Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

Haydn

The terrace is quiet except for the soft hum of the pool filters and the faint rustle of the wind through the trees. The lights strung overhead cast a warm glow over the table, where dinner is laid out—a mix of her favorites and mine. Grilled salmon, a salad loaded with everything except croutons (because, for some reason, she doesn’t trust “prepackaged bread” and the chef didn’t have time to prepare any), and a bottle of chilled white wine. It’s simple, nothing elaborate tonight, but it feels good. Familiar.

Ophelia sits across from me, her hair twisted up into some messy knot on the top of her head. A few strands escape, brushing against her face every time she leans forward to take a bite. She’s wearing an oversized sweater, the kind she steals from my side of the closet, and it’s swallowing her whole, making her look smaller than she is. Cute. So fucking cute.

She’s talking about something—the details of her day, I think—but I’m distracted by the way she’s cutting her salmon. Tiny bites, careful, deliberate. Like the plate might bite back if she’s not cautious. I always tease her about it, but tonight I keep my mouth shut. It’s been a long day for both of us, and I don’t want to ruin the peace of this moment with my nonsense.

Instead, I watch her. The way her eyes light up as she talks, the way her hand moves, gesturing in time with her words. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but she could be reciting the most boring weather report, and I’d still hang on every word.

“You didn’t listen to a single thing I just said, did you?” she asks suddenly, her lips quirking into a smirk as she catches me staring.

“Not true,” I counter, sitting up straighter. “You said something about . . . an article? A publication would like you to be the one taking pictures for it. The stuff the journalist took isn’t on par with the magazine.”

Her eyes narrow, like she’s debating whether to call me out or let me off the hook. Thankfully, she lets it slide, taking a sip of her wine before continuing. “It’s not just an article. It’s a cover feature for Wanderlust. They’re doing a piece on the Andes—Machu Picchu, Rainbow Mountain, the Sacred Valley. They want me to photograph it all.”

“That’s huge, Pia.” I lean forward, grinning at her. “When do you have to leave?

“Not for a few months,” she says, poking at her salad. “But it’s going to be a long trip. At least four weeks and I’m not sure what’s going to happen with Keane.”

“Four weeks without you? That’s cruel.” I reach across the table, nudging her hand with mine. “Can I come? You know I’d carry your gear if you let me.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “The season will be in full swing, I doubt you’ll be able to even take five minutes to call me while I’m there.”

“Okay, I won’t be able to go, but I always make time for you while I’m on the road—and you’re too busy jet-setting around the world,” Itease.

Her laugh turns into a full-on snort, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all day. It’s these little moments, the ones where she’s completely herself, that I love the most. When she’s not overthinking or carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. When she’s just her.

“Seriously, though,” I say after a beat, leaning back in my chair. “I’m proud of you. This is a big deal, Pia. You’re killing it.”

She smiles at me then—soft and genuine—and I know I’d do anything to keep that smile on her face. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “It’s kind of a dream, you know? Shooting for Wanderlust. Traveling to places I’ve only ever read about. I just . . . I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” I say, my voice firm. “You never do.”

She sighs. “But what about Keane?”

I hoped that by not acknowledging it the first time she would move on, but I was totally wrong.

“He has people. We’ll do our best to be around him so he doesn’t feel alone,” I say honestly, because I genuinely believe that being surrounded by people who care might help speed up his recovery. Now, if I could just get ahold of his fucking brother and ship Keane to him . . . well, maybe my life would finally feel less like a circus. Wouldn’t that be nice?

For a second, Ophelia just looks at me, her gaze soft but searching, like she’s trying to read between the lines of what I’m saying. Then, without a word, she reaches for her glass, her fingers brushing against mine as if by accident—but it doesn’t feel like one. The touch lingers, warm and deliberate, sending a spark of something through me.

“You’re too good to me,” she murmurs, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush.

“Maybe, but only because you’re cute and probably the best photographer in the world.” I wink, popping a cherry tomato into my mouth with a casual shrug. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

She lets out a quiet laugh, the sound soft but real, and it’s enough to make something tighten in my chest—not in a bad way, but in that gut-punching way that reminds me how much she means to me. How much this life we’ve pieced together, one fragile thread at a time, matters to me.

The conversation shifts, light and easy. We talk about her packing list, my laughable attempt at learning Spanish for a trip we haven’t even booked yet. Her eyes light up as she tells me about some ridiculous travel vlog she found, and I can’t stop grinning, caught up in her energy.

For a moment, everything feels perfect. Just us, sharing a quiet meal, catching up on the little things that make up our days. No distractions, no stress, no lingering ghosts from the past.

Just us.

But of course, just us doesn’t last long.

The chime of the doorbell cuts through the moment like a record scratch, jolting me out of our bubble. I pull out my phone, opening the app connected to the security system to see who could possibly be bothering us at this hour.

There’s a man I don’t recognize standing at the door. He looks directly into the camera. Narrowed, determined eyes glaring at whoever is watching or will watch the video.

“Open the fucking door,” he demands, his voice slightly distorted through the speaker but no less biting. “I know you kidnapped my brother, Ophelia Foster. Just hand him over, and I’ll leave peacefully.”

I glance at her. She’s already staring at the screen and begins to laugh.

“What the fuck?” I mutter under my breath, not sure what’s more unsettling, her laughing or this guy causing ruckus.

And just like that, the perfect evening is over.