He looks down at me like I’ve disappointed him.
“The truth,” he says coldly, “is that people like Vivian exist to test loyalty.” My blood turns to ice. “And you failed.”
Somewhere—far away—I imagine Kai’s voice. The way he says my name like it’s a promise and a threat wrapped together.
Choose me.
Noah steps back, straightening his cuffs, the storm smoothed away as if it never existed.
“Get cleaned up,” he says. “We’ll talk in the morning. And Scarlett?” He pauses at the door. “If you ever embarrass me like that again—if you ever let another person get inside your head—this will get much worse.”
The door closes this time.
Soft.
Final.
And alone in the quiet, shaking, wrist burning, one thought repeats over and over until it feels like a scream trapped behind my teeth:
Vivian wasn’t warning me about Noah.
She was warning me about what he does before he destroys you.
I don’t move for a long time.
I stay curled against the door, my cheek pressed to the cool wood, my wrist cradled against my chest like it might shatter if I don’t protect it. The suite is too quiet now—no music bleeding in from the resort, no laughter, no waves loud enough to drown out the echo of his voice.
You failed.
The word keeps repeating, rhythmic and merciless.
I push myself up slowly, every joint aching, and cross the room on unsteady legs. The mirror catches me halfway there. I stop.
I barely recognise the woman staring back.
My eyes are red and swollen, mascara smudged beneath them like bruises. My hair is half-fallen from its pins, curls limp with humidity and sweat. And my wrist—I lift it closer to the light.
Finger-shaped marks bloom dark and livid against my skin, already deepening into purples and blues. There’s no mistaking it. No explaining it away as clumsiness or accident. This is possession made visible.
A sob claws up my throat, sharp and humiliating.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, biting down hard enough to taste blood, because I will not let the walls hear me cry. This place is his. Even the air feels like it belongs to him.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, the white sheets immaculate and cruel in their perfection. Everything here is staged. Curated. A performance of luxury meant to convince me I should be grateful instead of terrified.
I replay the night over and over, searching for the exact moment things shifted.
Vivian’s smile. The way Noah’s hand tightened at my back. The look on his face when I asked her name.
She’s nobody.
The lie had slipped too easily from his mouth.
My phone vibrates on the bedside table.
I flinch so hard it nearly slips off the surface.
For a split second, panic floods me—some instinctive fear that it’s him, that he’s watching even now—but when I look, it’s just a system notification. Resort update. Breakfast hours. Spa promotions.
