Page 38 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

And deep down, I know I shouldn’t dismiss her concern.

Exhaling slowly, she finally says, “Promise me you’ll look into it.”

I hesitate, my jaw tight before a reluctant, “I’ll think about it,” escapes my lips.

She studies me before finally nodding. “Okay.”

A moment of relief washes over me, tempered by the knowledge that I’m still teetering on the edge. “And… please don’t tell anyone.”

Ashley’s frown deepens. “Ally?—”

“Please.” My voice trembles, raw and desperate. “Not yet.”

After a pause, she concedes with a soft sigh, “Fine. But just for now.”

I offer a small nod, swallowing hard against the rising lump in my throat. Watching me with lingering concern, Ashley stands and adds, “I’m going to get you some water.”

She leaves, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall, leaving me alone amidst a tumult of swirling thoughts.

Time seems to stop as I sit there, my head heavy, my pulse pounding relentlessly in my ears. My body feels unreliable, having betrayed me in the most unfathomable way, and a creeping fear begins to gnaw at the edges of my mind.

Epilepsy.

With quivering hands, I pull my phone from my pocket. My fingers are clumsy as I type the dreaded word into the search bar, praying for a mistake. The first article loads and my stomach plummets.

I read, each word blurring into the next, while my chest tightens with every passing second as I acquaint myself with the symptoms, the causes, the risks.

This can’t be happening, I keep telling myself, trying to convince the part of me that’s desperate to cling to normalcy.

Until now, I’ve never felt this, but I have the unsettling feeling that things are irrevocably different.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

RHYS

The sky is a soft grey as if the world is holding its breath.

It’s the kind of day that settles into your bones, pressing down on your chest and refusing to let go.

The kind of day when grief feels louder, more permanent. The chapel sits quietly on the outskirts of New Hope, a small, whitewashed building surrounded by trees and the kind of silence that feels heavy with memory.

Ashley stands at the front of the chapel, her back straight, her black dress fluttering slightly in the breeze every time the door opens behind us. Her brother, Jasper, is by her side, holding her hand but not holding her up—Ashley’s doing that all on her own. Like she always has. Her face is unreadable, carved in stillness.

I’m sitting in the third pew with Ally beside me and our friends beside her. She hasn’t said much since we arrived, and honestly, neither have I. Her fingers are laced together tightly in her lap, and every now and then, I catch her glancing towards Ashley, like she’s waiting for her to crack, to cry, to fall apart. But she doesn’t.

We don’t belong here.

Not really.

We’re not here to mourn a man we feared more than we knew.

We’re here for Ashley.

The room is filled with people dressed in black, but none of them are really grieving. Most are here because they have to be—to be seen, to check a box, to pay respects to a man who ruled half this town through fear and money. Whispers echo through the rows like leaves rustling in the wind. Old men in tailored suits. Sharp women with colder eyes. They offer tight smiles and nods that mean nothing.

Tony Slade wasn’t a father. He was a storm that never let up.

Ashley hasn’t cried once. Not during the service. Not before it. Not after.

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