The resort looks like a postcard designed to lie.
Torchlight flickers along the perimeter of the infinity pool, flames bending in the warm island breeze, reflecting gold across water so clear it looks unreal. Music hums low and decadent—something expensive, rhythmic, designed not to offend anyone important. The air smells like citrus, salt, and money.
Everyone here is beautiful.
Not soft beautiful. Polished. Sharp. Women in silk and linen, skin bronzed and glowing, laughter bright and careless. Men with rolled sleeves and quiet watches, hands loose around crystal glasses like nothing has ever demanded too much from them.
I sit at the edge of it all with a drink sweating in my hand, something bright blue with crushed ice and a slice of pineapple I haven’t touched. My smile feels bolted on. My spine feels locked.
Noah’s hand is firm at the small of my back.
Not affectionate. Not gentle.
Anchoring.
He leans in, mouth near my ear, his voice low enough that no one else hears.
“Mingle,” he says. “Smile. Act like you belong here.”
My throat tightens.
“And don’t,” he continues, fingers pressing harder, “mention your stain of a fucking brother.”
The word stain sticks to my ribs.
I nod because that’s what I do now. I nod, I swallow, I obey.
His friends orbit us in loose clusters—lawyers, investors, wives with perfect teeth and eyes that assess everything. I don’t know their names. I don’t think it matters. I’m an accessory tonight. Proof of something normal. Something stable.
My phone vibrates in my lap.
Once.
I don’t need to look to know.
I wait anyway. Count my breaths. Then slide it just enough to read the screen beneath the tablecloth.
Blue drink. Corner table. You look like you’re drowning.
My pulse jumps so hard I almost spill the glass.
I don’t reply.
I stare out at the party instead, at the way people move like they’re weightless, like the world has never pressed its hands around their throats. I watch a woman laugh—really laugh—head tipped back, eyes closed, unafraid.
I wonder what that feels like.
To forget yourself for even five seconds.
“She’s younger than I expected.”
The voice cuts in smooth and cool.
I turn to find her already there, perched beside me like she owns the space. She’s stunning in a way that’s deliberate—tall, dark hair cut blunt at her shoulders, skin like porcelain warmedby the sun. Her dress is white but not innocent, draped low across one shoulder, gold cuff at her wrist.
Her mouth curves, sharp and amused.
“Vivian,” she says, holding out her hand. “A friend of Noah’s. Old friend.”
