Chapter 11
Isla had had enough. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself and do something. Walking down the hall, she came to Keir’s private study/musical storeroom with intention and determination to learn something.
Not anger. Not grief. Purpose. She’s here to learn what he’s hiding, and sitting at the piano will just have to wait until this afternoon, after she’s exhausted from going through his personal items.
She closed the door behind her and stands still for a moment, palms flat against the wood, letting the room settle around her. The castle hums softly beyond the walls, distant and indifferent, as if it’s watching her but refusing to intervene.
Yesterday still clings to her, the explosion, the shame that followed it, the way Callum had looked at her like she’d cracked something open neither of them knew how to fix. She doesn’t want that here. She doesn’t want him here at all.
This room is for facts.
Her mother’s version of Keir has always been brutally efficient. He left. He chose music. He chose himself. There was no mystery in it, no lingering doubt. Just cause and effect, abandonment wrapped in practicality, when he chose wine, women, and music, as her mother liked to say. Not her.
But this castle refuses to be practical. To show her his reasons for never seeing her. Even if he chose wine, women, and music, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have come to see her.
If she is going to stay here, if she’s going to endure ninety days surrounded by the echoes of a man who shaped her life by refusing to be part of it, then she needs something sturdier than memory and resentment.
She needs proof.
Paper doesn’t lie.
Usually.
Keir’s private office/musical storeroom smells faintly of dust and old leather, layered with something sharper underneath, ink, maybe, or the ghost of smoke long embedded in the walls.
Morning light cuts through the tall windows at an angle that makes the desk gleam, not polished so much as worn smooth by use.
This room isn’t staged the way the rest of the castle is.
There’s no attempt at grandeur, no careful curation for visitors.
Old instruments lay scattered, an old desk layered with sheets of music and even some Diamond Record awards for the songs that sold over ten million sales are stacked against the wall.
It’s filled with mostly private junk that only a rock-n-roll star would appreciate.
It feels private.
Defensive. His own personal space.
Isla starts at the desk, methodical, as if she’s cataloging evidence at a crime scene.
She flips through stacks of sheet music and contracts, letters from managers and lawyers, tour schedules marked up with dates and arrows.
The papers are dense with logistics and money, with signatures that mattered to everyone except her.
She resists the urge to read lyrics.
She is not here for poetry. He could pour emotion into songs by the dozen, but in the wreckage of his actual life, only Callum stands as proof he ever felt anything real.
She moves to the filing cabinets along the wall. The first drawer slides open easily, tax records, insurance documents, and correspondence with accountants. The second drawer sticks.
She yanks it harder than necessary, irritation tightening her chest.
Locked.
Of course, it is.
Her jaw tightens, but she forces herself to breathe. Anger will make her careless. Carelessness will turn this into exactly what her mother always accused her of being: emotional, impulsive, and impractical.
She kneels beside the desk and runs her fingers along the underside of the shelves. The wood is smooth where hands have brushed it again and again, worn down by habit.
Her fingers brush metal.
A key.
Her pulse jumps.
She straightens slowly, key cool and solid in her palm, and fits it into the bottom-right drawer. The lock turns with a soft, reluctant click.
Inside is order.
Not the chaotic sprawl she half expected, but careful, almost meticulous organization. Folders labeled in Keir MacLaren’s handwriting. Personal correspondence set apart from business. A battered leather notebook with a strap worn soft from use, the edges darkened by years of handling.
And beneath it all—
A photograph.
Isla’s breath leaves her in a rush she can’t stop.
She lifts it slowly, as if the image might vanish if she moves too fast.
It’s her.
Alone.
Six, maybe seven. Sitting on the steps of her mother’s old house, knees pulled to her chest, hair tangled and wild, eyes bright but guarded in a way that twists something deep in Isla’s chest. There’s a scrape on her elbow.
She remembers that fall. She’d been chasing the neighbor’s dog and tripped on the cracked concrete, furious more at herself than the pain. Her mother was angry that she’d risked an injury to her wrist.
Her mother had taken that picture.
Isla knows it instantly.
Her fingers tremble.
“Where did he get this?” she whispers.
A guitar string vibrates softly behind her.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just a quiet, deliberate sound that slides into the room like a breath.
Isla doesn’t turn right away. She doesn’t need to. The presence settles around her, solid and unmistakable.
Callum.
“You move quietly for someone carrying an instrument,” she says.
“You move loudly for someone trying not to be found,” he replies.
She turns.
He stands just inside the door, guitar slung over his shoulder, posture easy in a way that immediately puts her on edge. He isn’t here to confront her. He isn’t here to stop her.
That somehow feels worse.
“I didn’t ask for help,” Isla says.
“No,” Callum agrees. “You didn’t.”
He closes the door behind him without ceremony and leans the guitar case against the wall. The movement is casual, practiced. He’s done this before, in rooms like this, with people who didn’t know what they were about to hear.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
He shrugs. “You weren’t playing.”
“That’s your reason?”
“I listen when something changes.”
She scoffs softly. “That sounds exhausting.”
“Usually is.”
She turns back to the desk, refusing to let his presence derail her focus. She’s not here for him. She’s not here for music.
She’s here for answers.
Callum steps closer, drawn despite himself. He leans over her shoulder to see the photograph better, his arm brushing hers, his chest close enough that she can feel his warmth through her sleeve.
She hates how grounding it feels.
Hates that her body registers him before her mind can push him away. No, just no. Not with Callum, and yet the smell of him sends her pulse pounding.
“He never let anyone touch that drawer,” Callum says quietly. “Ever.”
Isla swallows. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it tells you something.”
She studies the photograph again. The edges are soft, worn thin from handling. This wasn’t shoved into a drawer and forgotten.
“This was taken at my mother’s house,” Isla says. “She would never have given it to him.”
Callum’s jaw tightens. “Then he took it.”
The word lands like a rock. When had he been at the house? Or had her mother sent it to him?
“He stole a picture of me,” Isla says, disbelief sharpening her voice.
“He kept it,” Callum counters.
“That’s not the same thing. But as far as I knew, he never came to the house. So how did he get that photo?”
“I don’t know,” he says gently.
Her grip tightens around the photograph. “If he cared enough to steal and keep my picture, if he carried me with him in secret, then why didn’t he come back for me?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Why wasn’t I enough?”
The question escapes before she can stop it.
Why keep this and still stay away?
Why look at this and never come back?
Callum doesn’t answer immediately.
He’s too close. She’s too aware of him, the solid line of his shoulder, the faint scent of wood and strings and something uniquely him. He hasn’t moved away. He hasn’t reached for the photo.
He’s letting her have this moment.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. “But I don’t think indifference was the reason.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s worse.”
She sets the photo back in the drawer carefully, as if it might bruise if she’s careless. Her hands linger there longer than necessary. Did this mean he cared and still left?
Callum straightens and steps away, giving her space. The absence of his closeness feels like a loss she resents.
He picks up the guitar.
“I’m not here to distract you,” he says. “But sometimes music helps you think sideways.”
She arches a brow. “That sounds like a trap.”
“Probably is.”
He sits on the edge of the desk, not facing her directly, and tunes the guitar with quick, efficient movements. He doesn’t play one of Keir’s songs. He doesn’t show off.
He plays something spare.
A progression that loops and shifts, never quite resolving, leaving deliberate space between notes.
Isla listens despite herself.
“You rushed the third measure,” she says automatically.
Callum glances up, surprised, and then faintly amused. “Did I?”
“Yes. You didn’t let it breathe.”
He slows, fingers adjusting.
The sound deepens, settles into something steadier.
“Better,” she admits, then scowls at herself for saying it.
They don’t talk about Keir.
They talk about restraint. About silence. About why certain notes ache while others simply exist. About how sometimes the wrong note tells the truth faster than the right one ever could.
“I hate that this works,” Isla mutters.
Callum smiles faintly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
The moment is small. Fragile.
And dangerous.
Because for the first time since she arrived, Isla feels, just for a second, safe.
The realization takes shape inside her. When was the last time she felt truly secure?
She straightens abruptly. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
Callum nods easily. “Of course not.”
“I’m not staying,” she adds. “Not for you. Not for this.”
“I know.”
“You’re temporary.”
“So are you.”
That should reassure her.
It doesn’t.
Isla turns back to the desk with more force than necessary.