She still thinks there’s a version of this where time saves her.
I type one sentence.
I’m already doing it.
I push off the railing and start walking, not toward the party, not toward the beach — but toward the darker path that curves behind the resort, where the lights thin and the island remembers what it was before people tried to civilise it.
I know this terrain. I’ve mapped it in my head for days. Where sound carries. Where it dies. Where someone could scream and be swallowed whole.
Scarlett doesn’t know it yet, but she crossed the point of no return the moment Noah dragged her here.
He brought her to an island.
He isolated her.
He gave me time.
I smile to myself as the jungle closes in around me, damp and alive and watching.
Soon, she’s going to look at me the way she used to — not like I’m dangerous.
But like I’m inevitable.
And when she finally understands that choosing me isn’t a question of right or wrong —only survival —I won’t ask.
I’ll just say the truth she’s been running from since the beginning.
You were always coming with me.
Scarlett
Morning on the island is obscene in its perfection.
Sunlight spills across the terrace in honeyed sheets, turning the ocean into hammered gold. Linen tablecloths ripple softly in the breeze. Crystal catches the light. Somewhere below us, waves break in a steady, indulgent rhythm, like the world has decided nothing bad is allowed to happen before noon.
The table is a masterpiece.
Platters of cut fruit arranged like art—dragonfruit, mango, papaya—colours too bright to be real. Warm pastries dusted with sugar. Silver domes lifted by silent staff to reveal eggs folded with herbs I can’t name, bread still steaming, coffee so dark it looks like ink. Everything smells rich and expensive and carefully controlled.
We look perfect.
Noah sits across from me in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to suggest ease, wealth, effortlessness. His watch glints when he lifts his cup. His posture is immaculate. Relaxed. Possessive. The kind of man magazines love to photograph beside women who stop smiling a year later.
I smile because that’s what I’m supposed to do.
I sip my juice. Sweet. Cold. Almost nauseating.
My eyes keep drifting—without permission—past the table, past the palms, past the open air of the terrace. Toward the paths that snake away from the resort. Toward shadow. Toward nothing I can name without my throat tightening.
I feel it again. That pressure. That awareness. Like the air itself is watching me breathe.
My gaze flicks left.
Then right.
Then back again.
The sound is violent.
