Chapter 4
Hunter
The storm has finally faded, leaving the mansion wrapped in a quiet that presses too close.
Quiet is dangerous for someone like me. The kind that makes my thoughts louder than I’d like. I should call it a night. I should shut down, shut off, and forget the chaos of the last few hours.
But instead, I find myself opening HeartLines app. I didn’t build HeartLines to make money.
God knows I didn’t need another revenue stream. I have construction companies that run themselves, investments that print returns while I sleep. HeartLines was different. It was the only thing I created that wasn’t meant to scale endlessly or dominate a market.
It was personal.
The algorithm is simple by design. A long questionnaire—values, frustrations, fears, the things people don’t usually say out loud. Then it offers a handful of possible matches. Not hundreds. Not thousands. Just a few. You can decline all of them if you want.
No pressure.
I remember staring at the list the night I signed up, thumb hovering over the screen longer than I’d admit. And then I chose Wind.
She could have declined me.
She didn’t.
That matters more than I let myself think about. She chose me when she had choices.
I decided the name North, because I felt adrift. Like everything in my life pointed outward—money, power, expectation—but nothing pointed forward. North is supposed to mean direction. Stability. Something fixed when everything else shifts.
And loneliness has a way of creeping in when you have too much and still feel misunderstood. When people see the surface and decide they already know the rest.
HeartLines only works if both people want anonymity. No faces. No names. No personal details. Just honesty without judgment. Anyone who uses it understands that rule.
Wind gets me. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet, unsettling way that makes me pause before I type. Our personalities click like we’re speaking the same language. We’ve never flirted. Never crossed that line.
But knowing she’s there, always a message away, makes something in me feel… safe.
And that terrifies me.
Because my biggest fear isn’t her knowing who I am.
It’s her disappearing one day, logging out, never coming back, without a goodbye.
It shouldn’t matter. An anonymous stranger on the internet shouldn’t hold any part of my attention. Her silence shouldn’t mean anything.
My pulse lifts, just a little, when I see Wind’s username glowing online. She hasn’t logged in for days.
When she disappeared, there’d been a small, unwelcome tug in my chest. Something close to disappointment. Irritation. And if I’m being far too honest with myself, a flicker of sadness that it was also the end of… whatever this was.
I click into our chat before I can overthink it. And I start by asking her where she disappeared all these days.
The tension in my shoulders eases, she’s fine—ridiculous, considering I’ve never seen her face, never heard her voice, never known anything real about her.
Yet somehow, she’s the only person I talk to like this. The only person I can say things to without feeling the shadow of my past—or this town, lurking behind me.
As we start chatting, Wind mentions her new struggles. My mind flicks, uninvited, to Adaline. Wet hair, wide eyes, trembling hands. I push the image away.
Wind: I hate feeling like the world is judging me before I prove anything. Like everyone has already decided who I am without knowing me.
Something tightens in my chest—the same warning I ignore every time.
North: Trust me. I know that feeling better than most.
I shouldn’t have typed that. Too close to the truth. Before I can regret it, her reply appears.
Wind: Then I’m glad you’re here. Even if it’s just behind a screen.
I shut my eyes briefly. What am I doing?
Why does this stranger make something in me settle? Why does her honesty scrape against the parts of me I refuse to acknowledge?
And why does her reappearance tonight feel like relief?
I steer the conversation away.
North: For what it’s worth, I’m dealing with something similar. Someone new showed up at work. Unpredictable. Hard to read. Might be hiding things.
My finger hovers over the send button for a second, because the truth is sharper than I want to admit. I saw that news clipping fall out of Adaline’s bag.
I shouldn’t feel the prick of suspicion or the heavier prick of guilt for immediately assuming the worst.
I send it anyway. Her response is immediate.
Wind: Maybe they’re not hiding something bad. Maybe they’re just overwhelmed. Or scared to make a mistake.
Wind always does that, cuts straight through the noise.
North: Or maybe they’re exactly the kind of complication I don’t need.
Wind: Complications make life interesting.
A humorless huff escapes me.
North: I prefer predictable.
Wind: Boring.
Then she randomly types….
Wind: When the air smells like wet earth and distant storms, that's my favorite scent.
North: Petrichor.
Wind: What?
North: The smell when rain meets earth.
Wind: I take it back, you’re not boring.
I shake my head at the screen, fighting back a smile that has absolutely no business forming.
Our conversation drifts, lightens, becomes easy again. Every time she types, something in me loosens.
She makes jokes. Teases me for being “old man grumpy.” I tell her she’s dramatic. She sends a laughing emoji that, against every logical explanation, makes my chest warm.
But eventually, she says:
Wind: I should sleep. Big day tomorrow.
North: Goodnight, Wind.
She logs off. The screen goes dark. And the silence that fills the room afterward settles over me.
I sit back, staring at my dim monitor, my own reflection faint in the glass. I shouldn’t care about a stranger. I shouldn’t feel anything at all. But I do. I miss her when she’s gone. I’m relieved when she comes back. I trust her more than I trust almost anyone in my real life.
And that’s dangerous. Maybe if she ever knew who I really was… she’d run.
I close the laptop and scrub a hand over my face.
My thoughts shift, unbidden, to Adaline again.
To her startled look as she slipped. The way she fell into me, soft and warm and unguarded.
How it felt having someone pressed against me on my motorcycle, after years of keeping everyone at arm’s length.
Or how wrong it was, that it didn’t feel wrong.
The agency described her as skilled, hardworking, compassionate, exactly the type of person Aunt Jane needs. The only applicant willing to relocate and sign that NDA without hesitation.
A woman who should be steady. Predictable. Not someone who drops newspaper clippings about mysterious men.
Not someone who stirs things in me that I’ve locked away.
I shake my head hard, shutting it all down.
I have to keep my distance and maintain order.
My rules are what keep my life intact. And Adaline, she’ll follow those rules.
She has to. I cannot allow anyone to turn my life upside down. Not again. Not ever.
Loud, bright laughter carries on the morning air, drifting right through the open balcony doors.
I freeze. No one laughs this loudly in this house. Not like that. A spike of irritation cuts through the quiet I depend on each morning. This house is supposed to be predictable. Controlled. Calm.
Not… whatever that is. I swing my legs out of bed. It’s too early for chaos. And with Adaline here, chaos feels inevitable.
I crack open my bedroom door, and the voices drift again, louder this time, echoing down the hallway.
I pull on a T-shirt and head downstairs, following the sound. My steps are clipped, every muscle bracing to shut down whatever nonsense she’s stirred up so early in the morning.
But when I step out onto the back patio, my annoyance weakens… then dissolves entirely.
Because I stop, dead.
The entire patio has transformed. A full breakfast picnic is spread across the table, orange juice in a crystal decanter, bowls of berries, pastries arranged on floral plates, bright sunlit napkins fluttering slightly in the breeze. It looks like something out of a lifestyle magazine.
And in the center of it all, Adaline.
Barefoot on the stone. Hair still damp, brown waves clinging to her shoulders, hazel eyes bright with something unguarded. Yellow cotton dress softening her entire silhouette. Moving with this easy, warm energy as she places toast in front of Aunt Jane like she’s been doing it her whole life.
My irritation lifts, confusion taking its place.
Aunt Jane is beaming with happiness and animated in a way I haven’t seen in months. She throws her head back, laughing at something Adaline says. And I feel my breath catch, annoyed at myself for the reaction, but unable to stop it. She’s taking over. She’s moving things. She’s loud.
But Aunt Jane, she is glowing. My aunt looks alive. Whatever sharp remark was forming on my tongue dies instantly. Mrs. Lane notices me first.
“Good morning, Hunter!” she calls, far too cheerful. Aunt Jane turns, practically sparkling.
“Look who finally decided to join us! You overslept, darling. You missed our sunrise breakfast.”
I blink. “You’ve never wanted a sunrise breakfast in your life.”
“Nonsense,” she says, waving a hand. “You just never offered me one like this.” She gestures proudly at the table.
Adaline turns at that, cheeks flushing a soft pink. “It was nothing. I just thought fresh air might help her appetite.”
“It did wonders,” Aunt Jane insists. “She made the eggs perfectly. And she cut fruit like an artist. Didn’t she, Mary?”
Mrs. Lane nods vigorously. “We are so glad you hired her, Hunter.”
Adaline ducks her head, shy, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad it helped. Mrs. Rexon—”
“Aunt Jane,” Aunt Jane corrects immediately, patting Adaline’s hand. “You make me feel I have a daughter. Don’t take that away from me.”
Adaline shyly smiles, soft and warm.
I don’t like it. It's messing with my head.
I don’t like any of this, the brightness, the change, the way these women are looking at her like she’s the best thing to happen to this house in years, as if I have never allowed them to have breakfast.
But I can’t deny what I’m seeing.
Aunt Jane loves her. And Adaline fits into this scene far too easily. She moves like she belongs here. And I hate how right it looks. I cross my arms, trying to anchor myself back into irritation, but my eyes betray me, tracking her as she adjusts a plate or laughs at something Aunt Jane whispers.
Warmth follows her like she generates it.
I don’t know what to do with that. And I don’t like how it makes me feel, unsteady, disrupted, aware of her in a way that’s dangerous. Something is shifting in this house. And I’m not ready for it.
Not even close.
The laughter outside finally fades, and the house settles into its late-morning rhythm. I move inside my office, needing distance, needing control again. An hour later, I head toward the kitchen for coffee, and I stop dead in the doorway.
Adaline is at the long marble counter, humming under her breath. Too soft for anyone else to notice, but too sharp beneath my skin. She’s surrounded by roses, soft pink, wild ones—the kind that only grow near the old fence, further from the patio.
And she’s placing them in the vase.
My mother’s vase.
The one I haven’t touched since she left. The one no one touches. The one that still feels like a bruise when I think about it.
I freeze. My chest locks tight, breath sharp and cold.
She doesn’t see me. She lifts a rose, fingers gentle, turning it like she’s admiring its beauty. Completely unaware she’s stepped onto sacred ground.
Ground I don’t let anyone walk on.
Emotion surges through me—too fast, too bright. Panic, anger, grief, old tangled wires sparking all at once. My voice comes out harder than I intend.
“Who told you to touch that?”
She startles violently, nearly dropping the rose. Her eyes fly to mine, wide and startled.
“I… thought the flowers would brighten the kitchen. Mrs. Lane said—”
“I didn’t ask what Mrs. Lane said.” My tone slices sharper than I mean. “You’re a nurse, not a decorator,” I snap. “Don’t touch things you don’t understand.”
Her face drains. The light in her eyes dims.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, already reaching to remove the roses. Her hands shake, just slightly. A thorn catches her skin. She flinches but doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t even look at me.
A bead of blood wells on her fingertip. I see it. I hate that I see it.
“That’s why you shouldn’t mess with things that aren’t yours,” I mutter, and regret it instantly.
She keeps removing each rose carefully, almost tenderly, as if the guilt is heavier than the vase itself. The kitchen feels too quiet, too thick. Like the walls are holding their breath.
“You’re bleeding,” I say stiffly. “First-aid kit is in the drawer to your left.”
“It’s fine,” she murmurs. She cradles her hand close, still refusing to meet my eyes. “I can take care of it.”
I step closer before I can stop myself. Irritation and something else, something unwelcome, tightens under my skin. “You should disinfect it.”
“I said I’m fine,” she says softly. Embarrassed and hurt.
She gathers the roses gently and lifts the crystal vase with reverence, placing it back into the cabinet exactly where it was. Exactly where I kept it. Untouchable.
She whispers, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
And then she walks away quietly. No tears. No argument. Just… leaves. Somehow, that feels worse.
I stand alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the faint scent of roses stirring memories I’ve spent years forcing into silence.
The last morning, my mom placed fresh roses in that vase before she chose my stepfather, Richard, over me. Before she walked out of my life. The memory shifts, Richard’s accusations, my own shouting, my mom looking at me like she didn’t recognize me.
Like maybe she didn’t want to.
I clench my fists tightly.
Adaline didn’t deserve the full force of that reaction. But she touched something she couldn’t possibly know mattered. Still… her quiet apology wraps tighter around me than her mistake ever did.
I didn’t mean to upset you.
I drag a hand through my hair, annoyed at her, at myself, at the way she stirs things in me I’ve buried so deep I forgot they could still move.
I shouldn’t care that she looked hurt or that she had a cut on her finger. I shouldn’t care about any of it.
But I do. And I hate what that means. Because for the first time in years, old wounds are waking up. And she’s the reason. And I don’t know how to stop it.