Chapter 5

The Mcneil family home was ablaze with lights and laughter. A perfect family tableau.

Joyce was the center of attention, of course, regaling the guests with some fabricated story, looking radiant and untouched.

Alana, on the other hand, was a mess. Her clothes were torn and dirty, her hair was matted with grime, and she could feel a trickle of blood from a cut on her forehead.

The moment her father, Robert Mcneil, saw her, his face contorted in disgust.

"What are you doing here, looking like that?" he hissed, grabbing her arm. "You're an embarrassment."

"I came for my mother's locket," Alana said, her voice flat.

"Get out," her father commanded. "You are not welcome here."

She remembered a time when he would have moved mountains for her. Before her mother died. Before he decided her only value was in what she could provide for his social standing.

The pain in her heart was sharper than the pain in her ribs. She pushed past him, her eyes scanning the room.

"Joyce," she said, her voice ringing out in the sudden silence. "Give me the locket."

Joyce, feigning innocence, held up a small, velvet pouch. "Here you go, sister. So sorry about what happened to it."

She dangled the pouch, and just as Alana reached for it, Joyce let it drop.

The broken pieces of silver and her mother's tiny, faded photograph scattered across the floor.

Something snapped in Alana.

She slapped Joyce across the face, the sound echoing through the stunned room.

Joyce's mother, Diana, shrieked and shoved Alana hard. "You monster! How dare you touch my daughter!"

Alana stumbled backward, her broken rib screaming in protest. She fell into a large decorative display of glass sculptures. Shards of glass rained down on her, cutting her arms and legs.

No one moved to help her. They all rushed to Joyce, cooing over the red mark on her cheek.

"Lock her in the basement!" her father roared at the household staff. "I don't want to see her face again tonight!"

Two security guards grabbed her arms, their grips like iron. They dragged her away, her feet scraping against the floor.

As they passed the front door, a delivery man arrived with a massive bouquet of blue hydrangeas, Alana's favorite.

The card was addressed to Joyce.

"For the one who truly matters. - A."

The promise Austen had made to her on their wedding day, to fill their home with blue hydrangeas every week, was now another gift for Joyce.

They threw her into the dark, musty basement and locked the door.

The darkness was total. It smelled of damp earth and decay.

She pounded on the door, screaming until her throat was raw, but no one came.

The confined space triggered a memory she had long suppressed. The kidnapping. Being locked in the trunk of that car, the smell of gasoline, the suffocating fear.

Panic seized her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she couldn't breathe. She curled into a ball on the cold concrete floor, shaking uncontrollably.

Suddenly, the basement door crashed open.

A figure was silhouetted against the light from the hallway.

It was Austen.

He swept her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest.

"Alana, I'm here. I'm so sorry. I came as soon as I heard."

In her panicked, disoriented state, her mind flashed back to that day fifteen years ago. To the boy she pulled from the wreckage.

"Stellan," she whispered, using the nickname she had given him that day. It meant 'star' in a language her mother had taught her.

Austen froze. His arms went rigid around her.

He pulled back, his eyes wide with shock.

"What did you call me?" he asked, his voice a strained whisper. "How do you know that name?"