I don’t ask questions because I don’t want to know the answers, but it gnaws at me all the same.
This whole damn island reeks of secrets, and I’ve had my fill of those. They press in from every direction, heavy as the storm rolling in over the water. The not-knowing grates, leaving me stranded in this limbo where I feel like I can’t even trust the ground beneath my feet at times, like even the air carries whispers meant to keep me on edge.
The water below churns in restless waves, dark, dizzying, and icy. It looks like it wants to pull something under. Maybe me. Maybe all of this.
I grip the railing tighter, shivering as the cold seeps through my gloves, biting into my skin like it’s trying to remind me that I don’t belong here. That I’m at the mercy of this place.
I hate this feeling, this constant vulnerability, as if even the elements are conspiring to remind me of how little power I have on this island. As if I’m just one wrong step away from being chewed up and spit back out.
It’s quiet everywhere here; the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder than you want them to be.
And mine are screaming.
I know Ezra brought me here to protect me from the Assembly, and part of me hates him a little less for that.
He saved me. I can admit that much.
But why does being saved feel so much like a prison?
Maybe because he’s lied to me every day since the first day we met. That thought only adds to the constant bitter taste in my mouth.
When does this end? When will it ever be safe to go back?Willit ever be safe to go back?
I’ve worked so damn hard to get where I am—long nights, endless studying, running myself ragged to prove I was worth something.
To prove I belonged.
Because failure was never an option. Not for me.
Not when I grew up in the shadow of a family that excelled at everything. My mother, a surgeon who barely looked up from her research unless it was to critique my latest academic achievement. My father, a high-powered attorney with a name that meant something in courtrooms across the country. My older brothers, one in finance, the other a tech genius who sold his first startup before he even graduated from college.
And then there was me.
The youngest. The one who was supposed to follow in their footsteps. The one who was always just a little behind, always struggling to keep up. It wasn’t enough to be good—I had to be the best. The expectations wrapped around me like a chokehold, suffocating but familiar.
So I worked. I studied. I sacrificed sleep, a social life, anything that wasn’t necessary to get me ahead.
It’s why I chose forensic psychology—because it was mine. Not medicine, not law, not business. A field they didn’t understand, didn’t have a claim over. I wanted to carve out something of my own, something they couldn’t twist into another family legacy I had no say in upholding.
And I was doing it. I was on track, pushing through, proving I was worth something beyond my last name.
Until Ezra.
He saw that hunger in me, that drive. And he fed it, at first, in ways that felt like support. Encouragement. Until I recognized he wasn’t just pushing me forward. He was guiding me exactly where he wanted me.
Shaping me into something that fit his world, his plans.
And I let him. Because maybe, deep down, I wanted someone to tell me where to go. To tell me I was doing the right thing. To remind me I was worth something.
And now… what? Was it all for nothing?
The wind picks up, rattling the pier beneath me, but I push the thought away.
Hallow feels a million miles away, and with every day that passes, so does my life there.
I feel it slipping, little by little, replaced by this cold, suffocating silence.
7
