Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Haydn

I leave the room, glancing back just once to see her settle deeper into the bed, her body curling into the space we used to share. The ache in my chest twists sharper, relentless, but I force myself to turn away. I can’t stay. Not like this. Not with everything between us unraveling, fraying at the edges.

Instead of heading to my own room, my feet carry me down the hall, stopping outside one of the guest rooms.

Keane Stone’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and I hesitate, my hand hovering above the knob. For a moment, I consider turning back, but then I push it open.

The space feels more like a private clinic than a bedroom, meticulously arranged with state-of-the-art equipment. Lang must have insisted on this setup. In one corner, a sleek adjustable chair sits next to a compact treadmill, the kind meant for rehab. Resistance bands dangle from hooks on the wall, like strange, lifeless ornaments. A table holds neatly stacked medical supplies and folders, each item placed with precision. It’s a space carefully curated for recovery, practically shouting, you’ll get better . Even if the person it’s for doesn’t believe it yet.

He doesn’t want Keane to invade my working space. My gym is sacred and so are the other rooms. This room is big enough to accommodate all this and yet I feel like I’m being selfish by not sharing. Then again, I’m letting him have her. That’s the most selfless act I can think of, isn’t it?

I discussed it with my therapist during the flight back home. I could’ve easily set a boundary, but instead I’m here supporting her. Sure, I paused our relationship, but I think it is the smart thing to do. If she catches feelings for him she won’t feel guilty about it. Guilt is the one thing that makes her anxious the most. Stop thinking about all the scenarios, I tell myself while I continue inspecting the bedroom.

Lang assured me the recovery team was top tier. Physical therapists, speech therapists, neurologists—all part of some high-end practice his cousin owns that specializes in cases like Keane’s. Everything about this room reflects Lang’s meticulousness, his obsession with control.

Keane is lying on the bed, his body still but far from relaxed, sinking into the mattress like he’s bracing for something. His gaze shifts toward me as I step inside, his eyes following my movements with a mix of wariness and confusion, like he’s trying to figure out who I am and why I’m here.

“Hey, I thought I’d introduce myself,” I say quietly, keeping my voice low. The faint hum of the equipment fills the silence, punctuated only by the soft sound of his breathing. “I’m Haydn Wesford.”

He doesn’t respond, not at first. His expression doesn’t change, but his fingers twitch against the blanket, the smallest of movements, as if he’s debating whether to acknowledge me—or ignore me entirely.

I shift awkwardly, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words, though I’m not even sure what I want to say. “You probably don’t know who I am,” I continue, my voice faltering slightly. “But I know a bit about you. More than a bit, actually.”

His brows knit together, and frustration flashes across his face. I can feel it rolling off him—the confusion, the helplessness, the simmering anger. And honestly? I don’t blame him. If I woke up to find my entire world turned upside down, my memories shattered into pieces I couldn’t put back together, I’d feel the same.

“I’m Ophelia’s . . .” I pause, my throat tightening. The words feel heavier than I expected. “Friend,” I manage finally, though the word feels inadequate.

I swallow hard, glancing away before meeting his gaze again. “That sounds so pathetic, doesn’t it? We’re now just friends ,” I add, softer this time. “Even when she’s everything to me.”

His eyes narrow, the faintest flicker of something—recognition? Irritation? Maybe both.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, my voice steadier now. “At least not to you. I’ve known about you for a long time. And I’m not talking about your famous family or your songs. Nope. You and . . . her. Sometimes I even feared your memory. And now that you’re here . . .”

I let out a laugh, sudden and sharp, breaking the tension like a match struck too close to the flame. “I’m not here to get in your way or make things harder. That’s not what this is about.” I hesitate, my words teetering on the edge of vulnerability. “But I’m not leaving, either. You’re here because of her. Because she cares. And I’m here because I care about her, too. I need to make sure she’s okay while she’s helping you.”

Keane doesn’t move, but there’s something in his gaze—sharp, focused, like he’s trying to process my words, slotting them into the fractured pieces of memory he’s clinging to.

“I just wanted to introduce myself,” I say finally, softening my voice. “Because whether we like it or not, we’re all in this together now.”

Fuck I sound repetitive but I just don’t know if he understands me. I mean he’s unresponsive. But then I see it, just a flicker, his hand twitches on the blanket, a faint, involuntary reaction.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

His gaze sweeps over me, his expression inscrutable, as if sizing me up is instinctive. I scan the room again, letting the silence stretch.

“You don’t need to like me,” I say, my tone calm but firm, cutting cleanly through the quiet. “The only reason you’re in this house is because you’re important to her . To Ophelia.”

I pause, locking eyes with him, the force behind my words deliberate. “Be good to her. That’s all I ask. Even when things get difficult and you’re frustrated, be good to her.”

His eyelids lower in a slow blink. Just once.

Is that acknowledgment? A subtle message I can’t quite decode?

“Do you understand me?” I ask, keeping my voice steady but laced with intensity. “One snap, some bad shit, and you’re out.”

He blinks once again.

I narrow my eyes, studying him, trying to untangle the flicker of something—recognition? Defiance? “Okay, you do understand. So, do you know who Ophelia is? Who she was to you?”

His eyes widen just slightly, then: blink. Blink.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I mutter under my breath, more to myself than him.

He watches me, his expression unreadable, though there’s a tension there I can’t place. It mirrors the one tightening in my chest. “Alright,” I say, exhaling slowly. “Let’s simplify this. One blink means yes. Two blinks mean no. Got it?”

He stares at me for a beat, then blinks once.

“Good,” I say, leaning back slightly, though calm is the last thing I feel. “Let’s start over. Do you know who Ophelia is?”

Blink. Blink.

I rake a hand through my hair, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “And you don’t know who I am either, do you?”

Blink. Blink.

“Okay,” I mutter, letting out a humorless laugh. “It must suck not to remember her. If I lost my memory, that would be the one thing I’d hope to keep. She’s special, you know?”

This time, he blinks once, deliberate and slow. I wait, half-expecting another blink, but it doesn’t come.

“You don’t know her, but you know she’s special,” I say softly, tilting my head as I study his face. There’s another blink. “Yeah, that tracks. I knew it the moment I met her.”

My gaze shifts, landing on the recliner in the corner before moving back to the bed where he lies. His body is still, his face pale but alert, his breaths slow and steady. He looks fragile in a way that catches me off guard, a sharp contrast to the image I had of him—the man who once filled the gaps in Ophelia’s life.

“I’m not here to confuse you,” I admit, lowering myself to sit cross-legged on the carpet at the foot of the bed. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “But I can help with one thing. I’ll tell you about her. About the Ophelia I met three years ago.”

His eyes lock onto mine now, like he’s bracing himself for something he doesn’t even know is coming.

“The first time I met Ophelia,” I begin, “it was right outside this house. She was wearing this oversized sweater—you know, the kind that swallows a person whole. Like she was trying to disappear, but somehow, she still stood out. It was the way she carried herself—confident but guarded, like she knew exactly who she was but wasn’t sure anyone else would bother to notice.”

I pause, my gaze drifting toward the window where moonlight reflects off the still surface of the lake. The water is so calm it looks like glass, a mirror holding every secret the night has to offer.

“And God, I noticed,” I say, a wistful smile tugging at my lips. “Right then and there, I knew. She wasn’t like anyone else. Even if you don’t remember her—hell, even if you never do—you should know that much. She’s unforgettable.”