Synopsis

**Lina Marchesi doesn’t remember the night her fiancé died. She only knows he drowned near their private beach house on the Amalfi Coast—and that she was found barefoot, bloodied, and unresponsive in a boat nearby. There were no signs of foul play, and Lina, an American expat novelist, hasn't been able to write since.

A year later, under the weight of trauma, gaps in her memory, and public suspicion, she returns to the same village—not to heal, but to hide. But the quiet isn’t quiet for long. Whispers trail her in the market, her old neighbors keep their distance, and someone keeps leaving pages from her *unfinished manuscript* on her doorstep—pages she doesn't remember writing.

Enter **Milo Caruso**, a former war photographer turned reclusive innkeeper with his own ghosts. He’s disfigured from an explosion, hiding out in the crumbling hills above the sea. Their paths cross when Lina takes up residence at his isolated property, and tension builds—first in silence, then in sharp, probing conversations over wine and cigarettes.

Their connection is messy, magnetic, and deeply flawed. Milo is blunt and emotionally unavailable; Lina is unraveling but seductive, using charm as armor. They orbit each other—drawn, repelled, resisting. But both know what it’s like to live with something unspeakable.

As Lina pieces together her fractured memory, it becomes clear that her fiancé’s death wasn’t as accidental as the police claimed. And someone in the village wants the truth buried.

And as she and Milo fall into a love that’s as brutal as it is tender, Lina begins to ask herself the scariest question of all:

**What if she killed him?**

The storm had passed in the night, but the house still held its breath.


Lina sat at the kitchen table, her fingers tight around a cold coffee mug. She hadn't moved in over an hour. The morning light made everything too visible—her hollow eyes, the broken plate on the floor, the creased paper clutched in her other hand.


She hadn't told Milo about the page. Not this one. It was too clear.


"He hit her first. It wasn't the first time, but it was the last. She didn't plan to push him. But something snapped. She thought the sea would keep the secret."


She reread it, and again. Her breath was shallow.


Milo stepped in, carrying wood for the stove. He looked exhausted—still damp from the morning air, shirt clinging to his back. But his eyes caught hers instantly.


His eyes skimmed the words, and then he sat down slowly across from her.


"I don't know anymore. But I remember the slap. And the storm. And the way he called me selfish like I was a burden he couldn't carry one more minute."


"I think he slipped. But maybe I helped. Maybe I wanted to."


The silence swelled until it pressed against the walls.


Milo leaned back. "I saw bruises once, in the old photos. But I didn't ask. I thought it was none of my business."


She laughed without humour. "It wasn't your business. You were just the man hiding from his ghosts."


"Now you're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm some kind of walking headline."


He stood and poured coffee for both of them. "You remember more each day. But you're still here. That matters."


Lina traced the rim of her mug. "What if remembering kills the part of me that survived?"


Milo leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Then maybe it's time that part died. And something stronger took its place."


"I have to. Or I'd still be chasing ghosts with a camera."


They stayed like that for a while. Then she said it:


"I need to go back. To the house. The one we lived in."


"No. But if I don't, someone else will finish the story for me."


Milo nodded slowly. "Then I'm coming with you."


For the first time that morning, something inside her loosened. Not peace. Not relief. But a thread of resolve.


The truth was close now. Close enough to hurt. But also close enough to set her free.


Let me know when you're ready for Chapter Eighteen.


Chapter 27 - Collisions