Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Candace
T he world outside the limo window blurs into a smear of grays and greens as tears cloud my vision. I swipe angrily at my cheeks, frustrated with myself for letting him get to me again. Damn him. Damn Ryan Murphy. I’d worked so hard to build myself into this person, this woman who could stand in front of him and not feel a damn thing. And yet, here I am, falling apart in the back seat of a limo like the naive girl I swore I’d never be again.
The car glides to a stop in front of the Airbnb. I sit there for a moment, staring at the sleek, modern lines of the house against the backdrop of the crashing Atlantic waves. My chest feels tight, my thoughts spinning. Nothing is working out the way I planned. Nothing.
Ryan wasn’t supposed to come back. Not now. Not after all these years; not when my goal is in sight.
I’d arranged everything so perfectly. I held the note. I was supposed to be the one in control. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. And yet he is, and it’s all unraveling faster than I can keep up. I look down and see a bit of dry cum on the seat. Damn him, and damn my response to him.
The driver clears his throat softly, pulling me out of my haze. “We’ve arrived, Ms. Prescott.”
I nod, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to pull it together. “Thank you.” My voice is steady, at least. Small victories.
Once inside, I kick off my heels and shrug out of my blazer, leaving it draped over a chair as I make my way to the bedroom. The soft luxury of the Airbnb feels hollow right now, its pristine white walls and minimalist decor offering no comfort. Ryan and I had planned to restore the original stone cottage from when the vineyard was founded. We’d had so many plans…
I change into a loose sweater and soft yoga pants, craving anything that doesn’t feel like armor. The woman who walked into that bank today, heels clicking and head high, feels like a stranger now. No one likes her. She has no friends, no family. Truth is I don’t much like her, either, these days. She’d been necessary in order to survive.
All those years of hustling, juggling two or three jobs at a time, just to keep a roof over my head, food on my plate, and a path to an education—it all feels like a blur now. I fought my way through college—not the kind of elite school Ryan sent Emma to, not for undergraduate work, but good enough. In the end, I earned a scholarship to and my MBA from Columbia. That last year, I landed a job at a real estate company, starting at the bottom as an office assistant. I worked my ass off, climbing step by step, learning every single detail of the business until I made it to broker. I earned every inch of my success. No handouts. No shortcuts. Just me.
Padding barefoot to the kitchen, I pull open a cabinet and grab an expensive bottle of wine—one of Celtic Knot’s newer blends. I pause for a moment, staring at the label. The irony isn’t lost on me, but today I don’t care. I grab a glass and pour, the deep crimson liquid swirling into the crystal.
Wine in hand, I head to the living room and open a small wooden chest that’s been with me for as long as I can remember. It’s nothing special—just a worn cask, the brass latch slightly tarnished—but inside is my entire past, condensed into a handful of objects.
I sink onto the couch, setting the wine on the coffee table, and start sifting through the memories. Old athletic awards. Academic letters. Diaries filled with pages of a girl I hardly recognize anymore.
I shuffle through it all until my fingers close around what I’m looking for: a plastic hospital bracelet, still connected like links in a chain. Beneath it is a folded form, yellowed with age but still painfully legible.
I pull them out and set them on my lap, my hands smoothing over the plastic band. I know their texture by heart—the slight ridges, the cool stiffness. I’ve handled them so many times over the years, but today, they feel heavier. Even the sunlight and the ocean breezes cannot lift their weight.
The form I received in the medical records I had sent to me is even worse. It’s clinical, detached, just a list of injuries from the crash. But my eyes zero in on one line, one phrase that has haunted me for years: ‘Loss of fetus.’
She wasn’t a fetus. She was my baby. My daughter. Mine. The only family I would never have. They told me she was too undeveloped to tell, but I knew. I knew she was my daughter. I guess that’s what they mean by mother’s intuition.
My throat tightens, and I lift the glass of wine, sipping it slowly as I stare at the bracelet and the form. Memories flood back unbidden, sharp and vivid. The crash. The searing pain. Waking up in that sterile hospital room, all alone, my body broken, and the emptiness inside me an even deeper wound.
Ryan. His father. They were responsible for all of it.
Ryan gave her life—brief and beautiful—and then his father snuffed it out, sending me away so distraught I couldn’t see the road clearly. They both broke me in different ways, and now Ryan has the audacity to come back, acting like he has a right to stand in my way.
I take another sip of wine, the bitterness of it matching the ache in my chest. My fingers trace the names on the hospital bracelet, its cold plastic an anchor to the past I can’t seem to escape.
The memories are always there, always waiting. But today, they feel closer, sharper, cutting into the fragile composure I’ve spent years perfecting.
I drain the rest of the glass in one long sip and set it aside, closing my eyes as I lean back against the couch. The sound of the ocean outside is distant, muffled by the glass doors, but it’s steady, relentless.
I have to be just as relentless.
I tighten my grip on the bracelet, my resolve hardening with every breath. Ryan can’t win. Not this time. Not after everything he’s taken from me.
This isn’t just business anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.
The storm outside feels like a mirror of the one raging inside me. Rain lashes against the windows, a relentless, unremitting drumbeat that matches the erratic pounding of my heart. The waves are crashing against the shore and the private dock, but all I see is the past, replaying in vivid, excruciating detail.
The accident.
The screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the glass raining down like jagged stars. My chest tightens as I remember the sharp, gut-wrenching pain—the way the world spun, blurred, then went black.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the memories only come faster. Waking up in that sterile hospital room. The blinding overhead lights. The beeping machines. And then the doctor’s voice, cold and clinical, slicing through the fog of pain.
“You suffered significant trauma, Ms. Prescott. The baby didn’t survive… And the injuries to your uterus were too severe. I’m sorry, but it’s unlikely you’ll ever be able to carry a pregnancy to term.”
My baby. My daughter.
Gone before she even had a chance.
I open my eyes, staring unseeing at the rain streaking down the windows. I tell myself I’ve moved on, that I’ve made peace with it, but the ache in my chest proves me wrong every time. It’s always there, just beneath the surface, waiting for moments like this to remind me of everything I’ve lost.
And now Ryan is back, barging into my life, stirring up all the pain and anger I’ve worked so hard to bury. I don’t understand why he came home. We’ve both been gone for years. This was supposed to have been my triumphant return. He’d joined the Navy and become a decorated hero, leaving me to pick up the shattered pieces of my life while he was off god knows where saving the world. Maybe if he’d stayed, he could have saved our daughter. My daughter.
Why now?
He doesn’t get to waltz into my life and rewrite the story. I’ve spent too many years rebuilding myself, clawing my way out of the ashes, to let him destroy me again.
I set the hospital bracelet back in the chest and close the lid with a quiet snap. As I pour the rest of the wine into my glass, I make a vow to myself.
This time, I’ll be the one who walks away. And he’ll know exactly what it feels like to have to pick up the pieces of a shattered life and start again.
The weight of the day pulls at me, and before I know it, I’m sinking into the couch, the empty wine glass forgotten on the table. The storm outside lessens and the rain taps against the windows like a lullaby, soothing and rhythmic, even as the storm inside me continues to rage. My eyes grow heavy, and I don’t fight it. Sleep claims me.
The headlights glare in my eyes, too bright, too close. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, the cold, slick leather biting into my palms. The rain falls harder, blurring the windshield, the road ahead dissolving into streaks of light and darkness. My chest is tight, my breathing shallow. The anger burns hotter than the fear.
I see Ryan’s truck looming ahead, its taillights cutting through the storm, which I know even in my dream makes no sense at all. It was Ryan’s truck I’d been driving on that fateful night, and I’d never had the opportunity to chase him down. One minute he’d been in Pelican Point and then in the flash of an eye, he’d been gone..
He can’t leave me like this.
The road curves sharply, and the tires scream against the wet pavement. The world tilts. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and pain slices through me like a knife.
And then—nothing.
But this time, it changes.
I blink, and the rain fades. The roar of the crash is replaced by the low murmur of voices, the warmth of a fire crackling nearby. I’m standing in front of the Murphy house, the storm a distant hum, as though I’m watching it all through a veil.
Ryan is there.
His father stands in the doorway, his face twisted with rage, the cruel sneer I remember so vividly etched across his features. But Ryan is between us, his broad frame a shield.
“You’re not doing this, Dad,” Ryan says, his voice sharp and steady.
“You think you can tell me...” his father starts, but Ryan cuts him off.
“I said no.” Ryan’s tone leaves no room for argument. His father stumbles back, sputtering, and Ryan turns to me.
His eyes meet mine, and the anger melts away, replaced by something warmer, softer. He reaches for me, his hand strong and steady as it clasps mine.
“Come with me,” he says, his voice low, a promise woven into the words.
I don’t hesitate.
The scene shifts again, and we’re in a small house, warm and bright, the walls lined with bookshelves and the scent of fresh flowers filling the air. Ryan is holding a baby—our baby—a tiny girl with soft, golden curls. She giggles as he lifts her high, her laughter filling the room.
“You did this,” he says, looking at me with awe.
“We did this,” I whisper, my heart swelling with a joy so pure it feels like it might burst.
The years pass in a blur of happiness—birthdays, quiet nights by the fire, long walks through the vineyard as the sun sets. The pain, the anger, the loss—they’re all gone, replaced by a life I never dared to dream was possible.
The sharp trill of my phone jolts me awake. My heart is racing, my chest heaving as I blink into the dim light of the living room. The storm outside has calmed; the rain is now a soft patter against the windows.
The dream lingers, vivid and bittersweet. My fingers twitch, reaching for something—someone—that isn’t there.
Ryan.
I shake my head, my breath hitching as I sit up. The dream was a lie, a cruel trick of my subconscious. Ryan wasn’t there that night, and he certainly didn’t save me. I saved myself.
But for a moment, it had felt so real.
And for the first time in years, I let myself wonder—what if?