Where Is She?
Melody stirred slowly, the ache in her ribs a dull throb rather than the sharp stab it had been days ago. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the guest room, soft and golden, catching on the pale blush duvet and the vase of fresh lilies on the nightstand.
For a moment she simply lay there, breathing in the quiet... clean sheets, faint scent of lavender from the linens, no beeping monitors, no antiseptic sting in the air.
The door opened gently.
Elise stepped inside carrying a tray: a porcelain bowl of oatmeal topped with sliced bananas and a drizzle of honey, a small pot of tea, a glass of fresh orange juice, and a folded linen napkin. She set the tray on the low table beside the bed and smiled.
“Good morning,” Elise said softly. “How are you feeling today?”
Melody pushed herself up carefully against the pillows, wincing only a little.
“Better,” she answered honestly. “Still sore, but… better.”
Elise nodded. “Dr. Aniston said light movement is good. Let me help you wash up before breakfast.”
She brought a basin of warm water scented with chamomile, a soft cloth, and a fresh towel.
Melody let her help, wiping her face, brushing her short hair, changing into the loose sweater and trousers.
Elise moved with quiet efficiency, never rushing, never making Melody feel helpless.
When they finished, she settled the breakfast tray across Melody’s lap.
“Eat slowly,” Elise said with a small smile. “Mrs Marshall will be up soon.”
As if summoned, the door opened again.
Margaret entered, already dressed for the day: tailored navy trousers, a cream silk blouse, hair swept into a low chignon, a string of pearls at her throat. She carried a slim leather portfolio under one arm but her expression softened the moment she saw Melody.
“Good morning, dear,” she said, crossing the room. “How did you sleep?”
Melody looked down at the tray, steam rising from the oatmeal, the tea fragrant, and felt her throat tighten unexpectedly.
“Like… like I haven’t in years,” she admitted quietly. “Peaceful. No nightmares. No waking up in a panic. Just… sleep.”
Margaret sat on the edge of the bed, setting her portfolio aside.
“I’m glad,” she replied, voice warm. “You needed it. More than you probably realized.”
Melody picked up the spoon, stirring the oatmeal absently.
“I didn’t think I’d ever sleep like that again. Not after… everything.”
Margaret reached out and covered Melody’s free hand with her own.
“You will,” she said simply. “Not every night, maybe not right away, but you will. You’re safe here. No one’s coming through that door unless I allow it. And I don’t allow threats.”
Melody’s eyes filled. She blinked hard, managing a small, watery smile.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For all of this. For… seeing me.”
Margaret squeezed her hand once, then stood.
“Eat,” she said with a gentle smile. “I have to head to the office soon, but I’ll be back this evening. Elise will be here if you need anything. Rest. Read. Stare out the window at the garden. Whatever feels right.”
She leaned down and pressed a light kiss to Melody’s forehead, maternal and steady.
“You’re going to be alright,” she murmured. “One day at a time.”
Margaret picked up her portfolio and left, the door closing softly behind her.
Melody stared at the closed door for a long moment.
Then she lifted the spoon to her lips and took the first bite.
It tasted like home.
And for the first time in a very long time,
she let herself believe that she might actually find one again.
×××××××
Christian sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, the city skyline a gray blur beyond the tinted windows.
His phone lay face-up beside a stack of ignored reports, the screen dark but taunting.
He had already called Sally four times since morning.
.. each conversation shorter, sharper, more clipped than the last.
He picked it up again, thumb hovering over the contact for a long second before pressing call.
It rang twice.
Sally answered on the third ring, voice soft and careful, as though she’d been expecting him.
“Sir.”
“Has she come?” he asked without preamble, the question already heavy with frustration.
A brief pause, Sally’s breath catching, as though she hated delivering the same answer again.
“No, sir,” she replied quietly. “I waited all morning. Called her twice. No answer. No message. She hasn’t been here.”
Christian closed his eyes for a second, fingers tightening around the phone until his knuckles whitened.
“She’s never missed a visit,” he said, more to himself than to Sally. “Not once. Not even when she was barely standing after… everything.”
Sally’s voice came back gently.
“I know. I thought the same. Maybe she’s sick. Or… something happened.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“She’d come anyway. She always does. For Symphony.”
Sally didn’t reply immediately. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy.
“Keep trying her,” he said finally. “If she shows up, call me immediately. No matter what time.”
“Of course, sir.”
He ended the call without another word.
The phone dropped onto the desk with a dull thud.
Christian leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Five calls.
Five times the same answer.
No Melody.
No explanation.
No sign of her.
He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to push down the cold, unfamiliar feeling creeping into his chest.
Worry.
Not anger.
Not resentment.
Worry.
Because Melody would never miss a visit.
Not willingly.
She’d crawl through broken glass to see her daughter.
So if she wasn’t here…
Something was wrong.
He stared at the phone again, thumb hovering over her contact once more.
But he didn’t call.
Not yet.
Instead he stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the city... gray, indifferent, endless.
And somewhere deep inside, the doubt he’d tried so hard to bury rose again, sharper this time.
Where was she?
×××××××
Melody stood at the tall window in her room, arms loosely folded across her chest, gazing out over the winter gardens.
She had been watching the same view for nearly twenty minutes... quiet, still, lost in thought, when a soft knock sounded behind her.
She turned.
Thomas, Margaret’s butler, stepped inside carrying a slim black box. He was as composed as ever, dark suit impeccable, expression kind but professional.
“Miss Evans,” he said with a small bow. “Mrs. Marshall asked me to bring you this.”
He extended the box toward her.
Melody hesitated, then took it. The lid lifted easily to reveal a new smartphone, sleek, matte black, still sealed in protective film. A charger and a small envelope rested beside it.
Her fingers brushed the screen. “A new phone?”
Thomas nodded once. “The SIM card is one of Mrs. Marshall’s own... private, secure, unlisted. No one has this number except those she trusts. She thought you might feel safer with it.”
Melody looked up at him, throat tightening. “My old phone…?”
Thomas’s gaze softened fractionally.
“The police never recovered it. They searched the diner thoroughly after the incident. It was likely lost during the chaos. Mrs. Marshall didn’t want you waiting on the chance it might turn up.”
Melody stared at the new device in her hands.
She had lost everything on that old phone: photos of Symphony from her visits, the few messages she’d kept from before everything fell apart. Gone.
She swallowed hard. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Tell Margaret… thank you.”
Thomas inclined his head. “I will. She also asked me to remind you: rest. No need to rush anything. The phone is yours to use whenever you’re ready.”
He gave a small, polite smile and withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
Melody stood alone again, the box still in her hands.
She peeled back the film slowly, powered the phone on. The screen lit up... clean, empty, waiting.
She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen.
Then she opened the contacts.
There was only one number saved.
Margaret
She pressed it, hesitated, then saved it under “Margaret (Home)”.
Her finger lingered over the screen.
She didn’t call anyone.
Instead she walked back to the window, new phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline, and looked out at the gardens again.
And for the first time in weeks, she felt something small and fragile begin to take root inside her chest.
Not hope... not fully.
But the possibility of it.
She whispered to the empty room, to the gardens, to her daughter somewhere far away.
“I’m still here, Symphony.
I’m still coming for you.”
×××××××
Christian came home late that night, the front door closing behind him with a heavy thud that echoed through the quiet foyer. The house was dark except for the soft glow spilling from the living room. He walked straight there, footsteps deliberate.
Victoria sat in her usual armchair by the fireplace, a glass of red wine in one hand, the flames reflecting in her sharp eyes. She looked up as he entered, expression calm, almost expectant.
“You’re late,” she said mildly.
Christian didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room and stopped in front of her, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.
“Where is she?” His voice was low, controlled, but the fury beneath it vibrated like a taut wire.
Victoria tilted her head slightly. “Who?”
“Don’t.” He took one step closer. “Melody. She hasn’t come to see Symphony. She’s never missed a single visit... not once. She’d crawl through broken glass for that child. So where. Is. She?”
Victoria set her glass down slowly, the crystal clinking against the side table.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling. Perhaps she finally came to her senses and decided to stop haunting us.”
Christian’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. “You’re lying.”
She raised an elegant brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something colder, more dangerous.
“You’ve hated her from the moment I dragged her through that door.
You cut her hair. You carved words into her skin.
You made sure she knew her place every single day.
And now she’s vanished and you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with it? ”
Victoria’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t flinch.
“You’re being dramatic. She’s probably holed up in that disgusting little apartment, licking her wounds. Or maybe she finally realized she has no claim here.”
Christian took another step, looming over her chair. “She didn’t just disappear. She stopped answering calls. Stopped showing up. That woman would burn the world down for her daughter. The only way she stops is if someone makes her stop.”
He leaned down, hands braced on the armrests of her chair, caging her in.
“If you hurt her, if you or Ashley or anyone you paid sent someone after her, I will find out. And when I do, I won’t hesitate.
You’ll lose everything. The house. The name.
The family you claim to protect. I will burn it all down. ”
Victoria stared up at him, unflinching, but a flicker of something, fear, perhaps, passed through her eyes.
“I did nothing,” she said, voice steady. “If she’s gone, it’s because she chose to be. Or because she finally understood she’s not welcome here.”
Christian straightened slowly, breathing hard through his nose.
“You’re scared,” he said quietly. “I can see it. You know something.”
Victoria lifted her chin. “I know my son is losing his mind over a woman who destroyed this family.”
He laughed... short, bitter, devoid of humor.
“She didn’t destroy anything. We did. You. Me. Ashley. We took a child from her mother and now she’s missing. And if she’s hurt, if she’s dead, I will make sure every single one of us pays for it.”
He turned on his heel and walked out.
Victoria remained seated, wine glass forgotten, staring into the fire.
Her hand trembled before she steadied it.
The flames reflected in her eyes, bright and unreadable.
×××××××