Chapter 26

I remained anchored by the front window long after the red glow of Garrison’s taillights had finally bled into the gray sheet of rain.

The storm outside lashed against the glass, yet the cabin behind me was suffocatingly quiet. I stood there tracing the condensation on the pane, trying to untangle the ache tightening my chest.

For weeks, I had been agonizing over a seemingly impossible question: Who was Garrison Sterling?

The man my fractured memories insisted upon was a cold, calculating stranger who viewed vulnerability as a liability. Yet, the man my body instinctively recognized—the one who had just stood dripping wet in my living room, laying his deepest traumas bare—was different.

Eventually, the chill seeping through the windowpane forced me to step away. I retreated to the living room, though the crackling heat of the fireplace offered no comfort.

The cabin looked the same. I was the thing that no longer fit inside it.

For six years, Kel