Chapter 23
WHERE THE LIGHT ENDS
Not all darkness is born in the absence of light
Della
SeaWorld Rescue Center has a wild energy. The air is alive with sounds of marine animals—playful chatter of dolphins, barking calls of rescued sea lions. The rhythmic splash of water against the pools completes this concert.
I close my eyes, inhaling the salty smell of the Pacific as the sun’s warm, healing touch makes me feel a world away from the shadows of Chicago.
A genuine smile—the unfakeable kind of smile, stretches across my face. It feels strange yet wonderfully familiar, like returning to a girl I used to know.
For once, my head isn’t a battlefield and my body isn’t tense. I can just… be.
No Dorian, no Leah, no ghosts. Just me, the sun, the water, Silvia and the crazy, beautiful pulse of marine life all around me.
“This one’s a fighter,” Silvia says, nodding toward a large pool where a sea turtle with a scarred shell glides gracefully through the water. “Got tangled in a fishing net. She’s been with us for six months. We’re hoping to release her by the end of the year.”
I watch the turtle—moving with this scarred but unbroken grace—and I feel deeply connected. It will forever carry the marks of the struggle on her shell, yet with every stubborn stroke in the water, it makes a silent, unwavering vow to the open ocean. And to herself.
This place is a living proof that second chances are real. What has been broken can heal and bounce back. The will to survive always finds its way back to the ocean.
“She’s amazing,” I whisper, my heart full.
“Oh, she totally is.” Suddenly, a masculine voice—super chill, with that confident warmth you only hear in people who talk to animals for a living—joins our conversation.
I turn to see a man in khaki shorts and a blue polo with the rescue center’s logo slapped across the chest. The sun-bleached, blond-haired hunk with ocean-blue eyes and a tan I absolutely envy is looking at the turtle… but the smile? That’s 100% for Silvia.
“Ben, hi!” Silvia’s face lights up. She’s blushing, and it’s adorable. “This is Della, my bestie. Della, this is Dr. Ben Carter, turtle savior extraordinaire.”
Dr. Ken Doll, I think, suppressing a laugh.
“Nice to meet you, Della,” Ben says, his handshake firm and warm. “Silvia’s told me about you.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben! Congratulations for your work!” I toss back.
“Thank you!” His gaze shifts back to Silvia. There’re enough sparks in the air between them to blackout half the city. “Still up for that Torrey Pines hike on Saturday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Silvia replies, her voice soft and floaty.
He gives her one last smile before a colleague calls his name and he heads out. “Gotta run. See you Saturday, Sil.”
As he walks away, I turn to Silvia, my eyebrows raised in a teasing arch but she suddenly became very interested in another tank.
“So,” I begin, with an amused voice, “Dr. Ken Doll’s the real reason you’re so hyped about rescuing marine life, huh?”
Silvia goes tomato-red and gives me a shove that’s more giggle than threat.
“Oh my god, shut up! He’s just… we’re friends.”
“A friend you’re hiking with and turn the color of firetrucks when he smiles at you,” I shoot back, cracking up as she tries—and fails—to pull off her ‘offended’ face.
She huffs out a sigh, but there’s this goofy, can’t-hide-it smile spreading.
“Okay, fine! He’s nice, alright? But… we’re just getting to know each other.”
“I’m really happy for you, Silvia.” I say, pulling her into a big hug.
Seeing her so bright, so full of potential joy, feels like another ray of sunshine in a day that is, against all odds, becoming one of the most peaceful I have had in years.
* * *
Dorian
The cabin of the Gulfstream is a gilded cage.
The buttery leather of the seats, the gleaming wood grain of the tables, the quiet hum of the auxiliary power—it’s all a mockery of the power I’m supposed to have.
Every luxurious detail feels like a weight, pinning me to the tarmac while the world, while her world, spins on without me.
Two hours. Two stolen hours.
We’ve been grounded on this runway. Could have been half way to her by now.
I snarl into my phone, "I don't give a damn about Nebraska’s weather, all right?" My voice is low, but there’s this earthquake under the surface. The primal scream building in my chest threatens to break free.
I stalk from one end of the cabin to the other, the city of Chicago a useless blur outside the window. "Reroute. Bypass it. Find a way or carve one. I’ll pay whatever—fee, fine, bribe. Just get this thing in the air."
David watches me from his seat, swirling his scotch, playing statue. I hate that he’s so calm, but God, I need it too. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the ice clink around.
The voice on the other end of the line is tinny, bureaucratic, zero urgency, and probably sipping a coffee. They say something about all outbound flights being grounded and my grip on the phone goes white-hot.
"What do you mean, grounded? All private flights?"
Useless. All this money, all this power—it can move mountains of concrete and steel, but it can't move a single cloud. Every minute we’re stuck here is a minute that Leah is closing in on Della. Every second that ticks by is a second, I’m too far away to protect her.
I’m stuck in a metal tube. Pinned to the ground and caged by the sky.
The fear is a physical thing, a cold dread that crawls up my spine. The same gut punch from five years ago when she vanished. That terror of losing her. Again
I end the call with a clipped curse and slam the phone so hard that the sound echoes through the quiet hum of the cabin.
David finally speaks, deadpan as ever.
"Pacing’s not gonna scare the weather off, Dorian,"
"It's better than doing nothing," I bite back, resuming my caged march.
He stands and pours another glass of scotch, holding it out to me.
"Here. Drink this. We'll get there."
I just stare at the glass, then at him. "She's out there, David. Alone. Leah knows where she is. And I'm stuck here." My voice is shredded—pure, impotent rage, fear, the whole ugly package.
He doesn’t flinch. "Falling apart isn’t gonna help. Keep it together, Dorian! For her."
I throw back the drink in one go. It burns all the way down. Doesn’t help, but at least it’s something. He’s right—I know he is—but logic doesn’t mean squat to the panic gnawing at my gut. I stalk over to the window, glare at the endless, gray, unmoving sky.
The sky can hold me hostage for now. The weather can pin me to the ground.
But when it lets me go, Leah’s got nowhere left to run. Not from me.
* * *
Leah
The hotel bar is a study in minimalist perfection. Polished chrome, black marble, and unforgiving angles—an environment that values control over comfort. It suits me.
I sit at a secluded table, glass walls showing off San Diego glittering way out there, as if I give a damn. The vodka martini in my hand is cold, sharp, and brutally efficient. Just like my plan.
I glance at the watch on my wrist. The pieces are in motion. The waiting is almost over.
A shadow falls over my table. I glance up, and here he is: golden boy, California edition. He’s got that easy, sun-bleached confidence and a drink held loosely in one hand. His eyes make a slow, appreciative sweep of my body.
He hits me with, “A woman that beautiful shouldn’t be drinking alone.” Like he’s the first guy to ever think of that line. His voice is smooth, and he’s clearly used to getting what he wants.
For a split second, I consider it—the old cat-and-mouse. The familiar, easy game of it all. Letting him think he’s the hunter, pulling him close, then tearing him down until he’s basically begging. The thought brings a flicker of amusement, a faint echo of a thrill I used to enjoy.
But the echo fades almost instantly, leaving me stone-cold sober inside.
I take a slow sip of my martini, stare him down over the rim of the glass. I smile—sharp, not friendly.
“You’re a lovely appetizer,” I tell him, voice all velvet and razor blades, “but I’m holding out for the main course.”
He blinks, the swagger slips, and I watch the confusion flicker across that pretty face. I don’t look away. Just keep smiling ‘til he gets the message. He mutters—something probably meant to sting—and retreats back to the safety of the bar.
A small, cruel smile touches my lips as he goes. Pathetic.
Just like Dorian, in his own way. Dorian never really knew me.
He fell in love with a performance—the sweet, supportive girl I pretended to be.
He never once looked deeper to see the ambition, the claws, the absolute will to win at any cost. He thought my cruelty had limits.
Poor thing. He is about to find out that my only limit is victory, and his lesson will be spectacular.
I turn my attention back to the window, the guy already forgotten. Why waste fire on kindling when I’ve got a whole damn forest to burn?
Casual power games, easy conquests? Been there, done that. Feels cheap now.
My anger’s gone pure, almost holy. This isn’t just revenge. It’s ritual. Taking down Della? Personal. Sacred. Every ounce of my energy, my focus, my spark, must be preserved for it.
I’m the priestess; she’s the sacrifice. And Della, lounging in her fancy little borrowed heaven by the sea doesn’t know it yet, but the sun’s about to set on her whole world.
I lift my glass, the cold liquid a final, silent toast to the clueless girl who’s about to learn what real darkness looks like. Anticipation? It’s a better high than any man could ever give me.
* * *
Della
The setting sun paints the sky in bruised shades of orange and purple, the colors bleeding into the calm surface of the ocean.
The whole scene is soaked in a lazy, golden-hour glow.
Sunsets like this feel like they're ripped straight from a postcard.
I enjoy the warm breeze on the terrace of this small beachside bar Ben invited us to, just when we were leaving the rescue center.
The air is filled with the easy laughter of the after-work crowd and the steady, soothing rhythm of the waves. And something deliciously deep fried.
Silvia’s got this light about her tonight. She’s glowing. She keeps laughing at Ben’s stories, her eyes sparkling in the tiki torchlight.
I haven’t seen her this relaxed in so long. He leans in, his smile meant only for her, and the air between them crackles with a bright, hopeful energy. Seeing my friend so happy, so full of life, feels like a gift.
"I’m serious, you two," Ben’s off on another one of his “nature tried to kill me” stories. "You think the ocean is wild, you should try spending a winter tracking elk in Yellowstone. I once woke up to a bison using my tent as a back scratcher. Yellowstone isn’t all pretty postcards, trust me."
Silvia’s eyes sparkle as if the idea just lighted up a dormant dream. "Della, we have to go there! Remember how we planned this trip in college, five years ago? Mountains, geyser, waterfalls..."
"Yeah, I remember," I say, taking a sip of my drink, my own smile genuine. "But if a bison even breathes near my tent, I’m calling in the rangers, the coast guard and the Air Forces."
We all laugh and dig into our fish and chips that the waiter just brought to the table.
After another round of drinks, I decide it’s time to make my exit.
“Guys, I’m exhausted,” I say, fake-yawning hard enough to sell it, pushing back from the table. “I’m going to take a slow walk home along the beach. You two should stay.”
“No, no we’ll come with—” Silvia starts to protest, but I stop her with a small shake of my head.
“No need. It’s just a couple of minutes away down the beach. I need this walk.” And I give her a pointed, knowing look.
She gets it. I hug her, whispering, “Have fun, Chiquita!” before turning to leave.
I walk away from the warmth of the bar, feeling genuinely happy for her and quietly content in my own decision.
The walk home begins peacefully. I slip off my sandals and let the cool, damp sand squish between my toes. The ruby at my throat feels warm against my skin, and my thoughts drift towards another barefoot moment, another landscape.
Away from the bar and all the lights, the sound of the waves turns into a gentle lullaby beneath the stars. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, my mind is quiet. I’m not running from the past or bracing for the future. I’m just here.
That’s when I hear it.
Footsteps pounding on the sand behind me. Heavy, rhythmic, and getting closer.
My first thought is a flash of dark amusement.
Seriously? Is Mr. ‘I was checking my phone’ from this morning back for a sequel? I roll my eyes, readying a sarcastic comment as I start to turn.
But the sound is wrong.
It’s not the steady pace of a jogger. It's a sprint. Too desperate. Too… aggressive.
Every alarm bell in my body goes off. My gut says move, and for once, I listen. Adrenaline spikes, mind scrambling to catch up. This isn’t some coincidence. This is danger.
I whip my head around to look back, but it's already too late.