No goodbye. No explanation. No trace.
And the longer I sit there, the more certain I am of one thing—People don’t just leave this island.
They’re removed.
I nod.
I don’t know why—reflex, survival, habit—but my head dips once, small and obedient, like I’ve been trained to agree before the punishment escalates.
“Okay,” I say.
The word tastes like chalk.
Noah’s shoulders ease a fraction, satisfaction flickering through him at the compliance. He straightens his cuffs, smooths invisible wrinkles from his shirt, the moment already filed away as handled.
“Good,” he says, as if I’ve passed some invisible test. “Eat your breakfast. We have a full day.”
He steps away from the table and the staff return instantly, replacing the stained linen with a fresh one so fast it’s almost funny. The coffee cup disappears. The bruise is erased. The morning resets.
Perfect again.
I pick up my fork and force myself to eat a slice of mango. It’s sweet. It burns my tongue. I chew anyway.
Vivian is gone.
Not left. Gone.
I replay every detail from last night while Noah speaks to someone just out of earshot—her smile that didn’t reach her eyes, the way she watched him instead of me when she spoke, the casual cruelty dressed up as wit.
I didn’t think Noah would marry again. Not after the last time.
She hadn’t been curious.
She’d been warning me.
My stomach tightens.
I glance once—only once—toward the paths again. Toward the marina. Toward the open water that isn’t actually open at all. Nothing has changed. No signs of struggle. No whispers. No chaos.
Just absence.
A clean cut.
I realise then that Vivian was never meant to stay in my story. She existed only long enough to remind me where I am—and what happens to women who know too much, say too much, or linger too long around men like Noah.
She was a ghost with good posture.
A message.
Noah returns to the table and sits, already back in performance mode. He reaches for my hand across the table, fingers cool, grip deliberate.
“You look pale,” he says lightly. “Too much sun yesterday.”
I let him hold my hand.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He squeezes once—just enough pressure to be felt, not enough to be seen.
