Chapter 2 - The Cottage by the WaterThe train ride out of New York was quiet, peaceful, and long.
I had purchased a small, modest ticket to a secluded coastal town in Maine—a place called Cedar Cove, where dense green pine forests met the cold, dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean. It was a place I had read about in books when I was a girl, long before my parents died in a car crash protecting the Moretti family, long before I was brought into their dark, gilded cage.
Noah had loved the ocean. He used to draw picture books filled with blue whales, lighthouses, and tall pine trees, asking me every night if we could go visit the sea when his father was no longer busy with business.
Vincent had always promised him next month. Next season. Next year.
Now, next year would never come for Noah. But I was going to give him his ocean.
I arrived in Cedar Cove on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Using the small sum of money Evelyn had provided as part of the divorce settlement—money I accepted without pride because it bought my son his peace—I purchased a tiny, weathered two-story wooden cottage sitting on a low cliff overlooking a rocky bay.
The air smelled of salt, wet pine, and fresh rain.
For three days, I worked in complete, blissful isolation. My body was weakening rapidly. The terminal tumor inside my skull manifested as sharp, blinding migraines that struck every few hours, making my vision blur and my hands shake. I kept a small bottle of strong pain medication on the bedside table, taking them only when the agony threatened to knock me to my knees.
On the fourth morning, the sky cleared into a brilliant, crystalline blue.
I took a small brass shovel and walked down the stone steps from my cottage to a quiet, sheltered nook beneath a sprawling ancient oak tree that overlooked the crashing ocean waves below.
I dug a small, neat resting place into the soft, dark earth.
I placed Noah’s velvet-wrapped wooden urn inside the ground, surrounding it with wild blue hydrangeas and smooth white sea stones I had collected along the beach.
“You’re home now, my sweet boy,” I whispered, tears finally overflowing my eyelashes, hot and cleansing against my cold cheeks. “No more waiting for phone calls that never come. No more waiting by the window. The ocean is yours forever.”
I covered the urn with the rich soil, smoothing it flat, and sat cross-legged under the shade of the oak tree, resting my head against the ancient bark, listening to the rhythmic, comforting song of the waves crashing against the rocks.
For the first time in six years, the heavy, suffocating pain in my chest felt lighter.
I knew my time was short. The doctor in New York had given me thirty days, and nearly two weeks had already slipped away. My vision in my left eye was growing dim, and a persistent numbness had settled into the fingertips of my right hand.
I wasn't afraid to die. In fact, I welcomed it. Dying meant I would see Noah again. It meant the pain, the betrayal, and the ghost of Vincent Moretti would finally lose their grip on my soul.
I closed my eyes, letting the cool sea breeze wash over my face, slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I didn't hear the heavy black SUV pull up to the dirt driveway above the cottage.
I didn't hear the heavy, frantic leather shoes descending the stone steps toward the cliff.
I only woke up when a large, warm hand grasped my shoulder, shaking me with a desperate, terrified intensity.
“Elena! Elena, wake up! Oh God, Elena, please open your eyes!”
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I opened my eyes slowly, squinting against the bright afternoon light.
Vincent was kneeling in the dirt beside me.
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