Chapter 46

Chapter Forty-Six

Ophelia

I stare at my brother, disbelief surging through me. “You knew he was alive and kept it from me?” My voice echoes in the room, loud and trembling with emotion. “I was shattered, Constantine. I lost everything, and you . . . you knew?”

“It was better that way,” my very stupid, overprotective brother says.

“Better?” I repeat, the word catching in my throat like glass. “For whom ? Because it sure as hell wasn’t better for me.”

“Constantine,” Haydn cuts in, his voice laced with irritation. “I told you to handle this gently, not like this.”

“Stay out of it, Haydn,” Constantine snaps, turning on him. “You let this happen too. You’re no better than him.”

Haydn stiffens, his gaze locking on Constantine. “Maybe if either of you had let me in, things wouldn’t have spiraled like this,” he retorts. His eyes flick to mine, softening for a moment before shifting to him again. “But no. You had to control everything, leaving me in the dark while keeping secrets from everyone.”

I feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. My hands tremble at my sides as I focus on Constantine, trying to piece together some sense of this betrayal. “You had no right,” I say, my voice trembling but resolute. “No right to decide what was best for me. Do you have any idea what it was like? What I went through?”

Constantine presses his lips into a thin line, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake off the weight of my words. “Yes, I was there. For an entire year I was there taking care of you. Protecting you from the truth and hopefully him .”

“Protecting me?” The words burst out of me in a bitter laugh. “You didn’t protect me, Constantine. You took away my chance to grieve properly. You let me live in a lie.”

Haydn steps closer, his expression unreadable, but his voice is quiet when he says, “Pia, I understand this is catalytic. I do. But take a few deep breaths and relax your body. You’re about to have a panic attack, baby.” Then he turns to Constantine. “Keep your tone down or you’re out of here. I get it, you’re trying to look after her. This isn’t the way to do it though. Keep behaving this way and she will be hurting tomorrow.”

Constantine finally exhales, his frustration clear as he rakes a hand through his hair. “I was trying to do what was right,” he mutters. “The doctors said he might not wake up. I saw this as a chance for you to start a new life, away from the toxicity that was Keane Stone.”

“He wasn’t?—”

“I was,” Keane says, his tone laced with a mix of bitterness and guilt. “I still can’t remember you or the accident, but I was a very broken, selfish man, Ophelia.”

“You don’t remember,” I repeat, my voice cracking slightly. That’s not who he was—not to me, not the man I loved.

Keane snorts, the sound humorless. “I probably used you in some way or another. I’m not saying I didn’t love you, but . . .” His voice trails off, unfinished, leaving an ache in its wake.

I don’t even know what to say anymore, so I refocus on Constantine, needing someone to make sense of this mess. “You didn’t do what was right,” I say, quieter now but no less firm. “You did what was convenient for you.”

Constantine shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “No, convenient would’ve been fighting his parents. Not letting the Stones bury the truth. I did it for the people I love. If I hadn’t . . .”

“Finish that sentence, damn it,” I snap, my patience fraying.

“I don’t think you remember the accident or that time the way I do,” Constantine says.

“Apparently, I don’t,” I admit, puffing out a frustrated breath. “Lang said something similar earlier, like I’ve blocked out parts of it. But I do remember, Constantine. I remember how much I loved him, how happy we were because we were getting married. We were going to pick out the venue, the flowers, even the song we’d dance to at the reception.” My voice wavers as the memories rush back, so vivid they feel like they’re happening all over again. “He was so excited, so ready to start our life together?—”

“He didn’t want a wedding or for people to find out. You told me that during our last phone call. You hated that he kept you a secret,” Constantine cuts me off, his expression pained. “You buried the part where he wasn’t sure about the baby. Where he was starting to act like he was using again.”

I freeze, his words hitting me like a blow I wasn’t prepared for. “That’s not true,” I whisper, shaking my head. “He was clean. He was?—”

“He was slipping, Ophelia,” Constantine says, his voice gentle but unyielding. “You were afraid of that. You didn’t know what to do. You told me about the late nights, the excuses, the mood swings. And then the accident . . .”

I take a step back, the room suddenly feeling too small, too suffocating. “No,” I say, but the conviction in my voice wavers. Memories I’d tucked away start to bubble to the surface—fragments I can’t quite piece together but can’t ignore either.

“The police report says you were driving,” he continues.

“I wasn’t,” I say, because that’s . . . impossible. Keane had control issues he always had to drive.

“Exactly, you weren’t, but that’s how they set it—the Stones.” He exhales loudly. Constantine’s eyes soften, but he doesn’t back down. “I’m not saying he didn’t love you, Ophelia. He did. But love doesn’t fix everything. And that’s why I did what I did. Because I didn’t want you to spend the rest of your life trapped in the aftermath of his mistakes.”

I press a hand to my forehead, the weight of his words threatening to crack something inside me. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” My voice is barely above a whisper now, the anger ebbing into something much harder to face—doubt.

Keane leans back in the recliner, his voice casual, almost too casual. “So now that I’m better, remember most things, and I’m almost walking again, can I go back to Seattle?”

His words hit me like a slap. “Seattle?” I repeat, staring at him as if he just suggested something absurd.

“Yeah, that’s where my home is. I do remember that. And my dog,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as though this is just another conversation.

“Samsung was your dog?” Haydn chimes in, his brow furrowing.

Keane nods. “Where is he?” His question hangs in the air, simple yet somehow heavier than anything else he’s said today. “Where is old Sam?”

I let out a bitter snort, unable to help myself. “He remembers the dog,” I say, my voice tight, “but not me. Did you ever care?” I glare at him, the accusation clear in my voice, daring him to deny it.

Keane doesn’t flinch. He shrugs, his expression almost indifferent. “Probably,” he answers. “But not enough. Where is Samsung?”

I feel the words sink deep, cutting through me in ways I didn’t think possible. My throat tightens, and I fight to keep my composure, my nails digging into my palms as I cling to the last threads of my dignity. He doesn’t remember. He never cared. I never meant anything to him. The thoughts swirl, loud and relentless, but I force myself to respond.

“He died last year,” I manage to say, my voice quieter now, softer. “He was a great dog.”

“The best,” Haydn adds quickly, his tone warm and sincere, as if he’s trying to fill the silence, to cushion the blow that just landed squarely on me.

I nod, swallowing back the lump rising in my throat, refusing to let the tears win. I won’t cry in front of him. Not for him.

And that’s when it hits me—this isn’t just about the memories he’s lost. This is about who he’s choosing to be now that he’s finding himself again. And it’s clear, painfully clear, that I’m not a part of the picture he’s rebuilding.

Was I expecting us to somehow go back to what we were? To pick up the pieces and glue them into some version of the life we once had? I don’t know. And now, staring at him, at the person he is now, I’m more confused than ever. Maybe I never really let go when he died. Maybe I clung to what we were because it was easier than facing the hollow ache of losing him. I never truly got closure—just an empty space where we used to exist.

I glance at Haydn. His eyes meet mine, filled with love and worry, and it twists something deep inside me. I don’t deserve him. Not when I’m still standing here, holding pieces of a past that don’t fit anymore, not when I don’t even know who I am without Keane’s shadow looming in the background.

This is it, isn’t it? That feeling I had when I moved in with Haydn. That quiet unease that sat in my chest like a warning. It was a sign and I ignored it. I knew something would happen, something would shatter, but I didn’t know it would be on this scale. My life feels like it’s imploding, the aftershocks rippling through everything I thought I’d built.

And forever? The word feels like a cruel joke now. A promise that was never real, just a shiny lie wrapped in hope.

Forever isn’t unbreakable.

Forever is fragile, full of cracks that promises and love can’t always mend.

Forever failed me once before, and now it’s failing me again—reminding me that nothing, no matter how much you want it, is guaranteed.