Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Haydn

After my meditation, I make my way back into the kitchen. The house is still and silent, the kind of peacefulness that only comes with dawn. Before I even hit the gym, there’s one ritual I never skip—a shake. Fuel for the workout, something to kickstart the day. And I’m particular about it, maybe even a little superstitious. It’s got to be the same every time.

I reach for the blender, pulling out my lineup of ingredients from the fridge and pantry with a precision that’s almost ridiculous. Greek yogurt—two big spoonfuls. A handful of spinach, just enough to feel virtuous without tasting it. I toss in a banana, ripe but not too soft, because texture matters. Then I add a scoop of chocolate-flavored protein powder because it makes the whole thing taste like dessert if I get the balance right.

Next comes the almond butter. I grab the jar, tapping the lid three times before opening it—a habit I picked up ages ago, and now I can’t skip it. It’s supposed to be for luck, though I’d never admit that to anyone. I scoop out exactly one spoonful, leveling it with the edge of the jar. Too much, and the shake gets thick and cloying; too little, and it doesn’t have that perfect, nutty taste that keeps me coming back every morning.

Ice cubes come next—four, always four. Not three, not five. It has to be even, balanced. I toss them into the blender, then pour in just enough almond milk to cover everything. The final touch is a dash of cinnamon, which I sprinkle from high above the blender like some kind of chef, even though I know it doesn’t make a difference. It’s the ritual that counts, the little details that make this feel like more than just a drink.

I pop the lid on, hold the blender steady, and hit the button. The motor whirs to life, loud in the stillness of the morning, blending everything together into a smooth, creamy green-brown concoction that looks questionable but tastes exactly like what I need.

When it’s done, I pour it into a glass, taking a long sip and letting the familiar flavor settle over my tongue. It’s perfect—every note just right, a small, predictable comfort before the day begins.

Once I’ve downed the last of the shake, I head to the gym, already feeling that kick of energy settling in.

When I finish, I head out back and slip into the pool. The water is calm and cool against my skin, a perfect contrast to the heat I’ve built up from the workout. I dive in, cutting through the water in long, smooth strokes.

Lap after lap, I let my thoughts quiet, focusing on the pull of my arms, the kick of my legs, and the soft rush of water past my ears. It’s summer now, but even in winter, I never skip this routine—there’s something about the cool water that clears my mind and sets the tone for the day ahead.

Eventually, I climb out of the pool, the morning air brisk against my skin. Breathing deeply, I towel off, feeling a sense of clarity settle over me. My muscles hum with effort, and for a moment, everything else seems distant.

Back inside, I step into a warm shower, letting the water soothe away the remnants of my swim. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I head to the kitchen. I pour two mugs of coffee, setting one aside for Ophelia, and prepare a shake for her—a mix of fruit, protein, and just enough sweetness to make her smile.

With everything ready, I make my way upstairs. The room is calm, bathed in the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. Ophelia is still asleep, curled under the blankets, her face relaxed in a way that draws me in. She looks so at peace, as though the world has granted her a rare moment to breathe.

Careful not to disturb her, I set the tray with coffee and her shake on the nightstand and slip back into bed. Propping myself up on one elbow, I watch her, drawn to the gentle rise and fall of her breath and the way her hair falls across the pillow.

She stirs, stretching slowly, her eyes fluttering open. When she catches me watching her, a sleepy smile spreads across her face. “Perv, are you creeping on me again?” she teases, her voice soft and drowsy.

“Absolutely,” I reply, grinning. “Can’t help it. The most beautiful woman in the world is in my bed, and I get to see her.”

She rolls over, reaching for my coffee and taking a sip before I can even think to stop her. “Mmm,” she sighs, closing her eyes like she’s savoring it—not just the taste, but the whole moment, the quietness of the morning, the easy comfort between us. “How long have you been up?”

“Only long enough to get a workout in,” I say with a smirk, and she raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes.

“Workout, huh?” She nudges me, her voice teasing. “You and your sacred morning routine . . . let me guess—conditioning, a million laps, and that weird shake you make with, like, spinach and peanut butter. Honestly, I don’t know how you drink that stuff.”

I chuckle, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of her body against mine, grounding me. “Hey, it’s the breakfast of champions, and you need to remember it’s almond butter,” I say, my voice softening as I take her in, right here, right now: awake, wrapped up in our bed, sipping my coffee like she owns the place. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

She smirks, handing me back the mug. “Oh, of course. Protect the coffee, protect the zone,” she says, rolling her eyes in mock seriousness. “So what does that include, exactly? No touching the blender? No interrupting the ice-cube ritual?”

“Exactly,” I say, giving her a mock glare as I take the mug from her. “And that includes not messing with my perfect scoop of almond butter. I’ve got standards, you know.”

She laughs, and the sound fills the room, light and easy, like she’s already at home here.

I nod toward the pile of boxes stacked against the wall, the clutter spilling over onto the floor. “So . . . you ready to unpack?”

She sighs dramatically, letting her head fall back against the pillow, giving me a look that’s both resigned and a little bit amused. “I guess we can’t just leave them here forever, can we?”

“Technically, we could,” I say, pretending to consider it. “I mean, they add a certain . . . rustic charm.”

“Rustic?” She snorts. “Please. You just don’t want to do any heavy lifting.”

I laugh, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her forehead. “Maybe, but I think I can make an exception for you.”

She grins, reaching up to brush her fingers lightly across my jaw, and for a moment, it’s like the boxes don’t even matter. The clutter, the mess, the unpacked life waiting around us—it all fades into the background. Right now, it’s just us, wrapped up in this quiet, beautiful morning, and I’m more than happy to stay like this forever.

But then her phone buzzes on the nightstand, breaking the spell. I glance at the screen, frowning as I see the same number flashing across it that’s been popping up for the last half hour. I pick it up and hand it to her, but she just waves it off, a small sigh escaping her lips. “Ignore it,” she murmurs, leaning back into the pillows. “It’s probably a spam call.”

The call ends, but almost immediately, the phone lights up again with the same number. I notice she’s already missed four calls from it. That’s a lot of persistence for spam.

“Maybe you should answer?” I suggest gently, glancing at her. But I know her—answering a strange number triggers that nervousness she’s always been open about, that anxiety that makes her hesitate, makes her imagine the worst.

She shakes her head, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “No . . . if it’s important, they’ll leave a voicemail.”

The phone buzzes a final time before stopping, but something about it doesn’t sit right with me. There’s an urgency to the call, a sense I can’t ignore. The next time it rings, I grab the phone and answer for her, pressing it to my ear. “Hello?” I keep my voice calm, even as a faint unease stirs in my chest.

There’s a pause before a professional-sounding voice responds. “Good morning. I’m looking for Ophelia Foster?”

I sit up straighter, sensing Ophelia’s eyes on me as I reply, “May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Yale New Haven Hospital in Greenwich, Connecticut,” the voice says on the other side.

“She’s unavailable at the moment,” I reply, keeping my voice even despite the creeping tension beneath my skin. “But if you leave a message, I’ll have her contact you right away.”

“May I ask who’s speaking?” the woman asks.

“Haydn Wesford, her partner,” I say, the word slipping out naturally, as if it’s a fact I don’t have to think about.

There’s a pause, then a quiet scoff. “Partner?” she repeats, skepticism heavy in her voice. “Well, we’ve been trying to reach Ms. Foster regarding Keane Stone, her fiancé. He’s awake. As his next of kin, she needs to contact us or, if possible, come to the hospital immediately.”

Her words hit like a sucker punch. Fiancé. Next of kin. Keane Stone is awake.

For a moment, everything blurs. Keane Stone. The man she said she’d lost forever. The man I thought was gone. And now, he’s awake? Still her fiancé? Still considered her closest family?

I swallow hard, gripping the phone tighter as my stomach churns. “I . . . I’ll let her know,” I manage, though my voice sounds distant, hollow.

The woman thanks me curtly and ends the call. I’m left staring at the phone in my hand, my pulse pounding like a drumbeat that drowns out everything else. In an instant, everything has shifted. The ground beneath me feels as if it’s cracked wide open.

Keane Stone. Her fiancé. Awake.

What the hell? Wasn’t he supposed to be dead?

My mind races, trying to untangle the pieces. Her fiancé—the man who’s haunted her in ways I’ll never fully understand, the man she mourned, the man I assumed was gone forever—is alive. Awake. And he’s calling for her.

Before I can sort through my thoughts, Ophelia’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Who was it?” she asks, her brow knitting together. “Are you . . . are you mad?”

A dry laugh slips out, unguarded. “Mad?” I repeat, my tone firm. “Yeah, you could say that.” I hold her gaze, my voice edged with frustration. “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.”

Her face drains of color, her eyes widening as she stares at me in stunned silence. The word fiancé hangs between us, sharp and unforgiving, unraveling everything we thought we understood about each other.

She told me they dated. She said it was serious. But she didn’t tell me they were going to get married? And now, he’s alive?