"This can't be real." Neva shakes her head, closing the album.
Rhett frowns. "Why would you think so?"
She looks up at him, her eyes red and swollen, lips trembling.
"Because the girl in the picture would remember."
His eyes soften, and he leans in. "Remember what, Angel?" he asks gently.
"Love."
Neva opens the album again, returning to the same page where her thumb had marked her place, as if trying to hold onto something she can't quite grasp.
"This love." She shows him the picture.
Rhett smiles, then takes the album from her hands. "Of course. She would remember."
He wipes the droplets from the smooth, glossy surface of the paper, his fingers grazing the image—pores soaking her tears.
He wipes the droplets from the smooth, glossy paper, pores drinking in her tears.
And in that gesture, he gathers the storm—shrivels it—taming the chaos in the life of the newlyweds captured in wildflower meadows.
And the page doesn't remain stained.
Neva winces, a silent ache in her chest because of him. "Then she's not me."
Her own words shatter something deep within.
"Who said it's not you?" he asks, tilting his head.
"You meant it that way," she accuses, her voice low.
Rhett shakes his head. "She's you—because you remember."
"I don't," Neva whispers, barely able to admit it.
Rhett closes the album.
"Then how can you stand being near me? Why would you allow me a chance to reason myself?"
"Why didn't you forbid me in the garden?
Why did you even feel protective over me?"
Neva lowers her gaze. She can't hold his eyes anymore.
He wasn't wrong.
Why had she done that?
Her eyes fall to her hands, resting in her lap—fingers absently fidgeting with the plain gold wedding band on the ring finger of her left hand.
"No matter what he did… he could never erase you. Or us."
She takes a shaky breath. "He said photos didn't matter as long as the marriage was written.
I never saw a picture of our wedding—or anything like what you just showed me."
Rhett's frown deepens. "Since when couldn't you remember?"
Neva glances up at him. "I was already married… and six months pregnant with the twins."
His face darkens, shadowed with something between sorrow and fury.
Neva shifts uncomfortably. She doesn't like the grief in his eyes.
"He told you he was your only family?"
She frowns—and nods.
Rhett takes her hands in his, his hold firm but gentle.
"You were never alone, Angel. You are never alone. Even if I, Rhean, your aunt and uncle weren't with you—you weren't truly alone."
Neva looks down at their joined hands, uncertain.
She doesn't understand what he means.
But, perhaps she clearly does.
Then his gaze drops to the ring on her finger.
"This is a band of liability," he says, voice low but steady.
"No, it's not." She snaps, yanking her hand away.
"He said he had enemies. That everything he did was to protect us," Neva says firmly, her voice trembling but resolute.
Rhett stays still, unsure what to say—unsure how much he should say.
"You're just one of them," she accuses, tears welling in her eyes. "All of you want to harm us."
"No, we don't."
"You do!" she shouts, suddenly rising to her feet.
"Angel—" he rises with her, alarm flaring in his voice.
She throws up a hand to stop him.
"So everything I've ever known was a lie? Why would he ever do this to me?"
Rhett's voice is quiet, but firm.
"Because he's selfish. Egoistic. A narcissist—"
"No!" Neva cuts him off, shaking her head with force.
"He loves me. He would never even think of hurting me."
"He's only pretending—"
"He's not!" she snaps.
Huge tears spill down her cheeks.
"I love him. I'm his wife. He'd never do that to me."
It's paralyzing.
Rhett had feared this moment—but hearing it from her own lips—it still is flaying of his skin from bone.
She stumbles, reaching for the nightstand to steady herself. Rhett steps forward instinctively, hand out—but he only grazes her arm when she recoils, not from him, but from the unraveling of her world.
"He wouldn't leave me void of something so precious."
Neva feels her knees weaken. Rhett steps in, gently gripping her shoulders.
"You should get some rest," he says.
She shrugs him off. "I'm fine."
Her eyes flare. "It's your love that's a lie."
There, the words strike.
His gaze hardens, suddenly cold—shuttered.
"How is it a lie?" he asks, his voice tight.
Neva bites her bottom lip, trying to stop her jaw from trembling.
"No one would love someone like me. You wouldn't want me—not now. Not after knowing my truth."
He doesn't back away. Doesn't blink.
"Which truth?" he asks, quiet but firm.
"The truth that I'm empty!"
"That I don't even have an identity! That I'm nothing but a burden!"
Neva weeps.
She doesn't hold back—just lets the tears spill, raw and aching.
Lamenting. Pouring out every fragment of grief she's carried alone for far too long.
Her deepest fears rise to the surface, finally unchained. The night terrors she's never dared speak of—not even to Ishmael—now find air in front of a stranger who somehow sees her more clearly than anyone ever has.
And then, in a dizzying moment, she's in his arms.
Rhett holds her.
This time, she doesn't fight it.
There isn't any strength left in her anymore.
She just lets him hold her.
Because… it feels right.
It feels right for her soul.
---
Rhett steps out of the room and softly closes the door behind him.
She's finally asleep. He exhales, raking a hand through his hair.
He can't wait to strip off this stinking, grease-slicked black shirt—the one he took off that guard.
The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, the top two buttons undone.
He hadn't bothered changing earlier. Seeing her safe had mattered more.
A quick glance at his phone: 11:12 p.m.
He shoves it back into his trouser pocket and makes his way down the quiet, dim hallway—toward the last door at the end.
He nudges it open with care.
Soft hinges creak. Inside, a child with familiar eyes looks up at him.
"Still not asleep?" Rhett murmurs, voice low.
Rhean only shakes his lowered head.
He's crouched on the grey carpet, crayons scattered around him.
His small, smudged hands move quietly over a page in his sketchbook, filling it with color.
Rhett lowers himself beside him, careful not to disturb the quiet.
He leans in, curious.
His brows lift in faint amusement at the half-finished drawing—a soft, colorful scenery taking shape.
He gets the skill from his mother.
Neva had always been good with her hands. Painting, sketching, crafting—she could breathe life into anything she touched.
Rhett sighs, realizing the boy is deliberately keeping his head down, ignoring him.
"Are you angry at me?" he asks gently.
Rhean shakes his head, but still doesn't look up—his focus locked on the page.
"Did you have dinner?" Rhett tries again.
The boy nods.
Rhett sighs.
"Look at me, Rhean."
The child doesn't respond.
Rhett's about to speak again when he notices droplets landing on the colored paper.
Rhean quickly wipes at them with the back of his hand, but the rueful tears keep falling.
A frown pulls at Rhett's brow.
Guilt creeps in.
He'd thought Rhean was fine—after all, he'd found him earlier, feeding Zoro and spending time with the golden retriever.
He'd looked okay.
He shouldn't have just assumed.
Without a word, Rhett gently lifts him by the arms and settles him onto his lap.
"Did something happen?" he asks, carefully peeling away the boy's small hands from his eyes.
"What's wrong, my boy?"
His voice lowers as he searches Rhean's face, brushing a thumb under one damp cheek.
Rhean just whimpers, his little body trembling.
Rhett pulls him in at once, cradling him tightly to his chest, his arms wrapping around him with quiet urgency.
"Shh… it's alright."
He rocks him gently, his chin resting atop the child's head.
"Did someone bully you?" he asks, his tone suddenly firm. "Tell me—I'll catch them and we'll show them who they're messing with."
Rhean shakes his head, a sharp sob jolting his chest.
"Then… are you in pain?"
Rhean lifts his head.
His lips are puckered, pulled down at the corners, his tearful eyes searching Rhett's face.
"No," he whispers.
Rhett's brow furrows deeper. "Then what is it?"
Rhean's voice is small, trembling.
"It's Mama."
"Mama?"
Rhean nods, and a sob breaks from his lips.
"Mama—Mama doesn't want me anymore."
His voice cracks, and woefully the tears come harder, spilling down his cheeks as he buries his face into Rhett's chest.
"They were right. I belong to garbage!" he cries out, his little body wracked with sobs.
Rhett's heart twists—greatly concerned for his little boy.
His arms tighten protectively around him.
"Who told you Mama doesn't want you? Who told you belong to garbage?" His voice is tensed with restrained anger, but tender to reflect his misery, his heart aching at the sound of Rhean's choking cries.
He knows his son had been bullied before—back at his former school. He'd dealt with those kids and their parents personally. But this feels like failure all over again.
He should've been more present.
"Is it the kids at your new school?" he asks, rather calmly.
Rhean shakes his head, sniffling.
"No… It's Archer. And his friends."
Rhett feels a flicker of relief—but the guilt lingers, heavy in his chest. He should've listened more, paid closer attention. The things those brats said still gnaw at him.
He sighs and gently strokes Rhean's head, fingers combing through the boy's soft, fluffy hair.
"I'm sorry, Rhean. You don't have to keep it all in anymore."
He pats his small back, the rhythm familiar—reminding him of when Rhean was just a baby in his arms.
When did he grow so fast?
His voice softens.
"And your mama loves you. She loves you more than anyone in this world ever could."
Rhean lifts his head, sniffling, eyes wide and uncertain.
"She does?"
Rhett smiles, warm and sure.
"Of course she does."
Rhean's lips tremble.
"Then… why didn't she look for me?"
His voice cracks. "I was waiting for her."
Rhett's smile fades, his eyes dimming.
God. His poor, pitiful son.
Rhett wipes the boy's tears gently.
"You see, Rhean… Mama's in pain right now."
He watches the worry instantly flood those young, searching eyes.
"You remember how the bad guy took her?"
Rhett's voice is low, careful.
"He hurt her… and he made her forget us."
At that, Rhean's almond eyes widen.
"She just needs a little time," Rhett continues, dipping his head to meet his gaze.
"She needs comfort—and love—from us. But I promise, mama will be okay again.
Will you help me this time?"
Rhean nods quickly, wiping his eyes again. A tiny hiccup slips from his chest.
"I want to see," he murmurs.
Rhett tilts his head. "You want to see her?"
Rhean nods, eyes hopeful.
Rhett puckers his brows, thinking it over—then shrugs lightly.
"Okay."
A beautiful smile blooms across his handsome son's face, lighting him up. Rhett chuckles and rises to his feet, lifting Rhean into his arms with ease.
"We can't wake her up though," he whispers, pressing a finger to his lips.
Rhean mirrors him, giggling softly as he puts a finger to his own lips.
Rhett smiles, heart warmed, and carries him out of the room. Down the dim hallway, the father and son move quietly—hushed laughter held between them.
They stop at the door in the middle of the hallway. Rhett gently pushes it open.
And together, they sneak into Neva's room.