymore, I remind myself. I gave up that right.
But my hands remember. They know exactly what to do.
Her pulse is weak but steady. Possible concussion. Definitely broken ribs from the impact. Her left arm is twisted wrong. And there's blood—so much blood—soaking through her shirt from somewhere I can't see yet.
The engine makes a popping sound. Smoke is getting thicker.
I have maybe two minutes before this car explodes.
"I'm going to get you out," I tell her, even though she can't hear me. "Stay with me."
I slide my arms under her carefully, supporting her head and neck. Every movement has to be precise. If her spine is damaged and I move her wrong, I could paralyze her. Or kill her.
But if I don't move her at all, she'll definitely die.
I lift her out of the car. She's small, light. Her head falls against my shoulder. She smells like expensive perfume and blood.
The climb back up is worse than the climb down. I'm carrying dead weight now, trying to keep her spine aligned while my feet slip on wet rocks. The storm is so loud I can't hear anything else. Rain pours into my eyes. My arms are shaking.
Just like before. Just like carrying Rosie into the emergency room, knowing it was too late, knowing I'd failed—
No. Not now. Focus.
I reach the top of the cliff just as the car's engine explodes below. The blast of heat hits my back. I don't look behind. I just keep moving toward the lighthouse.
She needs shelter. Warmth. Medical attention.
She needs things I swore I'd never provide again.
Inside the lighthouse, I lay her on my bed. My hands work on autopilot—checking vitals, assessing injuries, applying pressure to the bleeding. The wound is on her side, deep but not immediately fatal. Three cracked ribs. Possible internal bleeding. Definite concussion.
She needs a hospital.
But the coast road is destroyed. The storm has made sure of that. And Lighthouse Cove doesn't have a hospital. Just me. The broken doctor who couldn't save his own sister.
I clean the wounds. Bandage what I can. Watch her breathing.
She's beautiful, I notice distantly. Even unconscious and covered in blood, there's something striking about her face. But that doesn't matter. Beauty doesn't change the fact that she drove off a cliff in the middle of a storm.
Was it an accident? Or was she trying to—
I check her hands. No defensive wounds. Check her neck. No ligature marks.
Then I see her phone, shattered on the floor where it must have fallen from the car. The screen is cracked but still glowing. Notifications are exploding across it. Hundreds of them.
I shouldn't look. It's not my business.
But one headline catches my eye: "Influencer Elena Moretti Missing After Public Breakdown."
The photograph shows the woman on my bed. Except in the photo she's smiling, polished, perfect. Nothing like the broken thing I pulled from the wreckage.
I read more. There's a video of her at some fancy gallery opening, screaming at a man. Accusing him of betrayal. She looks wild. Unstable.
The comments are brutal:
Attention seeking
So embarrassing
She's lost it
Someone get this girl help
My stomach turns. I've seen this before. I've lived this before. The court of public opinion destroying someone before they have a chance to defend themselves.
I know exactly how she feels.
The woman—Elena—makes a sound. Her eyes flutter but don't open. She's fighting consciousness, probably because her brain knows consciousness means pain.
"You're safe," I tell her quietly. "You're going to survive this."
But will you survive what comes after? I don't say that part out loud.
I sit in the chair by the window, watching her breathe. The storm continues outside. Inside, everything is still. Waiting.
I didn't save Rosie. Maybe I can save this stranger instead.
Or maybe I'll fail again, and she'll be one more ghost to haunt me.
Three hours pass. The storm doesn't let up. Elena doesn't wake up.
I'm checking her pupils with a flashlight when her phone buzzes again. Another notification. This time it's a message, not a news alert. The preview shows on the broken screen:
Marcus: I know you're reading this. Running won't save you. I'm coming to find you, and when I do, everyone will see what you really are.
My blood goes cold.
I look at the unconscious woman in my bed. At the bruises forming on her face. At the way her hands are clenched even in sleep, like she's still fighting something.
She didn't drive off that cliff by accident. She was running.
And whoever she was running from is coming here.
The lighthouse door rattles. Hard. Too hard to be just wind.
I stand up slowly, every muscle tensing.
There's someone outside.
In the middle of the storm.
In the middle of nowhere.
Looking for her.
The door rattles again. Then a voice cuts through the wind—cold and sharp:
"I know she's in there, Thorne. Open the door or I'm calling the police. That woman is mentally unstable and dangerous. She needs help. My help."
I look at Elena. Still unconscious. Still vulnerable.
Then I look at the door.
And I make a choice that will change everything.