CHAPTER 35
The next day dawned with a quiet stillness that did nothing to ease Isla’s unease. It was her birthday, but the house felt empty, void of the anticipation she used to feel when she knew Graham would come. The hours crawled by, each minute dragging her spirits lower. By midday, her heart was heavy with dread, and by evening, her hopes had crumbled completely.
Graham didn’t come.
Not a single phone call, not a note, not even a message sent through someone else. The silence from him was deafening. Isla spent most of the day curled up in her room, her phone clutched in her trembling hands as she dialed his number over and over again. Each call went unanswered, the line either busy or redirecting her to voicemail.
Desperate, she called his office. When Nella answered, her voice professional yet tinged with sympathy, Isla felt a glimmer of hope. “Nella, please,” she said, her voice cracking. “Can you tell him I need to speak to him? It’s important.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Isla,” Nella replied gently. “Mr. Lancaster isn’t available right now.”
The words hit Isla like a physical blow. Her breath caught, and she fought to keep the tears at bay. “He isn’t available,” she repeated, her voice trembling, “or does he just not want to speak to me?”
The question escaped before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it. “I’m so sorry, Nella,” she said quickly, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”
“It’s okay, Ms. Isla,” Nella replied, her tone soft and understanding. “I hope you understand—I’m just doing my job.”
“I do,” Isla whispered. She really did. But it didn’t make the pain any easier to bear. She ended the call with another apology, her hands shaking as she set the phone down.
Watching Isla unravel day by day was agonizing for Maggie, but she felt powerless to help. Every tear that Isla shed, every hollow sigh, weighed on Maggie's heart like lead. She could only hope that, somehow, the situation would resolve itself.
At around nine in the evening, as the house settled into its quiet nighttime rhythm, the phone rang. Maggie, ever attentive, was quick to answer. She lifted the receiver, her voice bright with cautious hope. “Hello, Thornfield Manor,” she said. A moment later, her expression changed, and she shouted up the stairs, “Isla! Isla, come down quickly—it’s Master Graham!”
Excitement flared in Isla’s chest, a spark of hope igniting after days of despair. She rushed to the staircase, her feet barely touching the floor as she descended.
Maggie, meanwhile, had turned back to the phone, her relief evident as she spoke. “Oh, Master Graham, you finally called! Isla’s been trying to reach you all day—she was so worried! And I was beginning to think—”
But Maggie’s cheerful rambling trailed off abruptly. The voice on the other end of the line was cold—so cold it seemed to seep through the receiver, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.
“I just realized it’s Isla’s birthday,” Graham said, his tone distant, almost mechanical. “Wish her a happy birthday for me, Maggie, won’t you? I’ll send her some gifts later.”
And then, without waiting for a response, he added curtly, “I have to go. I’m busy right now.”
The line went dead. The abruptness of the call’s end left Maggie frozen, the receiver still pressed to her ear as if she couldn’t quite process what had just happened. She stood there for a long moment, her face pale and her hands trembling slightly. The chill in his voice lingered like a ghost in the room, and for the first time, Maggie truly grasped how deep the rift between Isla and Graham had become.
Isla had reached the last landing of the staircase, her breath catching as she realized the call was over. She stared silently at Maggie, who turned to her with a sorrowful expression, clutching the phone as though it might somehow bring Graham back.
“He’s...he’s busy,” Maggie said finally, her voice thick with regret. “He 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 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.
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 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 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. 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.