asked me to wish you a happy birthday, and said he’d send some gifts
later.”
Knowing that Graham had cut the call, likely to avoid speaking with
her, struck Isla with a pain sharper than any she had ever known. She
had feared loneliness for so long–the kind of aching solitude that
comes from feeling unloved. But now, she realized, the anguish of
heartbreak was infinitely worse, an unbearable weight pressing down
on her chest.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks stretched into months. Winter
melted into spring, and before Isla knew it, May was nearing its end.
Yet each time her gaze fell on the calendar hanging in her room, a
wave of dread surged through her. The passing days felt like a
countdown to the inevitable: Graham returning to Thornfield Manor
to fulfill his promise–to prepare the estate for sale and rid himself of
the burden it represented. That burden, she feared, included her.
The thought left her swallowing back the lump in her throat,
reassuring herself that she was imagining the worst. Surely, he
wouldn’t go through with it. And yet, her actions betrayed her denial.
She hadn’t done a single thing he had asked of her. She hadn’t
scouted a cottage on the grounds for herself, as he had suggested. The
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mere thought of picking a place to live apart from the manor was
unbearable—it made the prospect of his plans all too real.
Instead, Isla had clung to the hope that Graham was bluffing. She
told herself he wouldn’t follow through, that he couldn’t bring
himself to sever their ties so completely.
In the meantime, she had thrown herself into her art, refusing to let
grief consume her entirely. The scattered sketches, vibrant
watercolors, and richly textured oil paintings strewn across her floor
bore witness to her determination. She had applied to countless art
colleges across the country, pouring her heart into portfolios and
applications. If one dream–of love, marriage, and family–seemed
unattainable, she resolved to chase another with everything she had.
Her dream of pursuing art had always faced resistance, particularly
from her stepfather, Robert Lancaster. He had never seen the value in
an art degree, often dismissing it as impractical and useless for
building a career. He had pushed her instead toward more “sensible”
paths, like a business major that might secure her a lucrative job in a
metropolitan city.
And perhaps he was right, Isla thought bitterly. A business degree
might have set her on a more conventional path, just as falling for a
man other than Graham Lancaster might have spared her so much
heartache. But life didn’t work that way. You couldn’t choose who or
what you loved, and Isla had always been unwavering in her passions.
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Just as she couldn’t give up on her art, no matter how impractical it
seemed, she couldn’t give up on Graham, no matter how distant he
had become. Her love for both was stubborn and enduring, rooted so
deeply within her that it felt like an unshakable part of her soul.
The last day of April was marked by a storm unlike any Willow Creek had seen in years. The sky was a vast, oppressive expanse of black,
with clouds swirling ominously, as though they were alive, colliding
and churning together in a furious dance. The air was thick with the
scent of rain, and within moments, the heavens opened, sending
torrents of water crashing down onto the earth below. Thunder rolled
in jagged waves, echoing through the valley with such ferocity that
the windows of every house rattled. Lightning split the sky, a violent
flash followed by ear–splitting cracks, each strike seemingly closer
than the last.
The storm didn’t relent. By nightfall, the rain had intensified, coming
down in sheets that blurred the world into a hazy, dark fog. The
thunder grew louder, the kind of deafening boom that made the very
air vibrate with its power. Every crack of lightning illuminated the
sky, casting eerie shadows across the land, as if nature itself was
issuing a warning, a sign of impending doom. It felt like the world
itself was on the edge, teetering on the brink of something terrible,
Against this backdrop of fury, a car pulled up to the sprawling,
isolated Thornfield Manor. Two figures emerged, drenched by the
relentless downpour, their movements hurried but deliberate. The
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maids, who had gathered by the back kitchen door to watch the
storm, couldn’t help but notice. There was Graham Lancaster, his
once–polished coat now clinging to his form, soaked through, and
beside him, a stunning woman. Her hair, damp and heavy, clung to
her shoulders, and her elegant dress clung to her curves as they made
their way toward the house.
They knocked, the sound of their knuckles against the door barely
audible over the roar of the storm. Maggie rushed to answer, the door
swinging open to reveal them standing on the threshold. They had
clearly been caught in the worst of the storm–wet, cold, and yet still
carrying an unmistakable air of ease between them. Graham glanced
at Maggie with a flicker of annoyance, then gently took the woman’s
hand, guiding her inside.
“It’s fine, Maggie, it’s alright,” Graham said, his voice sounding a
little strained, but carrying an undeniable calm. He shrugged off his
soaked coat and handed it over to the fussing maid, who was trying to
tend to them in the chaos of the storm. He seemed unconcerned by
the state of his appearance, his focus entirely on the woman beside
him. “We got drenched getting from the helipad to here. Surprisingly,
the umbrella didn’t stand a chance,” he added with a half–hearted
chuckle, tossing the broken black umbrella to the side.
The woman beside him giggled softly, her voice light and melodic
despite the storm. She nudged Graham playfully, her eyes sparkling
with a warmth Isla had never seen in his eyes before. It was a small
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gesture, but one that spoke volumes. Her hand rested against his arm
as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the intimacy of it so
effortlessly natural that it made Isla’s heart tighten painfully in her
chest.
“I don’t want dinner Maggie, thank you.”
“Evie?” Graham asked, turning to the woman, his tone casual but
with an undercurrent of affection.
Evie looked up at him, her lips curling into a small smile. “No, thank you,” she replied, shaking her head. “I’m not really hungry, not after that heavy lunch we had.” Her voice carried a light teasing quality, and Graham’s smile softened, his eyes full of warmth and indulgence.
He seemed to lean into her words, his gaze lingering on her a moment
longer than necessary.
As she giggled again, nudging his shoulder with playful affection,
Graham’s hand settled possessively on her back, guiding her deeper
into the house. Isla, from the top of the stairs, could see it all–their
quiet intimacy, the easy comfort they shared in each other’s presence.
Each passing second seemed to chip away at the wall Isla had built
around her heart, and she couldn’t look away. She felt as if the very
air had become suffocating, the storm outside nowhere near as
violent as the storm in her chest.
“I’ll be fine, Maggie. Just prepare my bedroom… for the two of us.
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That’ll be all,” Graham said, his tone final as he addressed the maid,
his words falling like an unexpected blow. He didn’t even glance in
Isla’s direction, his attention entirely consumed by Evie, the woman
beside him.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
