Chapter 200
Graham’s head throbbed with a relentless buzz, a dull, incessant ache
that seemed to pulse in time with his frayed nerves. Sleep had evaded
him for two weeks, leaving his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark
shadows. The scruff on his jaw had grown into a thick, unkempt
beard, the once–sharp edges of his appearance dulled by neglect. At
35, Graham looked a decade older, the strain of the past weeks
carving lines of exhaustion into his face. Worry, he had learned, could
age a man overnight.
But it wasn’t the sleepless nights or his disheveled appearance that
gnawed at him–it was the guilt. Heavy and suffocating, it wrapped
around him like a vice. Isla was gone. The girl his father had
entrusted to him, the girl he had sworn to protect, had vanished
under his watch. And he had failed her. Miserably.
The guilt was a constant companion, but it was often overshadowed
by something far more paralyzing: fear. A raw, spine–chilling fear that
kept him awake at night and drove him to the edge of reason during
the day. Isla had never been beyond the safe, familiar borders of
Willow Creek. She was innocent–too innocent–and oblivious to the
cruelty the world could unleash. Graham shuddered to imagine what
might have happened to her in the weeks since she’d disappeared.
His life in New York felt like a distant memory now. Two weeks ago,
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his billion–dollar company had been on the brink of sealing a
lucrative deal with a major European firm. It was a deal he had been
meticulously preparing for months, one that could have secured
billions in investments. But his absence had cost them dearly.
Without him to oversee the negotiations, the opportunity had slipped
through their fingers.
And then there was the mall project in Los Angeles–a high–stakes
venture that was already behind schedule. Every day the project was
delayed meant millions of dollars lost, and yet Graham couldn’t bring
himself to leave Willow Creek. He had chosen to stay, pacing the halls of Thornfield Manor, staring down the empty driveway, and clinging
to the faint hope that Isla would walk back through the front door.
But she hadn’t.
When the local police failed to uncover any leads, Graham decided to
take matters into his own hands. He had reached out to his network
of contacts, tapping into the resources of the city’s best private investigator. For two grueling weeks, he waited, the silence stretching unbearably thin. And then, finally, there was news.
The investigator had tracked Isla to a small, obscure town on the border of Georgia and North Carolina called Magnolia Ridge. It was a hundred miles from Willow Creek, and Graham had no idea what could have led her there. He struggled to make sense of it. Why had she run? What had happened to make her flee the only home she’d
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ever known?
As he drove the long, lonely road toward Magnolia Ridge, these
questions haunted him. The leather steering wheel creaked under the
grip of his tense hands, his knuckles white as he tried to suppress the
torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
In the two weeks since she’d disappeared, Graham had replayed every
conversation, every moment he had shared with Isla. He scrutinized
every detail, searching for the misstep that might have driven her
away. Was it something he’d said? Something he hadn’t said? The
frustration of not knowing gnawed at him relentlessly.
The town finally came into view, its outline faint against the
sprawling landscape of green and gold. Graham’s stomach tightened
as he approached. Magnolia Ridge was his only lead, and with it, his
only goal of finding Isla.
No, he corrected himself, he had another goal too. That once he finds
her, he was never letting her go again.
