The Urn Was Empty, But His Past Was Full of Me

§PROLOGUE

My guardian, Rhett Sterling, never allowed me to call him Father.

I didn't understand why, not until the day I stumbled into his home office and found the poems.

Dozens of them, hundreds, all bound in leather journals.

All of them written for me.

My name, Willa, was a desperate prayer on every page.

Nausea coiled in my gut, hot and sharp.

The man who had raised me, the man I trusted implicitly, had been writing love poems to his ward.

To a child.

I fled the country that night, giving him no chance to explain.

I wanted him erased from my life.

And then, two years later, he was.

At his funeral, I found out the truth was far more twisted than I could have ever imagined.

§01

The weight of the urn was unbearable.

It was a simple, polished marble box, cold against my trembling hands.

Rhett’s lawyer had just given it to me, his expression a mask of professional sympathy.

My mind was a maelstrom of grief and a bitter, lingering resentment.

I had been so sure I hated him.

But the tears streaming down my face were a traitorous testament to a truth my pride refused to accept.

My heart ached with a hollow, relentless pain.

I wanted him back.

A wild, childish impulse seized me.

I couldn’t leave him here, in the cold, sterile niche of a mausoleum.

Rhett hated the cold.

Ignoring the shocked gasps of the assembled mourners, I spun on my heel and ran.

The marble floor of the corridor was slick beneath my heels.

I took the stairs two at a time, my breath coming in ragged sobs.

Then my heel caught.

Time seemed to slow as I pitched forward.

The urn flew from my grasp, striking the hard ground with a sickening crack.

My breath hitched.

Frantically, I scrambled to gather the pieces, to salvage what was left of him.

But the box was empty.

No ashes.

No remains.

Just a single photograph, carefully sealed in a plastic sleeve.

I picked it up, my heart pounding against my ribs.

It was a picture of me, my face turned towards the camera, a hesitant smile on my lips.

And beside me, his gaze fixed not on the lens but on me, was Rhett Sterling.

His eyes, full of a fierce, pious adoration, were the eyes of a boy.

He couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

But that was impossible.

The day Rhett Sterling took me in, the day he saved me, he was already thirty years old.

§02

My pulse hammered in my ears.

A wild, impossible theory clawed its way into my mind.

I had to know.

Stumbling to my feet, I ran towards his office, the photograph clutched in my hand.

The moment I pushed the door open, a blinding white light erupted from the room.

It swallowed everything.

When my vision cleared, I was no longer in the Sterling manor.

I was perched precariously on a brick wall, clad in a plaid skirt and a crisp white shirt—a school uniform.

"Well, goody-two-shoes? You gonna jump or just sit there all day?"

The voice, lazy and laced with amusement, came from below.

I looked down.

And my breath caught in my throat.

Leaning against the wall, hands shoved in the pockets of his ripped jeans, was an eighteen-year-old Rhett Sterling.

A lock of dark hair fell across his brow, and a pair of captivating, mischievous eyes met mine.

The afternoon sun cast a soft glow on his young, vibrant face.

This wasn't a memory.

This was real.

A sob escaped my lips, a raw, aching sound.

Without a second thought, I launched myself off the wall, straight into his arms.

A chorus of whoops and catcalls erupted from the boys flanking him.

"Damn, Rhett, even the valedictorian is falling for you!"

"Getting handsy already, huh?"

His arms, strong and solid, wrapped around me instinctively, breaking my fall.

"Eager, are we?" Rhett's voice was a low murmur against my ear, a playful smirk in his tone.

I couldn't explain.

I couldn't speak.

So I did what I had always done when the world felt like it was crumbling.

I buried my face in the crook of his neck, seeking refuge in the familiar, comforting scent of him.

"You plan on letting go anytime soon?" he teased, his voice vibrating through me.

"No," I mumbled against his skin, my voice thick with unshed tears.

"Suit yourself," he said, but his arms didn't push me away.

He just stood there, a warm, living anchor in the swirling chaos of my reality.

§03

Rhett seemed to forget I was still clinging to him.

He turned, leading his small gang of delinquents away from the school grounds.

I followed, my fingers still tangled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

"Can I... can I come with you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He was the only person I knew in this world.

Rhett glanced down at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before shrugging.

"Whatever."

It was a stark contrast to the gentle, patient man who had raised me.

That Rhett had been thirty when he’d found me at fifteen, a scrawny, terrified orphan.

This boy, this eighteen-year-old rebel, was a stranger.

Yet, he was still Rhett.

He led us to a dimly lit, noisy gaming lounge.

The owner greeted him like royalty.

"Rhett, my man! Your usual spot is waiting for you."

Rhett pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and tossed it onto the counter.

He finally peeled my fingers from his shirt, a wry smile playing on his lips.

"The little bird is clingy," he drawled to the owner, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Can't shake her."

The gazes that landed on me were sharp and speculative, laced with a cheap, predatory interest.

I flushed, my own rebellious streak flaring to life.

But before I could retort, a woman swept into the lounge, her face a mask of theatrical grief.

She was impeccably dressed, her jewels flashing even in the dim light.

She grabbed Rhett’s arm.

"My dear boy," she cried, her voice trembling. "I know you won't come home with me, but you can't abuse yourself like this!"

She gestured around the smoky room with a dramatic flourish.

"Skipping class, getting into fights... If your father knew, he would be so disappointed!"

"Isn't that exactly what you want, though?" Rhett's voice was dangerously soft, his eyes turning to ice.

The woman’s painted smile faltered for a second.

"What a terrible thing to say! I do everything for you, and this is the thanks I get? I might as well be dead!"

"Then die," Rhett said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

The words hung in the suddenly silent room.

The woman, his stepmother, looked as if he’d slapped her.

Her feigned sorrow turned into a genuine, sputtering rage before she was escorted out by her bodyguards.

Rhett watched her go, his jaw tight.

Then, with a guttural roar of frustration, he slammed his fist into the keyboard in front of him.

The plastic cracked, and blood welled up on his knuckles.

"Rhett!" I gasped, rushing forward. "Are you insane? You can't do that to yourself!"

"You should go too," he snarled, yanking his hand away from my grasp. "Get out."

He turned back to the game, his character on screen mirroring his own violent rampage.

This boy was a storm of self-destruction.

And I, for some reason, was determined to be his shelter.

§04

A spark of defiance lit within me.

I wasn't the timid girl he had raised anymore.

I sat down at the computer next to him and booted it up, sending him a challenge request.

"One on one," I said, my voice clear and steady. "If I win, you listen to me. If you win, I'm gone."

Rhett shot me a look of pure disbelief, then let out a short, harsh laugh.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Scared?" I taunted, a confident smile spreading across my face.

"Fine," he snapped, jamming his headset on. "But don't come crying to me when I wipe the floor with you."

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