The smell of antiseptic hit Rhys like a physical blow, sharp and suffocating. He groaned, his body protesting as he struggled to push himself upright. Everything felt heavy—his limbs, his head, the air in his lungs.
"Are you awake?"
His mother's voice cut through the fog. He turned toward the sound, forcing his eyes open slowly. The fluorescent lights stabbed at his retinas, making them sting and water. He blinked hard, trying to adjust to the abrupt brightness.
The hospital. He was in a hospital.
His gaze swept the sterile room—white walls, beeping machines, the faint hum of ventilation. Then he saw her.
His mother sat in the chair beside his bed, and the sight of her made something twist in his chest. Lady Genevieve Castillon, always the picture of grace and elegance, looked utterly wrecked. Her usually immaculate hair was disheveled, her designer blouse wrinkled, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
She was crying—no, not crying. Bawling. Her shoulders shook as she clutched his hand.
"Thank God," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Thank God you're awake. I thought—I thought I was going to lose you too—"
"Mother..." His voice came out rough, barely more than a rasp. He swallowed, trying to wet his dry throat. "What happened? Why am I here?"
He tried to remember. Tried to piece together how he'd ended up in this bed. But his mind felt like shattered glass—fragments of images that wouldn't connect.
"What of my wife?" The question left his lips before he could stop it. Old habits. Old wounds. "Where is—"
His mother went completely still.
Her expression shifted—something flickered across her face that made his stomach drop. Fear? Guilt? She looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
"She's fine," his mother said too quickly, her voice tight. "She's okay."
Rhys's instincts screamed that something was wrong. He knew his mother. Knew when she was hiding something. He opened his mouth to press her—
The door burst open.
His sister rushed in, followed by a flood of medical staff—doctors in white coats, nurses with clipboards. They swarmed around his bed, checking monitors, shining lights in his eyes, asking him questions he could barely process.
"Mr. Castillon, can you tell me your name?"
"Do you know what day it is?"
"Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?"
Their voices overlapped, clinical and detached. Rhys answered automatically, but his mind was elsewhere.
What happened?
He tried to remember. Tried to force his brain to cooperate. But every time he reached for the memory, pain lanced through his skull like a knife. Sharp. Blinding.
What happened?
The question echoed in his mind, over and over, unanswered.
Three Years Ago
The Castillon estate looked like it was dressed for a funeral.
Because it was.
Black drapes hung from the windows of the beautiful manor house. White lilies—Siennah's favorite flowers—were arranged in massive bouquets throughout the grounds. The staff moved like ghosts through the halls, their faces drawn and pale, speaking in hushed whispers.
Everyone was mourning.
Everyone except Rhys.
The workers couldn't look at each other without tearing up. Their Madam Siennah had been kind—genuinely, beautifully kind. She'd learned all their names, asked about their families, brought them treats from the bakery she loved. She wasn't just the young master's wife. She was beloved. Cherished.
And now she was gone.
Except... her body had never been found.
The funeral was being held with an empty casket.
And the young master refused to attend.
Rhys stood under the shower in his private bathroom, the water running ice-cold over his skin. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just stood there, staring at the white tile wall, letting the cold numb him.
Downstairs, he could hear the chaos. Voices. Footsteps. The arrival of guests for the memorial service. He ignored it all.
She's not dead.
He repeated it to himself like a mantra. Like if he said it enough times, it would become true.
Siennah is not dead.
They hadn't found her body. The hydroplane had crashed into the sea—wreckage scattered across the water—but there was no body. No proof. Just assumptions.
The police had declared her dead after three months of searching, but Rhys knew better. He'd hired private investigators, spent a fortune searching every coastline, every hospital, every possible lead. Nothing.
She was out there somewhere. Lost. Hurt. Waiting for him.
And he had failed to protect her.
If only he hadn't suggested that getaway. If only he'd listened to her. If only—
The bathroom door opened.
Rhys didn't turn. He knew who it was.
"My baby..."
His mother's voice was soft. Broken.
He reached out and shut off the shower, the sudden silence almost deafening. Water dripped from his hair, his shoulders. He grabbed a towel and dried himself mechanically, still not looking at her.
"If you're here to persuade me to come downstairs and accept this," he said flatly, "you're wasting your time, Mother. Siennah is not dead."
There was a long, heavy pause.
"I don't want to believe it either."
Her voice cracked, and Rhys finally turned to look at her.
Lady Genevieve stood in the doorway, tears streaming down her face. She looked smaller somehow. Fragile.
"She was like a daughter to me," his mother whispered. "To me and Pa. It's like... it's like I'm holding a funeral for my own child." Her composure shattered completely, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.
Rhys felt something fracture inside his chest. His hands shook. His vision blurred. He wanted to break down—to scream, to cry, to rage at the unfairness of it all.
But he couldn't.
Instead, he turned away and walked into his closet.
The staff downstairs froze when they heard footsteps on the grand staircase.
Rhys Castillon descended, dressed in a crisp business suit—navy blue, perfectly tailored, tie knotted with precision. Not funeral attire. Work attire.
He strode through the entrance hall without a word, ignoring the shocked stares, the whispered protests. His assistant scrambled after him as Rhys climbed into his car and started the engine.
"Any updates?" Rhys asked curtly as he pulled out of the driveway.
His assistant hesitated. "Sir... there's still no—"
"Then keep looking."
The same conversation they'd had every single day for three months.
The car disappeared down the tree-lined drive, leaving the funeral behind.
From his second-floor balcony, Pa Castillon watched his grandson drive away.
The old man's weathered face was drawn with grief and worry. He'd watched Rhys sink deeper and deeper into denial over the past three months. Watched him refuse to sleep, refuse to eat, refuse to grieve. The boy was drowning, and Pa didn't know how to save him.
His gaze shifted to the dining room windows below.
Through the glass, he could see his daughter—Rhys's mother—sitting at the long table, staring blankly at an untouched plate of food. As he watched, her shoulders began to shake. She covered her face with her napkin and wept.
She'd been doing that every meal for months now.
The other family members sat in uncomfortable silence, pushing food around their plates, unable to eat in the oppressive atmosphere of grief.
This had become their routine.
A house full of ghosts.
And a young man who refused to let go.