Alyssa POV:
The gentle touch of Gordon's fingers on my scalp, drying my hair, sent a strange warmth through me. It was a stark contrast to the jarring memories that bubbled to the surface, unbidden, from my past life.
I remembered the night Christian had pushed me. It was months after Kianna' s death, after the forced wedding, after the merger was secured. He had been drinking, as he often did, his grief a toxic shadow that consumed him and everyone around him.
"You think this is what she wanted?" he' d slurred, his eyes wild and unfocused, accusing. "You think she'd be happy with us like this?"
I had tried to reason with him, to bring him back from the dark edge he always teetered on. "Christian, it wasn't my fault. The steering column... it just froze."
His face contorted, a mask of drunken fury. "It should have been you!" he' d roared, his voice cracking. He lunged, pushing me hard. I stumbled backwards, hitting the sharp corner of a mahogany table. A searing pain exploded in my head. I felt the warm gush of blood immediately, a dark stream trickling down my temple.
I crumpled to the floor, my vision blurring, my hand pressed to my wound. He just stood there, swaying slightly, watching me. His eyes, usually so expressive, were cold and empty, devoid of any concern. "This is your fault, Alyssa," he'd said, his voice flat, emotionless. "Kianna is gone because of you."
The words had been like shards of ice, piercing my heart, chilling me to the core. My head throbbed, the blood felt sticky and warm on my fingers, but the pain in my chest was far worse. In that moment, something inside me had fractured. The love, the yearning, the desperate hope that he would one day see me, truly see me, had withered and died.
"My fault?" I had whispered, the accusation a bitter taste in my mouth. "The accident was an equipment failure! Are you saying I sabotaged the car? Are you honestly blaming me for Kianna's death?" My voice had risen, raw with disbelief and a nascent rage.
When he sobered up, he was always cold, distant, but rarely outright violent. That night, however, had been different. A line had been crossed. The next morning, he had looked at me with a chilling clarity. "My parents forced my hand, Alyssa," he' d confessed, his voice devoid of emotion. "They said if I didn't marry you, the merger was off. They said I had to be strong, to uphold our family's name after the 'tragedy.'" He had looked away, his jaw tight. "I hated myself for it. I still do."
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips then. "So, you married me to spite yourself? To punish me for being alive when your true love wasn't?" My voice was trembling, but a strange strength was building within me. "You're a coward, Christian Carlson. A pathetic, spineless coward who blames everyone else for his own weakness."
I had stood up, my head throbbing, my vision still a little blurry. I didn't wait for his reaction. I just walked out, slammed the door behind me, and drove myself to the emergency room. That night, our marriage, or whatever twisted thing it had become, had truly ended. I decided then that I would never again show weakness to him, never let him see me break.
Now, Gordon was here, gently tending to my wounds, his touch
soft, his concern genuine. This was a kind of care I had never received from Christian, not even in the beginning when he was supposedly "saving" me. My eyes welled up, but I fought back the tears, refusing to give in to the sudden rush of vulnerability.
"Thank you, Gordon," I whispered, my voice thick with unshed emotion. "You're truly kind."
He looked up, meeting my gaze, a gentle smile on his lips. "It's no trouble, Alyssa. Anyone would do the same."
Just then, a knock sounded at the cabin door. A moment later, a woman in a crisp white uniform, carrying a medical kit, entered. She had kind eyes and a professional demeanor.
"Gordon, is everything alright?" she asked, her gaze falling on me with a flicker of polite curiosity.
"Yes, Nurse Elaine. This is Alyssa. She was caught in the storm. I just brought her in," Gordon explained, his voice calm. "Could you do a quick check-up? Make sure she's truly alright."
Nurse Elaine nodded, her movements efficient. She checked my pulse, listened to my heart, and gently palpated my bruised areas. Her touch was reassuring, her presence comforting.
"She's mostly just exhausted and a little bruised, Gordon," Nurse Elaine confirmed a few minutes later. "A good night's rest and she should be fine. No serious injuries that I can detect."
Gordon nodded, a small sigh of relief escaping him. He escorted Nurse Elaine to the door, their voices dropping to a low murmur as they spoke outside.
I looked out the window, watching the relentless blizzard. It felt almost peaceful now, knowing I was safe, warm, and no longer alone. A sense of quiet relief settled over me, a feeling I hadn't realized I was capable of experiencing.
Gordon returned, his gaze soft. "The storm is still raging. It's too dangerous to try and reach shore right now. We'll wait it out. Would you like me to contact your family? Or arrange for transport home once the weather clears?"
Home. The word felt hollow, empty. My parents. They would be furious. Not worried, not relieved, but furious. Furious that I hadn't died, furious that I had defied Christian, furious that I had jeopardized their precious merger. They wouldn't care that I was alive. They would only care about the damage control, the public narrative, the potential financial fallout.
I closed my eyes, picturing their cold, calculating faces. My father, Mr. Goodman, always seeing me as an asset, a pawn in his corporate game. My mother, Mrs. Goodman, a social climber who valued appearances and wealth above all else. Their love was conditional, always tied to my performance, my usefulness, my obedience.
I imagined Christian, probably already with Kianna, weaving a tale of my "selfless sacrifice" or, more likely, my "reckless disregard." He certainly wouldn't be worried about me. He would be relieved. Free.
In my previous life, our marriage had been a gilded cage, a slow torment. Accusations, gaslighting, emotional abuse. He had drained every ounce of joy and self-worth from me, leaving me an empty shell. I wouldn't go back to that. Not for anything.
"No," I said, my voice barely a whisper, but firm, resolute. "No, please don't." I stood up, moving closer to Gordon, a desperate plea in my eyes. I reached out, my hand resting gently on his arm, my fingers clinging to the warmth of his sleeve. "Please, Gordon. Can I stay with you? Just for a little while? I... I have nowhere else to go."
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze was intense, searching, as if he could see into the depths of my soul, into the raw, exposed wounds I tried so hard to hide. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant roar of the blizzard.
A strange memory flickered. Gordon Davidson. The name. Helios. The anonymous mentor who had guided me, praised my work, anonymously funded my research years ago when I was a struggling software engineer. Could it be? The thought was dizzying. Two times, he had saved me. Once in the darkness of my career, once in the darkness of the sea.
He looked at me, his deep blue eyes holding an unreadable intensity. Then he spoke, his voice low, a warning wrapped in a question. "Alyssa, if you stay, it won't be easy. There will be... consequences. For both of us. Are you prepared for that?"
A wave of dizziness washed over me, a lingering side effect of the cold and exhaustion, or perhaps the sheer weight of his words. I inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of him – clean, fresh, with a hint of something uniquely masculine, comforting.
"Yes," I said, my voice stronger now, firm with conviction. "I'm prepared. I'm choosing this. I'm choosing myself."
A small, enigmatic smile touched Gordon's lips. It was a subtle shift, a fleeting expression, but in that moment, it felt like a silent understanding passed between us.
Suddenly, the yacht lurched. The engines hummed to life, and the boat began to move, slowly cutting through the choppy waters. We were nearing shore.
A searing pain shot through my head, and my body trembled violently. My temperature was spiking. I was burning up. The lingering effects of hypothermia, finally catching up to me. My legs gave out, and I would have collapsed if not for Gordon's quick reflexes. He caught me, sweeping me into his arms again.
Just as he carried me off the boat, onto the snow-covered dock, a familiar voice, sharp and laced with false concern, cut through the night. "Alyssa? My God, Alyssa, are you alright?"
Christian.
I pushed away from Gordon, my strength momentarily returning, fueled by a surge of adrenaline and defiance. I stood on my own two feet, swaying slightly, glaring at Christian.
"Christian," I said, my voice dripping with ice. "Still playing the hero, I see? Did you finally remember you left your fiancé to drown?"
