Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Ophelia

Haydn’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and laced with disbelief. “Mad? Yeah, I guess you could say that.” His eyes bore into mine, raw with shock and anger. “I thought we told each other everything—that there weren’t any secrets. But maybe I was wrong. Because, unless I misunderstood, it seems like your fiancé is awake, Ophelia.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, slicing through whatever fragile stability I’ve managed to cling to. My stomach twists violently, a sickening lurch that makes the whole room spin, the ground tilting beneath me as though it’s been yanked out from under my feet. I grip the edge of the bed, desperate to stay upright, but nausea rolls over me in waves, fierce and unrelenting.

My body reacts faster than my mind can catch up—my throat tightens, and that familiar, bitter taste rises at the back of my mouth as my stomach churns, threatening to betray me right here, right now.

I can’t do this. I can’t fall apart. Not now.

But the tension coils tighter and tighter, winding through every muscle, making my whole body ache as if bracing for an impact I know I can’t avoid. I take a shaky breath, willing the sick feeling to settle, trying to keep myself from unraveling. But there’s a relentless pounding in my head, this hammering that drowns out everything else, and I can barely process what Haydn just said.

“This has to be a joke,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper. “A very . . . morbid joke.”

Somebody probably got a hold of our story. They’re looking for a scandal, trying to stir things up—maybe they want an exclusive about his fiancée. I’m suddenly newsworthy, not just the woman who almost died in that accident but the one he left behind. That must be it. It has to be.

“You need to call the hospital,” Haydn says, his tone almost clinical, stripped of any warmth. “Something about being his next of kin.”

“But he can’t be alive. Are you sure that’s what they said?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can process them.

“And awake,” he insists.

“He can’t be,” I press because something is wrong, I just don’t know exactly what.

“That’s what the woman said over the phone,” he replies, his voice tight.

Keane. Awake.

No. Keane, alive. That’s . . . impossible. It feels like reality itself has fractured, like someone just told me the sky isn’t blue or the ground beneath me doesn’t exist. How can he be alive?

The thought crashes into me, unraveling everything I thought I knew. The fragile sense of normalcy I’d rebuilt cracks apart, leaving me scrambling to make sense of it.

He died. I remember the call from his mother, her voice cold and detached, delivering the news as if it were nothing more than a business update. They hadn’t even bothered contacting me until it was done—until they’d already made the decision to disconnect him. To sever him from life without a second thought for me.

But I didn’t even hear it from her first. I learned the truth in the worst possible way—standing in line at the pharmacy, glancing down at the cover of a gossip magazine. After Months in a Coma Following Tragic Accident, Keane Stone Has Died. Keane Stone’s Passing Shocks Fans: No News About Mysterious Passenger Who Nearly Died With Him. That was me in the car. The “mysterious passenger who nearly died with him.” Not his fiancée, not his girlfriend . . . I was just some stranger.

Rock Star Keane Stone Dies Months After Crash That Left Him in a Coma. Keane Stone’s Tragic End: Questions Linger About the Accident And Unknown Passenger, Did She Die? Who Was She?

Those headlines were how the world learned he was gone. How I learned he was gone. Not through his family, not from anyone who cared enough to tell me directly. To the world, I wasn’t even worth a name—just a piece of the story, a tragedy to gawk at, a fleeting detail for their pages.

To his mother, I was less than that. I’d never been family. I was “just the girl he was fucking”—her exact words. To her, I was nothing. Not worth an explanation, not worth inclusion in his life or even acknowledgment in his death. What happened to me during that accident—the hospital stays, the surgeries, the . . . Everything still haunts me. According to her, all of it was a blessing. Her tone made it clear she thought I deserved worse.

And now, somehow, this.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” I choke out, my voice trembling as though forcing the words into the air might anchor me in something familiar. “Keane’s been gone for years . . .”

But the room tilts, the edges of my vision blur, and it feels like the ground beneath me is giving way. The sheer weight of this new reality presses down on me, too heavy to hold. Stumbling, I push past Haydn, his concerned voice barely registering as I stagger into the bathroom.

I collapse in front of the toilet just in time, clutching the cold porcelain with both hands as my stomach heaves violently. The shock, the horror, the buried pain—all of it threatens to spill out, overwhelming and unstoppable.

My knuckles turn white as I grip the edge of the toilet bowl, my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. There’s a relentless pounding in my head, a sick, twisting sensation in my stomach, and I want to purge it all. The impossible truth, the memories I buried, the betrayal—it all claws at me, demanding release. But no matter how hard I try to expel it, the suffocating ache remains, pressing down on me and refusing to let go.

From my mind.

From my body.

From my heart.

I take a shuddering breath, forcing myself to sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I try to steady myself. My ears are ringing, and there’s a pressure in my chest that feels like it might choke me. I can’t afford this. I don’t have time to fall apart, to let the panic consume me. I need to get a grip. I need to figure out what’s happening.

Slowly, I reach for the counter to pull myself up, my hands still trembling. The cold surface steadies me for a moment, but before I can find my balance, Haydn is there. His strong arms slip around me, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. He eases me to my feet, keeping one hand firm on my shoulder while the other hovers protectively at my waist. I steady myself against the counter, my breath shaky, my legs weak.

“Pia,” he murmurs, his voice low, tinged with concern. His hand brushes a loose strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle but lingering near my cheek. His thumb grazes my skin, and his eyes search mine, trying to gauge just how far I’m unraveling. “Take a deep breath. Just breathe. Everything is going to be okay. I didn’t mean to . . . Fuck.” He swallows hard, his jaw tightening. “You didn’t know he was alive?”

“Nope,” I manage, the word barely audible. My voice feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else. “I’m sure it’s a prank or something. He can’t be. He just . . . can’t.”

Haydn’s brows furrow, regret flickering across his face. “I’m an asshole. I should’ve handled this differently. I was caught off guard. It’s just . . . you were engaged, and you never mentioned it.”

My lips part, but I can barely form the words. “Almost no one knew. And why bring it up?” My voice cracks, my throat tight, and I force myself to meet his gaze. “It didn’t matter anymore.”

His hand slips from my shoulder to cradle my face, his thumb brushing against my temple in a soothing gesture. “I’m sorry for overreacting,” he says, his tone softer now, steady and reassuring. “I should’ve stopped to think how this news would affect you. We’ll figure out what’s going on, okay, baby?”

I nod, but it’s a reflex, not an agreement. My head swims, his words muffled by the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. I clutch the counter tighter, willing myself to breathe, to focus. Slowly, I lift my gaze to the mirror, and the sight that greets me makes my stomach drop.

The woman staring back at me feels almost unrecognizable. Her skin, normally rich with warmth, now appears dull, her features etched with exhaustion. My eyes are wide, haunted, like I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming through the past, only to be thrown into some twisted version of the present.

But it’s not just my reflection that feels alien—it’s the deep ache radiating through my body, relentless and unforgiving. My shoulders throb, my lower back burns, and my legs feel like they’re weighed down by lead. The familiar pain of my fibromyalgia flares, heightened by the stress coursing through me. It’s cruel, invisible. It never truly leaves, and right now with the stress, it’s screaming louder than ever.

Still, none of that compares to the ache lodged deep in my chest. It’s the resurfacing of something I thought I’d buried long ago, clawing its way back with a raw and merciless intensity. My mirror image feels like a stranger, but the pain—both physical and emotional—is all too familiar.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to feel. How to feel,” I whisper, barely able to meet my own gaze. Relief? Terror? Guilt? It’s all there, tangled and raw, impossible to unravel. Beneath it all is a creeping dread, a cold fear spreading through me like frost, ready to consume me whole.

Haydn’s hands settle on my shoulders, his touch firm but careful, grounding me in a way I desperately need. He turns me gently to face him, his eyes searching mine, filled with a concern that makes my throat tighten. “You don’t have to know right now,” he says softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “This is huge, Pia. No one expects you to handle it all at once.”

His words seep into me, but my body still feels heavy with the weight of it all. His hands slide down to take mine, his grip gentle yet firm. He squeezes my fingers, his thumb tracing soothing circles over my skin. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice unwavering. “Whatever happens, whatever you need—I’m here.”

My knees threaten to buckle, but he holds me upright. I close my eyes, letting his words settle over me, their steady reassurance calming the plethora of emotions swirling inside me. His hand moves to my back, warm and protective, keeping me together just as I feel like I’m about to fall apart.

“This can’t be happening,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “He’s dead, Haydn. This . . . this has to be some twisted ploy. Someone probably wants me to talk, to sell a story, to dig up something they can exploit for a quick buck.” My throat tightens as I glance at him, fear clawing its way to the surface. “What if this drags you in somehow? What if you end up in the middle of this mess because of me? Maybe I should go back to my apartment. You don’t need this.”

His expression shifts, guilt flickering in his eyes before it hardens with resolve. He grips my hand just a little tighter, his jaw set, though there’s an apologetic softness in his voice when he speaks.

“Pia, I’m sorry for how I reacted earlier. I didn’t stop to think about what this would do to you, and I hate that I added to it. I should’ve been better for you.” His voice drops slightly, filled with protective determination. “But I mean it now—I’m not going anywhere just because you want to protect me. I don’t need you to worry about me, I just need you to let me care for you. That’s why I have an agent, a publicist, a whole team whose job is to deal with vultures like this. Let them handle the noise. You’re what matters to me.”

There’s a fierceness in his tone now, his words sharp with conviction. “Nobody touches what’s mine,” he murmurs. “No one. I’ll defend you against anything or anyone who tries to hurt you.”

My chest tightens, a swirl of helplessness and self-doubt rising to the surface. “I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “It’s too much. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

Haydn reaches for me, his touch soft as he tilts my chin, guiding my gaze to his. His expression is unwavering, fierce yet tender, and the intensity in his eyes anchors me in a way I didn’t know I needed.

“Pia,” he says, his voice low but filled with quiet strength, “you’ve already survived more than most people could even imagine. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than this.”

His voice softens, and his thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. “You don’t have to face this alone,” he says gently. “We’re a team, partners in everything.”

The conviction in his voice, the certainty in his words, sparks something inside me. It gives me a quiet reassurance that, no matter what happens, I won’t have to face this alone. As I meet his gaze, something unexpected stirs within me. It’s faint but undeniable: belief. Maybe I’m not as alone as I feared.

Gripping Haydn’s hand, I take a shaky breath, holding on to him as tightly as I dare, bracing for what’s to come. And I have no idea if I’ll make it through this intact.

Keane is a ghost, a chapter that closed long ago, I remind myself. I press a hand to my chest, forcing myself to breathe, to steady the trembling in my hands.

But no matter how hard I try, the question lingers, burning through me: what am I supposed to do now?

“Where do I even start?” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. I’m not sure if I want an answer or if I’m just saying it out loud to make sense of it. “What if . . . what if it’s not a prank?”

“Call the hospital,” Haydn says gently. “They never gave me an exact name or number, just said to contact the hospital. I doubt they’d be part of any prank.” He pauses, his expression tightening as he takes a deep breath. “On second thought, I’ll have my people make the call, do some digging. Find out what’s really going on before you get pulled into any of this.”

His offer is thoughtful, protective, but something inside me resists. I draw in a deep breath, an unexpected resolve taking root. I’m not the same person I was after the accident. That version of me faded almost five years ago, along with the pieces of myself I thought were lost forever. But I’ve rebuilt since then, bit by bit, reshaping who I am. I’m not someone who steps aside and lets others take over my life.

Then it comes to me—Pria Decker. My former boss. A woman who’s nothing short of unstoppable when it comes to getting answers. Her connections are vast, her team relentless, and she knows how to cut through confusion like no one else. If there’s anyone who can uncover the truth, it’s her.

I could reach out to Pria, see if she’ll lend her resources—or even hire her team outright. If there’s a way to uncover what’s happening before I have to confront it directly, she’s the person to make it happen.