CHAPTER 3:SIX MONTHS OF SILENCE

"Ma'am, you can't be here," the paramedic said again, his voice firm as his hand clamped tightly onto my bare upper arm.

"That's my sister!" I yelled, my voice breaking over the roar of the wind. "That's my sister in there!"

I shoved past his grip with the full weight of my shoulder before he could brace himself. My high heels sank uselessly into the mud and gravel shoulder of the coastal highway, red and blue emergency strobes bouncing wildly off the rain-drenched trees.

Vivian’s sports car had flipped at the sharp curve near the old stone bridge, crumpled against the rusted guardrail like a toy made of tin. I had left my coat somewhere between the warm ballroom and the valet line, and the freezing rain soaked instantly through my dress, plastering the heavy silk against my skin, wrapping tight over the curve of my waist and hips. But I didn't feel the bite of the storm…not yet.

Ryker was already there.

He was crouched in the wet mud right beside the driver's side shattered window, his dark hair soaked flat against his skull, his expensive tuxedo jacket ruined. His rough baritone was cracking on her name over and over, raw and frantic. For one eerie second, I watched him from three feet away, hit by the realization that grief stripped even the most powerful men down to something fragile and broken.

"Vivian! Vivian, stay with me!" Ryker screamed into the wreckage, his large hands clawing helplessly at the twisted metal frame.

"Sir, we need you to step back right now!" two emergency workers shouted, hauling him back by his shoulders.

"Not until she's out!" he roared, thrashing against their hold.

They extracted her twenty minutes later. Alive. Shallowly breathing. Covered in crimson blood that didn't all belong to her.

The hospital hallway smelled of industrial bleach, cold rain, and the muffled, hysterical weeping of my mother.

My father sat on a vinyl bench with his head buried in his hands. I sat three chairs away, pressing my back against the freezing plaster wall, completely isolated. Nobody came over to wrap a blanket around my shivering shoulders. Nobody thought to hold my hand. I had stopped expecting them to shelter me years ago.

A doctor finally stepped through the double doors, carrying the heavy, soul-crushing fatigue that only comes from delivering catastrophic news.

"She's stable," he said softly. "But the impact caused severe spinal trauma. It is very likely she will permanently lose function from the waist down."

My mother released a sound I had never heard a human make—a high, unnatural shriek of pure agony. My father moved instantly, pulling her into his chest, holding her tight as she sobbed.

Nobody looked at me. I gripped my own arms, staring at the white linoleum floor, telling myself it was fine. It wasn't about me.

Three days later, I gathered my courage and stepped into her private room alone.

"Hey," I said softly, pulling a heavy vinyl chair right beside the mattress. "How are you feeling?"

The moment Vivian’s eyes met mine, tears welled in them, her lip trembling. But it wasn't grief in her expression—it was pure, venomous malice.

"You did this," she whispered, her voice rasping against her throat.

I froze. "What?"

"You did this to me!" Her voice rose violently, panic bleeding into every syllable. "We were arguing in the car! You reached over and grabbed the wheel!"

"Vivian, what are you talking about?" My heart gave a heavy, sickening thud against my ribs. "I wasn't in your car. I was back at the gala. You know that."

"Don't lie to me!" she screamed, her small fingers twisting the hospital blanket into white-knuckled fists.

"Why would I lie?" I leaned closer, keeping my voice steady despite the ice flooding my veins. "Think, Viv. Who picked you up from the alley? Who were you talking to on the phone right before you left?"

"Stop it!" she shrieked, thrashing her upper body back and forth against the pillows. "Stop trying to confuse me!"

"I'm not trying to confuse you! I'm trying to get you to remember what actually happened!"

"You've always been jealous of me!" she sobbed wildly. "Everyone knows it! You hate me because Ryker loves me!"

"Jealous of what, Vivian?" The words tore from my throat before I could stop them. "Being the one everyone believes without question?"

The door burst open. A nurse rushed into the room, followed closely by Ryker.

He stood in the doorway, his face draining of all color as he heard Vivian’s screams. He looked at her crying, then turned his dark green eyes onto me. The look in his glare was pure, unadulterated hatred—a cold, lethal disgust that made my lungs lock up.

"Get out," Ryker commanded, his voice trembling with fury.

"Ryker, listen to me, I didn't…"

"GET OUT!" he spat, stepping into the room, his long body rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. "Haven't you done enough to her?"

I stood up, my throat tight, my vision blurring. What else could I do? I stood completely alone against a room of people who had already written the story before I ever opened my mouth.

I walked out, made it to my car in the rain-soaked parking lot, and broke down. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed until my chest burned, my body shaking so violently I couldn't turn the key in the ignition for nearly an hour.

Two days later, my mother called. Her voice was clipped, cold, and distant.

"The tabloids published photos of you leaving the hospital," she said, without even asking if I was eating. "They're running them side-by-side with Vivian's old modeling headshots. Selene, couldn't you have worn something that photographed better?"

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "My sister is paralyzed from the waist down, Mom, and you're calling me about camera angles?"

"I am trying to keep this family's dignity from disintegrating!" she snapped. "Is it really too much to ask for you to present yourself properly?"

"You do realize she lied about me, right?" My voice trembled with four years of built-up hurt. "She blamed me for her accident, and not a single person in this family has asked how I'm holding up."

"You've always been the strong one, Selene," my mother said coldly. "You don't need people checking on you."

She hung up. I didn't try to call her back.

Two weeks later, Vivian vanished.

There was no note. Her hospital bed was stripped clean one morning, the window latch unlocked, her clothing missing from the wardrobe like she had orchestrated a silent escape in the dead of night. The police conducted a quiet search, but turned up nothing. And somehow, in my parents' twisted minds, my sister fleeing her own life was just one more tragedy I had driven her to commit.

Ryker didn't speak to me for six months.

Six agonizing months of empty chairs at family dinners, of my mother's icy silences, and of a house that grew darker every time I walked through it, searching for a ghost that didn't want to be found.

The storm on the sixth month slammed against the high stained-glass windows of the Kane Estate.

It was eleven at night when my mother phoned, her tone sharp as she demanded I drive over to the west wing to check on Ryker. I hated myself for going, but some stubborn, pathetic part of me still didn't know how to say no when my family demanded my service.

Elise met me near the archway of the main hallway. Ryker’s grandmother looked fragile in her silk robe, her hands trembling over the handle of her silver-topped cane.

"He's locked himself in the study," she whispered, her pale face illuminated by the dim hallway sconces. "He won't answer me, Selene."

"I'll talk to him," I murmured.

"Selene." Elise reached out, her cool fingers closing tightly around my wrist. Her eyes held a dark, warning light. "Be careful with him tonight. Grief makes a man into a stranger. And Ryker is very dangerous right now."

A chill settled in my stomach. I nodded, stepping around her, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor as I approached the heavy oak door.

I pushed it open.

The study was plunged in shadows, lit only by the dying amber embers of the hearth. The rich air thick with the suffocating scent of spilled scotch, expensive leather, and raw, unwashed despair. Shattered glass glittered across the Persian rug near the fireplace.

Ryker sat behind the massive mahogany desk, a half-empty bottle of amber liquor resting near his hand. His suit jacket was gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat to reveal the dark hair on his chest, his jaw thick with heavy stubble.

"Get out," he growled, without lifting his head.

"Your grandmother is worried about you," I said softly, staying near the threshold.

"I don't want to look at you tonight, Selene."

"She shouldn't have to deal with this alone." I took two slow steps into the room, taking up space in the dim light, my voice quieter than I wanted it to be. "Neither should you."

A dark, bitter laugh tore from his chest as he finally looked up. His green eyes were bloodshot, wild, and dangerous—locked onto me with a fierce, unstable intensity.

"Six months," he rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper. "Six months and not a single trace of where she went. Do you have any idea what that feels like? Loving a woman who vanishes into thin air?"

"I know it's painful, Ryker."

"You don't know a damn thing about it!" he snarled, slamming his palm onto the mahogany desk. "You never even wept for her! You didn't even look for her!"

"That's a lie!" I said, my voice rising as heat surged into my face. "I hired a private investigator! I called the precinct every single week for months!"

"Of course you did," he sneered, standing up so fast his leather chair crashed backward onto the floorboards. He swayed slightly, towering over the desk, his broad chest rising and falling beneath his unbuttoned shirt. "Quiet, sensible, efficient Selene. Managing the tragedy from a safe, comfortable distance! You never shed a single tear where I could see it!"

"Because in this family, showing a single tear is treated as an admission of guilt!" I yelled back, stepping closer, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. "So I learned to bleed in private!"

Ryker froze. He stared at me through the shadows, his heavy breathing filling the quiet room.

He moved around the desk with slow, predatory strides, stalking toward me until he was standing less than an inch away. The wall of heat radiating off his body was absolute, wrapping around me like a fever. He smelled of dark whiskey, rain, and the intoxicating, dangerous musk of his skin.

He reached out, his long, calloused fingers closing around my chin, tilting my head up until my eyes were locked onto his burning green gaze. His grip was firm, electric, sending a sharp, terrifying shiver straight down my spine and pooling deep in my belly.

His thumb brushed slowly across my bottom lip, his gaze dropping to my mouth, his breath hot against my face.

"You look like her tonight," he whispered, his voice dropping into a low, raspy velvet that vibrated against my skin. "You never used to... but tonight, in this dark, you do."

The overhead lights flickered once as thunder rattled the heavy glass windows.

My pulse hammered wildly in my throat, my chest rising and falling against his broad frame. And standing there in the dark, feeling the dangerous, suffocating pull of the man who hated me, I realized a second too late that I had walked straight into a trap I couldn't escape.