Today had been marked as Siennah's Day in the Castillon household.
The estate was dressed in her memory—white lilies everywhere, soft music playing from hidden speakers, photographs of her smiling face displayed throughout the main hall. It had become a routine over the past three years.
An annual ritual of grief.
The atmosphere was heavy with sorrow... except for the children.
Their laughter rang through the corridors—bright, joyful, completely oblivious to the solemnity around them. To them, this was a celebration. A party. They didn't understand death yet, didn't grasp why the adults wore black and spoke in hushed tones.
Rhys stood in the doorway of the drawing room, watching them play.
They were the children of extended family—his sister's kids, cousins' kids, all running around in their little dress clothes, playing hide-and-seek between the antique furniture. He watched them with a hollow ache in his chest.
If she was still alive, we would have had our own children by now.
The thought hit him like it always did—sharp, painful, impossible to ignore.
One of the children's fathers noticed Rhys standing there. His cousin's husband quickly moved to corral the kids, his expression apologetic. "Come on, you lot. Let's take this outside—"
"Leave them," Rhys said quietly.
The man paused, surprised.
Rhys gave him a small smile—tired, but genuine. "Let them play. It's fine."
The cousin nodded gratefully and ushered the children toward the garden instead, their giggles fading as they ran outside.
Rhys remained in the doorway, alone.
Three years.
Three years since the hydroplane crash. Three years of fruitless searching. Three years of private investigators, diving teams, forensic experts, psychics—he'd tried everything. Spent a fortune he didn't care about losing.
Everyone wanted him to move on. To accept reality. To grieve and heal.
But he couldn't.
He still believed she was out there. Lost. Waiting for him. Needing him.
But truthfully... he was starting to waver.
Rhys tilted his head back and looked up at the clear blue sky. His voice came out as barely a whisper.
"Siennah... where the hell are you?"
He laughed—a bitter, broken sound.
"I'm getting tired. People think I'm insane."
Maybe they're right.
He started walking, letting his feet carry him through the estate grounds. Everywhere he looked, people were busy preparing for the memorial event. His sister directing the catering staff. His mother overseeing the flower arrangements. Close cousins greeting early arrivals.
Over the years, Siennah's Day had transformed into something strange.
To outsiders—business associates, socialites, politicians—it was an event. A chance to network with the Castillon family, to be seen in the right circles. It had grown so large that it caused traffic delays in the surrounding streets, like some kind of celebrity concert.
Rhys smiled grimly at the irony.
To the world, it was a spectacle.
To his family, it was a funeral they held every single year.
His wandering steps brought him to a stop in front of the family garden.
It wasn't really a garden—not in the traditional sense. It was the Castillon burial grounds. A beautiful, manicured space where generations of his family rested beneath elegant headstones and marble monuments.
Rhys hadn't come here in months. Maybe longer.
He'd refused to visit because coming here meant acknowledging the headstone they'd placed for Siennah. The empty grave. The coffin with nothing inside.
But today... today he forced himself to enter.
The moment he stepped through the iron gate, memories hit him like a wave.
His father's grave, just to the left. He could almost see him—tall, commanding, laughing at some joke. Gone now for eight years.
His grandmother's monument beneath the willow tree. He remembered her gentle hands, her stories, the way she always smelled like lavender.
Uncle Abel's stone near the back—Isla's father, taken too young by illness.
So many ghosts.
Rhys walked past them all, his footsteps slow, until he stopped in front of her headstone.
Siennah Castillon
Beloved Wife
Forever in Our Hearts
The memories crashed over him, relentless.
Coming home after long days at the office to find her in the kitchen, dinner prepared, candles lit, her smile brighter than any light.
Now he came home to empty tables. Cold silence.
Her surprise visits to his office with homemade lunch, insisting he needed proper nutrients. "I have to keep you healthy, or some corporate shark will try to steal my husband," she'd tease.
He chuckled at the memory, his chest tight.
Waiting for her after her evening classes at the university, watching her light up when she spotted him on their bench in the park.
Now it was just an empty bench he couldn't bear to walk past.
He'd worn navy today. Her favorite color on him.
"You always look so stiff in black," she used to say, straightening his tie with a playful smile. "I miss the college Rhys. The one who wore jeans and didn't take himself so seriously."
"I have to work," he'd reply, catching her hands. "I'm the man of the house now. I need to take care of you. Take care of our future kids."
She'd laughed—God, he missed that laugh—and kissed him.
"Our future kids, huh? Planning ahead, Mr. Castillon?"
"At least three," he'd said seriously. "Maybe four."
"Four?!" She'd swatted his chest. "You're not the one giving birth, mister."
More memories flooded in, relentless.
Siennah curled up on their couch with a book, her reading glasses perched on her nose, absently reaching for his hand even while absorbed in her novel.
The way she'd hum while cooking—always slightly off-key, always the same three songs on rotation. How she'd steal his hoodies and walk around their penthouse drowning in fabric, insisting they were "more comfortable" than her own clothes.
"Rhys, come look at this!"
Her excited voice echoing through their home whenever she found something interesting—a recipe, a news article, a funny video. She'd always want to share everything with him, no matter how small.
The way she'd wait up for him on late work nights, fighting sleep on the couch because she refused to go to bed without saying goodnight. He'd find her there, barely awake, and carry her to their room. She'd mumble sleepily, "You work too hard," and he'd kiss her forehead and promise, "I'll slow down soon."
A promise he never got to keep.
Their last real conversation before the trip played in his mind.
"I have something important to tell you," Siennah had said, zipping up her small suitcase, a mysterious smile playing on her lips.
"Tell me now," he'd urged, curious.
"Nope." She'd booped his nose playfully. "You'll find out on the island. But only if you make me happy throughout the entire trip."
"The entire trip?" He'd pulled her close. "That's a given. Tristan's handling everything for the whole week. You have my undivided attention."
"Promise?" Her eyes had sparkled. "No work calls? No emails? No 'emergency meetings'?"
"I promise. One full week. Just you and me."
She'd kissed him then, soft and sweet. "Good. Because what I have to tell you... it's important, Rhys. Life-changing."
"You're killing me with suspense here."
"Patience, Mr. Castillon. All good things to those who wait."
But he never got to hear what she wanted to tell him.
The hydroplane had gone down on the second day. He remembered the engine sputtering, Siennah's hand gripping his, her eyes wide with fear. The impact. The cold water. The chaos.
He'd woken up in the hospital three days later.
She had vanished into the ocean.
And whatever she'd been so excited to tell him—whatever life-changing news she'd been holding onto—died with her in those waves.
Or so everyone believed.
But Rhys couldn't accept that. Wouldn't accept that.
Because if she was gone, he'd never know. Never hear those words she'd been saving. Never see that smile when she finally told him her secret.
What were you going to tell me, Siennah?
The question haunted him every single day for three years..
Rhys felt something wet on his cheek.
He touched his face, startled.
Tears.
He was crying.
This was the first time he'd cried for Siennah since the crash. He'd refused before—refused because crying meant accepting she was gone. Crying meant admitting defeat.
But no... no, he wasn't crying because Siennah was dead.
He was crying because he had failed to protect her. Because God only knew what she was facing out there, alone and lost.
Because he was tired—so desperately tired of searching and finding nothing. Tired of missing her. Tired of living half a life.
He was crying because he missed them. Their life together. The future they'd planned.
The future that had drowned in the sea three years ago.
Rhys wiped his face roughly and turned away from the grave.
He needed to clear his head. Needed to move.
He walked quickly toward the car park, his chest tight, his breathing uneven. He slid into his car—the same BMW he'd driven for years—and sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.
His hands were still shaking.
He pulled out his phone and dialed without thinking.
Two rings, then: "Sir?"
Tristan's voice was calm, professional as always. In the background, Rhys could hear the faint sounds of the office—keyboards clicking, phones ringing. Of course Tristan was working. It was what they always did on this day.
For three years, Rhys had made it a routine to work on Siennah's Day. Didn't matter if it fell on a weekend, a holiday, even Christmas—he'd go to the office and bury himself in contracts, mergers, acquisitions. Anything to avoid feeling.
And Tristan, loyal to a fault, always joined him.
"Tristan," Rhys said, his voice rougher than intended. "Take the day off."
There was a pause. A long one.
"Sir?" Tristan's tone shifted—confused, concerned. "Are you... is everything alright?"
"I'm fine. Just—" Rhys exhaled slowly. "You don't need to be in the office today. Go home. Spend time with your family. I won't be coming in."
Another pause. Rhys could practically hear Tristan recalibrating, trying to understand this unprecedented break in routine.
"Understood, sir," Tristan finally said, carefully neutral. "If you need anything—"
"I know. Thank you, Tristan."
Rhys ended the call before his assistant could ask any more questions.
His phone buzzed immediately after.
A message from his lead investigator.
"Still no results. Sorry, sir."
The same message he'd received every week for three years.
Rhys's jaw clenched. He tossed the phone into the passenger seat, turned the key, and the engine roared to life.
He needed to drive. Didn't matter where. Just... away.
He pulled out of the estate, the tires crunching on gravel, and merged onto the main road.
No destination in mind.
Just keep driving.