Chapter 45

Chapter Forty-Five

Keane

Ophelia steps into the room, the soft click of her heels tapping against the floor. She looks completely different from the version of her I’ve grown used to. Her sleek hair catches the light, the ends brushing against the collar of a tailored blouse. Gold earrings glint as she adjusts one, her movements practiced and precise. For a moment, I forget she’s here to see me; she looks like she’s heading somewhere fancy. Not here.

“Lang just told me we were toxic,” she announces. She lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “The cold son of a bitch who’s had a frozen heart for years suddenly thinks he’s my personal therapist and can give me advice surrounding my love life. That’s priceless, isn’t it?”

“Lang?” I ask, the name tugging at a distant memory, but not hard enough to fully surface.

“You probably remember him as the manager of Too Far From Grace,” she says, her tone clipped.

I do remember Too Far From Grace. Beacon, the frontman, and I were friendly—not tight, though, not like he was with other musicians. He liked Rowan better, which was weird because my brother has nothing to do with the music world.But they always seemed familiar, almost like best friends. It was always weird.

Beacon’s bandmates were the same way. They had their circle, and I wasn’t in it. Not like Sinners of Seattle. Now those guys? Partying with Rocco and Zeke was legendary. The rest were okay at best. Then it clicks, Lang’s the tight ass manager who liked to call me Nepo-Stone every time he could.

It wasn’t like that though. Dad didn’t support my career. He encouraged me not to follow his footsteps and always said I should be more like my brother. I stare at Ophelia because I don’t understand why I can remember all this and can’t remember her at all.

“I recall the asshole,” I say.

“Yet, you don’t remember me. Or us,” she snaps, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Her lips press into a thin line before she adds bitterly, “Apparently, I don’t remember us either, according to Lang.”

I get why she’s angry. I am too. I remember how I feel about her, but not her or our relationship. She can keep telling me how great our relationship was. Those dates while going hiking or just me visiting her in college because I missed her sound . . . cheesy and not something I would do but I guess it happened. There are pictures that she keeps showing me. Sure there’s me and her and . . . nothing. It sparks nothing.

Why can’t I remember that big chunk of my life? Five years gone. The neurologist said something about amnesia and how things come together slowly at some point but I don’t see that coming back any time soon.

“Why toxic?” I ask, automatically questioning why. Lately, it seems to be the only word I use. That and what.

“He said I was trapped in Hurricane Keane. Something about how we weren’t good for each other. Toxic. Or were you the toxic one? I didn’t stay to get the whole explanation.”

I study her, taking in the polished exterior and the tension in her voice. “That makes sense. Honestly, you look like a good girl,” I say after a moment. “Not someone I would date.”

Her head snaps toward me, her brows shooting up. “What?” The shriek in her voice is almost endearing.

“Were you dating me because I was a bad boy?” I ask, the words leaving my mouth before I fully process them. I’m not sure if I’m teasing or genuinely curious.

She tilts her head, her gaze sharpening as she studies me, searching for something. “No. I . . . I told you when we started, I had no idea who you were or that you?—”

“Had famous parents, used to drink myself into oblivion, and had a fucked-up childhood?” I finish, not adding the part about the drugs because I’m not ready to go there yet. Rowan said something the other day about my using that has caused pain to many.

I need to think through who I want to become once I recover and maybe get the fuck out of Philly’s life before I destroy her again. So there are two people who agree that Ophelia isn’t safe with me. Not only that, apparently I hurt her. This woman who I can’t remember but I know is good and special seems to have been trapped in my world.

Not a good thing sweetheart. Why did I let her inside? Five fucking years with one person seems like a lifetime.

So, I’m a walking dead man. Okay, barely walking. I do great with a walker and my strength is getting there but eight weeks isn’t enough for my body to be fully recovered.

Yet, I better learn how to run fast before Haydn kills me. Sooner or later we’re going to find out how I hurt her, right?

She nods slowly, her expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah. I didn’t know that at first. But even when I found out, it didn’t change how I felt about you.”

“So why did you stay?” I ask quietly, my voice rough with the weight of the question.

Her lips part, but she hesitates, her gaze flickering away from mine as if the weight of the truth might be too much for both of us. Finally, her voice, soft but steady, breaks the silence. “Because you were kind, thoughtful, brilliant . . . You loved harder than anyone I’d ever met. When you were present, it felt like the world stood still.”

I swallow hard, her words slicing through the fog in my mind, settling deep in a place I can’t quite name. “And when I wasn’t?”

Her jaw tightens, and she looks away again, her hand curling into a fist at her side. “When you weren’t . . . it was like chasing a ghost. I thought if I loved you enough, I could pull you back. And most times I did.”

The words hit with a strange clarity. I can remember feeling lost—deliberately losing myself in the haze because the past and present hurt too much to bear. But I can’t remember her. How does that make sense? I can see the pain she’s describing, feel its edges closing in like an old wound reopened, yet the person—the woman who pulled me back—is just . . . absent.

I can’t reconcile it, this strange, fractured memory of emotions without a face. It’s like staring at a puzzle with missing pieces, the picture incomplete no matter how hard I try to piece it together. And yet, I feel her love. I feel the truth of her words in every breath. Isn’t that strange? To sense the impact of someone who feels like a stranger?

“That’s why Lang said what he did, isn’t it?” she suddenly asks, her voice sharper now, tinged with bitterness. “I let myself get lost in you.”

Her honesty pulls something to the surface in me—shame curling tight alongside an aching, deep longing. I press my hands to my thighs, trying to ground myself in the moment. “And now?” My voice is rough, a question and a plea rolled into one. “Are you trying to pull me out of it again?”

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the air between us feels fragile, brittle enough to break under the weight of everything hanging there. “Now,” she says softly, “I don’t know, Keane. The guilt is still choking me. Maybe that’s why I’m doing it, for the man who was there for me when I needed him. For the love we shared. For . . .”

“Guilt?” The confusion spills out before I can stop it.

Her gaze falters, and she takes a shallow breath, her shoulders trembling under the weight of words she’s been holding in. “You died, and I lived,” she says, her voice breaking. “She died . . . we lost her.”

“Who are you talking about?” The question feels foreign in my mouth, like I’m asking someone else’s story. “Who else died?”

Her lips tremble, and tears pool in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I was expecting a baby—our daughter. Lost her in the accident.”

Her words hit me like a tidal wave, stealing the air from my lungs. My hands grip the edge of the chair, knuckles white, as I try to process what she’s just said. A baby. A life that existed and was taken before it even had a chance. I feel like I’ve been gutted, a hollow ache spreading through me, deeper than I ever thought possible.

I want to say something, anything, but all I can do is stare at her, my mind unable to catch up with the truth she’s just laid bare.

The door swings open, slamming against the wall with a force that makes me jump. A tall man, almost as tall as Rowan, strides in, his broad shoulders filling the room with his imposing presence, his expression a mix of anger and resolve. Behind him, Haydn lingers in the doorway, his jaw tight, his eyes darting between us.

Okay, so maybe Haydn discovered I hurt Philly and hired a hit man. Should I call my brother?

The man’s gaze zeroes in on me, his lips curling into a sneer. “Why the fuck are you here?” His voice is low and dangerous, each word laced with venom.

“Do I know you?” I ask because seriously why do these people keep assuming that I’m familiar with them?

“Constantine, what are you doing here?” Ophelia asks.

“Rowan and I made a deal. I keep my mouth shut, and he keeps his fucking brother away from you,” Constantine says.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ophelia asks then gasps. “Did you know he was alive?”

The room is silent, colder, and I’m starting to think that he’s in on that secret Rowan presumes might bury me, why I had to leave with him before everything got a lot more complicated.

And now I’m probably fucked.