Chapter 4

Cayden’s POV

Scarlett’s laughter filled the car, light and tinkling, like music she never stopped playing. She talked the whole drive home—about Paris, about her family’s vineyards, about how she missed the way he used to hold her hand in college.

I kept nodding at the right moments, even smiled once or twice, but irritation scratched at the back of my skull. 

I had chased this for years—Scarlett, her beauty, her pedigree, her place in the world—and now she was sitting beside me, her perfume filling the air, her hand resting on my arm. I should have felt triumphant. 

Instead, all I could think about was Amelia.

Her pale face when I left her. The way her body trembled under the fairy lights. The sight of another man—dark hair, broad shoulders—leading her away.

Where had he taken her? To a hotel? To his bed? 

My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles turned white.

Scarlett didn’t notice. 

She was too busy reminiscing, too busy painting a picture of the life we were supposed to have. I could barely hear her over the echo of Amelia’s voice in my head, raw and desperate. 

If you don’t help me, I’ll die.

I swallowed hard, trying to push the memory down. 

She had a tendency to be dramatic sometimes. But she knew the rules—we were foster siblings, we could never be public. She was supposed to understand that. 

And yet tonight she had crossed the line, pushing me, exposing us to my parents. 

Still, I couldn’t shake the image of her lips trembling, of her wet hair clinging to her face by the pool.

I needed air.

Without a word, I pulled the car over and stepped out. The night was cool, the road quiet. I braced my hands on the roof of the car, inhaling sharply, but it didn’t help. The unease stayed, coiled in my chest like smoke.

“Cayden?” Scarlett’s voice drifted from the car window, laced with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” I said shortly.

When I climbed back in a few minutes later, she handed me my phone. “Your sister called,” she said. “But when I answered, it wasn’t her. A man answered. I didn’t know what was going on, so I hung up.”

My pulse spiked. 

A man.

I thought of the stranger again, the one who had carried Amelia out of the pool like she belonged to him. My jaw tightened.

Trying to steady my voice, I asked, “Did he say anything?”

Scarlett shook her head, unconcerned. “No. He started with ‘whoever you are…’ and that sounded weird so I hung up.” She touched my arm again. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.”

But I couldn’t let it go. 

***

As soon as she stepped inside her apartment, I sat in the car and scrolled through my call history, found Amelia’s name, and hit redial.

No answer.

I called again. Still nothing.

Amelia had never ignored me before. Not once. No matter how angry she was, she always answered me. Call it love, call it obsession, call it loyalty. 

But this… this was punishment. 

The longer I stared at her name on my call log, the more my irritation boiled. She was playing with me, trapping me just like she did with the photo. 

I told myself I didn’t care, but sleep never came that night.

The next morning, I called again. Nothing.

By noon, I texted her: Answer me. Or don’t bother asking for help again. You know exactly what I mean.

Still no reply.

Two days passed, and my temper snapped like a frayed wire. My father was pressing me about investor meetings, Scarlett was draping herself across my office table, and yet all I could think about was Amelia’s silence.

***

At the end of the day, as I was about to have my dinner, my phone dinged. 

But it wasn’t her. 

This is Eric. Amelia’s friend. This was the last number she’d called, so I thought you should know first: she passed away last night. 9:23 PM. There is a small service for her. 

For a moment, I simply stared at the words, my brain refusing to process them. 

My stomach dropped, a cold weight pressing into my ribs. No—impossible. Amelia wasn’t… she couldn’t be.

My hand tightened around the phone until the edges dug into my skin. A rush of panic threatened to crack through me, but I shoved it down.

Her games. Always her games.

Rage surged hot through my veins, burning away the brief flicker of fear.

I dialed the number immediately. “Cut the act,” I snapped the moment he answered. “Tell Amelia to stop this nonsense. Whatever trick you both are playing, it won’t work.”

A pause. His voice was calm, too calm. “This isn’t a trick. She’s at the cemetery. If you don’t believe me, come see for yourself.”

My throat went dry as my phone dinged with a text. 

The location. 

***

The public cemetery was damp with morning mist, the smell of earth heavy in the air. Rows of weathered headstones stretched out like soldiers. 

My shoes crunched over gravel as I followed the sound of voices until I saw him.

The man from the party. Eric, apparently. 

Standing beside a coffin draped in pale white fabric. Workers were lowering it slowly into the ground.

My chest constricted.

He looked up when he saw me, his expression unreadable. “You actually came.”

I nodded, forcing a smirk. “So, where is my sister? Hiding behind you? Watching the drama unfold? And who are you? Her partner in crime?”

His frown deepened, his voice cutting sharper than I expected. “I am her friend. She left me to handle her funeral and everything after her passing. And she’s inside that coffin, Mr. Morgan. The least you can do—as her brother—is stop pretending this is a joke.”

His words landed like a slap, but I shoved the sting down.

I stared at it, waiting for Amelia to burst out laughing, to step from behind a headstone with that stubborn fire in her eyes. 

Any second now.

But the longer I looked, the colder the ground felt beneath my feet.

The thought crept in, unbidden: what if she wasn’t playing this time? What if she were really gone?

My fists clenched. 

No. 

Amelia was just dramatic. 

Sometimes needy, sometimes manipulative. 

She wanted everything—my love, my loyalty, my future. This was just another one of her stunts to trap me.

“Stop.” My voice lashed out like a whip. “Open it, I want to look inside.”

Eric spun towards me. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you insane?”

“Do it,” I told the staff holding the coffin.

He moved to step between me and the coffin, but my bodyguard, stationed a few feet away, stepped forward and blocked him. Eric shoved against him, shouting, but he was nothing against trained muscle.

The lid creaked open.

Cold air rushed up as wood groaned against wood. And then I saw her.

Amelia.

Her face was pale, still, her lips faintly parted as if she might whisper my name the way she always had in my bed as she shook in my arms. 

I dropped to my knees.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no…”

Eric’s voice was sharp above me. “Are you satisfied? Can we at least give her a respectful burial? It’s the least you can do as her brother.” 

Brother. 

The word gutted me.

I clenched my fists, staring at her face, willing her to wake up and prove us all wrong. But the silence was final.