Chapter 5

The line went dead with a final, brutal click. The silence in the emergency room was absolute.

Haven' s hand, holding the pen, trembled uncontrollably. She looked at the doctor, whose face was a mask of professional pity.

"Please," she whispered, her voice a raw, broken thing. "Don' t call him again."

She signed the form. Her signature was a jagged, illegible scrawl, a testament to the shattering of her world. Then they wheeled her away, into the blinding lights of the operating room, and she gratefully let the darkness take her.

She woke up days later. The first face she saw was not Keegan' s. It was a kind-faced nurse, who smiled at her gently.

"You' re a fighter," the nurse said. "It was touch and go for a while. You should have your family come, you' ll need help with your recovery."

Family. The word was a joke. Haven thought of Keegan' s voice on the phone, cold and final. "Whatever happens to her is not my concern."

A bitter smile touched her lips. "I don' t have any family," she said.

She hired a private nurse with Edwin' s help, a professional who asked no questions and offered quiet, efficient care.

The days passed in a blur of pain medication and physical therapy. Keegan never called. He never came. It was as if she had ceased to exist. The confirmation was a strange kind of relief. There were no more illusions to shatter.

When she was finally discharged, she went back to the mansion to collect the last of her things. She didn' t expect him to be there.

He was in the living room, pacing, a thunderous look on his face. He didn' t notice her pallor, the way she leaned heavily on a cane, or the faint scars still visible on her face.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "And where are my things? The boxes are gone."

A laugh bubbled up in her throat, dry and humorless. "You' ve been so busy, I' m surprised you even noticed."

"Don' t play games with me, Haven," he snapped. "I' ve been worried."

"Worried?" she repeated, the word tasting like ash. "You were worried? That' s funny." She looked him straight in the eye. "I was in the hospital for two weeks, Keegan. After a car accident. But I' m sure you were too busy comforting Cora to notice."

He froze, his anger draining away, replaced by a dawning confusion. "What... what are you talking about?"

"It doesn' t matter anymore," she said, turning away. "I' m here for my clothes."

"Haven, wait," he said, his voice losing its edge. He reached for her, his expression softening into a familiar, placating look. "I' m sorry. I' ve been... distracted. Let' s talk. I promise I' ll make more time for you. We can go away for a while, just the two of us."

The words were a ghost of a promise he' d made a hundred times before. They held no weight, no meaning.

"There won' t be a next time, Keegan," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "There is no 'us' anymore."

He stared at her, uncomprehending. "What are you trying to say?"

Before she could answer, his phone buzzed. It was Cora, of course. Her cheerful voice floated from the speaker. "Keegan, darling, I' m outside! Let me in!"

He hesitated, his eyes darting between Haven and the door. The choice was, as always, obvious.

"I' ll just be a minute," he said to Haven, a pleading note in his voice.

"Whatever," Haven said, turning her back on him and slowly making her way up the stairs. It was his house, after all. She was just a guest who had overstayed her welcome.

She closed her bedroom door, but she could still hear them. Cora' s bright, possessive voice filled the space below.

"Keegan, where' s that book you were reading? I want to see it."

"It' s in my study."

"Oh, but the code is my birthday, isn' t it? I' ll go get it myself!" A pause. "And you promised to make me that soup you always make for me when I' m feeling down."

Haven listened, her heart a dead weight in her chest. The password to his private study was Cora' s birthday. The soup he made wasn't for her stress; it was for Cora's sadness. Every piece of their life together had been a hand-me-down from his relationship with Cora.