For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the weight of the dream settling between them. Then Kel spoke, fierceness in her tone. “I need you to know something. This script? It’s yours. But only if you’re the one who gets to play Victoria. I won’t let anyone else produce it unless you’re the lead. I’d rather it never see the light of day than watch someone else play a role I wrote for you.”
“Kel—” Madeline whispered.
“I mean it,” Kel said, eyes blazing with conviction. “This is about you. Your comeback. Your moment. I won’t compromise on that.”
The fierce protectiveness in Kel’s voice made Madeline’s throat tighten with emotion. “I have some connections,” she managed. “People who might take a meeting. When we get back to LA, I can make some calls.”
Kel nodded, but her gaze didn’t waver. “As long as you understand. No Madeline, no movie.”
“God, I love you,” Madeline whispered, the words spilling out raw and honest. “I love you so much it terrifies me.”
Kel’s smile was soft. “I love you too. Which is why I’m going to fight for this. For you. For the career you deserve.”
Madeline pulled her close, holding her tight, the notebook pressed between them. In Kel’s arms, with the script that might change everything, she finally understood what the island had been trying to show her. Dreams weren’t only wishes. They were promises you made to yourself and sometimes, if you were very lucky, someone loved you enough to help you keep them.
In deep contemplation,Ruthi Shay sat on her back patio, a manuscript in her lap, with her mind racing in one hundred different directions. As the gentle morning air washed over her, she contemplated the discovery that had awaited her when she returned to her suite after breakfast. After looking in puzzlement at the notebook lying on her bed, Ruthi had picked it up to carelessly flip through the pages, ready to toss it into the trash as simply one more piece of substandard junk snuck into her room by an untalented hopeful. But her hands had slowed as the powerful words had caught her attention.
The work was a screenplay, appearing to center around a woman named Victoria, who was reconstructing her life after losing every single thing she had once believed was important to her. Tossing her backpack to the side, Ruthi had plopped on her bed to read, immediately engaged by the edgy, emotional dialogue and weighty storyline. Victoria’s journey was gritty and raw, with flashes of humor that slid easily between the honest, sometimes painfully frank dialogue, as Victoria tackled the fight of her life to be someone, a woman whomattered, not an invisible ghost sliding through life unseen.
Four times, Ruthi had read the script, letting the words wash over her as she absorbed their impact. The story ended as Victoria seized her new life with both hands, chin up, ready to greet and conquer anything that came her way as she honored the battle that had brought her to where she was. After the last reading, Ruthi had risen and gone out to her small patio to reflect on what she had experienced and put her thoughts in order.
Screenplays like this are what win Academy Awards, she thought, feeling the same exhilaration that ran down her spine any time she was faced with an Oscar-worthy project. It had been a long time since Ruthi had felt this kind of conviction about anything she had directed.
Touching her face, Ruthi realized she was crying. Two lines from the screenplay punched her in the gut, as they crystallized into a mantra that perfectly encapsulated where Ruthi currently stood at the brink of her own life—a path that might give her everything she had ever dreamed of, if only she were courageous enough to take it. To love and serve a woman who had already captured her heart, who could be Dominant, lover, and friend, and who would keep her safe as Ruthi navigated the scary waters of total submission.
“This isn’t about what I lost. It’s about what I’m brave enough to build.”
Can I?Ruthi wondered. Wiping the tears rolling down her cheeks, Ruthi knew it was time to be completely honest with herself. She stared into the darkness. Her depth as a director would become so much more without all these stupid barriers she had erected to protect her heart after Lynn’s betrayal. If she were being honest, it had perhaps been understandable on some level that she had closed down the way she had. However, that should never have been an excuse to become as sharp, rigid, and unfeeling with the people around her as she had become. What had happened in her past was not their fault, and she had been wrong to make them pay for Lynn’s actions.
Running her hands unconsciously over the screenplay laying in her lap, Ruthi sighed. Her Mistress was everything she had ever wanted. “Total trust,” Eve had told her. “Is the foundation of everything between a Domme and her submissive. Without that, we have nothing.” With not an ounce of doubt in her heart, Ruthi knew she trusted Eve. Not only that, she also knew Eve was the person she could talk to about anything. If Ruthi needed to bounce ideas off someone about a movie she was directing or get input on how to handle a thorny situation, Eve could be that woman for her.Dominant, lover, friend, Ruthi thought and smiled, looking at the bright sky as a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in a very long time settled over her.
Ruthi knew in her heart that Eve loved her, too. Despite her career as a professional Dominant, one in which she had dominated many women, Eve didn’t have her own submissive. The beautiful Domme kept her heart separate from her professional life. But if Ruthie could be that woman for her—submissive, lover, friend—so they might build a life together, one in which dreams and yearnings came true, the Isle of Dreams would have fulfilled its purpose. Taking a deep breath,Ruthi stood, screenplay in hand, and nodded decisively at the stars.
It was time.
There was one thing that Ruthi needed to do first, however. She needed to talk to Ms. Leighton immediately and find out the name of the person who wrote the amazing script.
Ms. Leighton had learnedto recognize the rhythms of the island. The subtle shift when something important was about to unfold. She felt it now, a low hum threading through her as she waited in her sunlit office, the salt breeze stirring the gauzy curtains. Ruthi Shay had requested a meeting, the kind of formal request that suggested gravity, or at least determination, and Ms. Leighton had found herself strangely curious. Ruthi was not a woman who asked for anything she could take by force. The fact that she asked at all instead of basically barging in meant something had changed.
When the knock finally came, it was brisk, almost impatient. “Come in,” Ms. Leighton called, smoothing her features into her usual enigmatic calm. Ruthi entered, a notebook clutched in her hand. Her posture was taut, shoulders squared, but there was a glint in her eyes that Ms. Leighton hadn’t seen before. Something almost raw, almost luminous. She closed the door behind her and strode forward, not hesitating until she stood before the desk.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Ruthi said, voice clipped, as if she were holding herself in check. “I’ll get right to it.” She placed the notebook on the desk, fingers lingering on the cover. “I need to know who wrote this script.”
Lifting a brow, Ms. Leighton folded her hands. “May I ask why?”
Ruthi’s jaw worked, and for a moment, she seemed to wrestle with the words. “Because,” she finally said, “it might be the best script I’ve ever read. And I’ve read dozens. Maybe a hundred. This—” She tapped the notebook, the gesture almost reverent. “It’s honest. Unapologetic. It cut straight through me. I haven’t felt like this about a project in years. It’s… exciting. It scares me, actually.” She looked into Ms. Leighton’s eyes. “And I want to direct it. No, I need to direct it. I’ll fight anyone who tries to take it from me.”
Ms. Leighton allowed herself a small, approving smile. “That’s quite an endorsement, Ms. Shay. I’m glad it moved you.”
Huffing a laugh, Ruthi shook her head. “Moved me is an understatement. It made me want to be better. To create something that matters.”
For a moment, Ms. Leighton regarded Ruthi, then leaned back in her chair. “You’re sure you want to know?” she asked, her voice gentle but probing. “Sometimes, the magic is in the not-knowing. In the possibility.”
“I’m sure,” Ruthi said. “I need to know who I’ll be collaborating with. Whose vision I’ll be shepherding.”
Ms. Leighton inclined her head. “Very well.” She let the moment draw out, savoring the anticipation. “The writer is Kel Lehman.”
For a moment, Ruthi was utterly still, as if the words had short-circuited her. Then her mouth parted, eyes wide behind the sharp lines of her face. “Kel? Madeline’s assistant?”
