Shadows of Yesterday

(Laila 's POV )

The walls of my room used to feel warm. Once, they smelled like my mother's perfume-roses and vanilla. Now, they're just walls, covered in shadows that stretch with the passing hours. I sit by the window, knees drawn to my chest, staring at the sky as if it holds answers.

It doesn't.

It's been over a year since she died.

Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. A hundred different ways my life has unraveled.

And now, just two weeks after my father's grand wedding, he's shipping me off like I'm some problem that needs fixing.

My fingers tighten around the locket at my neck. It's old, the gold slightly tarnished, but it holds the only picture of my mother I have left. She's smiling in it, caught mid-laugh like she didn't know the camera was there. My chest tightens.

She wouldn't have wanted this.

A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I don't answer. A second later, the door creaks open and her voice fills the space.

"Laila , sweetheart, we need to talk."

Stepmother.

I don't look at her. I don't even bother turning around. Instead, I stay perfectly still, my gaze locked on the clouds. It's better that way. Looking at her, I see the delicate pearls around her neck-the same ones my mother used to wear.

I might say something I regret.

My father's voice follows, deep and businesslike. "Laila , enough with the silent treatment. Turn around."

I don't.

A sigh, then footsteps. My father moves across the room, stopping just beside my desk. He's tall, broad-shouldered, still carrying the air of authority that makes grown men listen when he speaks. But to me, he's just the man who moved on too quickly.

"We've made a decision," he continues. "You're going to spend the summer at Ledge-hill Rehabilitation Camp."

My stomach twists. "Excuse me?"

Stepmother steps forward, folding her hands over her stomach. "It's not what you think, darling," she rushes out. "It's not one of those... clinical places. It's more of a summer retreat, you know? A place to heal. To grow."

To get rid of me.

I let out a slow, steady breath. "I don't need healing."

Stepmother's eyes soften. She looks like she's about to cry. Always so dramatic. "Oh, honey, I know you think that, but-"

"No, you don't," I cut in. "You don't know anything about me."

A silence stretches between us. For a second, I think my father might step in, might defend me, might act like the father he used to be-but he doesn't. He just pinches the bridge of his nose, already exhausted by me.

"You're going," he says. Just like that. Final. Absolute. "Pack your bags."

The drive to Ledge-hill is too quiet.

My father doesn't say much. My stepmother fills the silence, going on about how "amazing" the camp is, how it's run by only the best professionals, and how it will help me.

I tune her out.

The city gives way to open fields. The open fields give way to thick, towering trees. Somewhere along the way, I stop looking out the window altogether.

I don't care where we're going.

I just want to go home.

The first thing I notice when we pull up to Ledge-hill is that it's too loud.

Laughter rings through the air. Groups of teenagers-most of them around my age-are scattered across the open space, some sitting in circles, others kicking a soccer ball across the field. There's music coming from somewhere, and a bonfire is already being set up near the main lodge.

This isn't a rehabilitation camp.

This is a summer camp.

My hands curl into fists.

"What is this?" I ask, voice sharp.

Stepmother blinks. "Laila , I told you-"

"You said it was a retreat. You said it was for healing." I whip my head toward her. "This is a vacation spot."

She dares to look hurt. "I didn't lie."

I can't even respond.

Someone knocks against the car window, making me flinch. My father sighs, then finally turns to me. "Try to be civil, Laila ."

I don't answer.

I step out instead, shoulders squared, ignoring the too-bright sun and the too-loud laughter.

I don't belong here.

I don't want to belong here.

And as I take my first steps onto the perfectly paved walkway, I swear under my breath.

This summer is going to be hell.

(Maximilian's Pov)

The estate felt like it was swallowing me whole. My grandfather's house was a labyrinth-sprawling corridors, countless rooms, and enough space to disappear in if I wanted. But the vastness only made the silence heavier, more oppressive. Since the funeral, it had settled like a permanent fog over the place, refusing to lift.

Since the accident.

I didn't like to think about it. Or maybe I just didn't let myself. My mother, father, and older brother were gone, leaving only empty spaces where they'd once been. At the funeral, the press whispered about how I didn't cry. *The privileged heir with a heart of stone,* they'd said like they had a clue who I was.

But what did they know?

The truth is, I didn't know how to feel. I hadn't figured it out myself. What I did know was that I should've been in that car with them. But I wasn't. They'd gone without me, and I'd been left behind.

Maybe that was their choice.

But none of that was why I was being sent away. My grandfather wasn't trying to help me grieve. That wasn't his style. No, he was shipping me off because I was a problem-an embarrassment.

A few reckless nights, a couple of bad decisions, and suddenly the headlines were everywhere. *Maximilian Harrington Astor, heir to the Astor fortune, spotted in a pub.* *Maximilian Harrington Astor, seen with an older woman.* *Maximilian Harrington Astor, spiraling.*

The media feasted on it, and my grandfather? He was livid.

"We need to clean up your image," he said one morning, his voice sharp and cold. "This family doesn't tolerate scandals."

And just like that, I was gone. Packed into the back of a car, watching the city blur into the horizon as I was driven to who-knows-where.

They called it a "camp." A place to clear my head.

I almost laughed.

I didn't need clarity. I needed freedom. And I had a feeling this wasn't it.

* * *

**Arrival at Camp Halcyon**

The drive took forever. By the time we reached the private airstrip, I was already done with the entire ordeal.

My grandfather hadn't even bothered to see me off. Just a driver, a jet, and the unspoken message: disappear until you're presentable again.

The flight was silent. The ride from the airport? Even quieter. The driver said as little as possible, and I wasn't in the mood to fill the void.

When we finally got there, the place wasn't what I'd pictured.

They'd said it was a rehabilitation camp, so I'd imagined something bleak-a sterile facility or some kind of juvenile detention center. But when the car rolled through the gates, the first thing I saw was laughter.

Groups of kids hung out in clusters, talking, and laughing, like this was the highlight of their year.

I frowned.

This didn't feel like "rehabilitation."

The car slowed as we approached the main entrance. I exhaled sharply, steeling myself for the inevitable speeches and forced smiles I'd have to endure.

Then, I saw her.

She wasn't with the others. She stood off to the side, arms crossed, her posture stiff and distant. She didn't look at me, didn't even seem to notice I was there. But her hair-a deep, fiery red-caught the sunlight, and for a fleeting moment, her hazel eyes darted up, meeting mine before she looked away.

There was something about her that I couldn't ignore.

She wasn't like the rest of them.

While the camp buzzed with energy, she seemed removed, like she didn't belong here.

And for reasons I couldn't explain, that struck a chord.

It was a brief moment-so quick I wondered if I imagined it-but as the car rolled forward, her image stayed with me.

Not that it mattered.

I wasn't here to make friends.

I wasn't here for anything at all.

Lilia's POV

I spent most of my time at camp hiding indoors.

While the other campers soaked up the summer sun, darting between sports and buzzing around in groups, I stayed tucked away in my cabin. Reading, listening to music, or lying on my bed, staring at the wooden ceiling. Counting the days.

Isolation didn't bother me. I was used to it.

My new friend, however, wasn't.

"Laila , get up," she demanded, tugging at my blanket like a determined parent waking a stubborn child.

I groaned, pulling the covers tighter around me. "What do you want?"

"I'm dragging you outside tonight," she declared, hands on her hips, her tone leaving no room for argument. "It's been over a week, and all you've done is rot in here. There's a bonfire gathering this evening-you're coming."

I sighed, rubbing at my temples. "Do I even get a choice?"

"Nope."

Reluctantly, I sat up and stretched. "Fine."

"Great! Now, pick out an outfit."

I didn't overthink it. I reached for my usual-an over-sized gray T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.

Her face twisted into a look of horror.

"No," she said, shaking her head firmly. "Not. You are not wearing that."

"It's comfortable," I protested.

"It's suffocating. It's summer, for crying out loud!"

Before I could argue, she was already rifling through my duffel bag, scattering clothes across my bed. Everything she found-loose, shapeless, and plain-only deepened her expression of disbelief.

She turned to me, her brows furrowed. "Why do you only have clothes like this?"

I froze, caught off guard by the question. I hadn't expected her to ask.

When I didn't answer, she softened her tone. "Laila ... why?"

"I just haven't gone shopping in a while," I muttered, hoping that would satisfy her.

Her gaze didn't waver. "How long is 'a while'?"

I hesitated, my voice dropping. "Over a year."

Her expression changed-less puzzled, more empathetic.

"The last time I went shopping was with my mom," I admitted quietly. "Before she passed."

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, hanging in the air like a storm-cloud.

Then, she let out a soft breath, her lips curving into a small, crooked smile. "Okay. That's the last time I'll bring it up. But you're still wearing something else tonight."

She held out a crop top.

I stared at it like it was some kind of alien artifact. Then, at her. Then, back at it.

"I'm not wearing that," I said flatly.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you-"

"Fine," I snapped, grabbing the top from her hands. "But I'm putting my hoodie over it."

She rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself. Just don't come crying to me when you collapse from heatstroke."

I pulled the hoodie over my head before she could say another word.

Maybe tonight wouldn't be so terrible.

Maybe.

* * *

The campfire crackled at the heart of the clearing, flames licking the darkening sky. Laughter and conversation rippled through the air, blending with the smoky scent of burning wood and the sweetness of marshmallows roasting nearby.

I lingered at the edges of the gathering, tugging at my hoodie's sleeves. The heat was stifling, but I wasn't about to take it off. Not when I already felt this exposed.

"You're here," my friend teased, nudging me playfully. "Proud of you."

"Don't be," I muttered. "This was blackmail."

She just laughed and pulled me toward a group seated on one of the logs circling the fire. Familiar faces greeted me-people from my cabin-but there were plenty of others I only vaguely recognized. Strangers I passed during meals but had never spoken to.

And then, there was him.

At first, I didn't notice him. Not until I caught him looking.

A glance. Brief. Fleeting.

Ginger hair. Hazel eyes.

That was all anyone ever saw of me-a passing glance. An afterthought. But this was different. His gaze lingered half a second longer than it should have before he turned away.

Maximilian Harrington Astor.

Everyone knew his name. The rich heir. The troublemaker. The guy who hardly spoke but still managed to command attention without trying.

He sat apart from the others, leaning back on his elbows, watching the fire as if it held the answers to some silent question only he could hear.

"Max, meet Laila ," my friend said, her voice cutting through the firelight's haze.

He looked at me again, his expression unreadable. A nod. Simple. Quiet.

I nodded back.

And that was it. No forced smiles. No awkward small talk. Just a look-nothing more.

For once, I was okay with that.