I leave the table with a smile plastered on my face, every step a silent scream, the locket cold against my racing heart.
Behind me, Noah laughs with the men who think he’s a hero.
Ahead of me, the villa glows like a trap — white stone lit by soft amber lanterns that cast long, stretching shadows along the path. The sound of laughter fades behind me, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves and the whisper of wind through palm leaves.
The villa door slams behind me before I realise I’ve even touched the handle.
I stumble inside, bare feet slipping on polished stone, my heartbeat thundering so violently the world seems to vibrate around it. The air smells of jasmine and salt and cold luxury and I hate all of it — every perfectly placed flower, every soft golden lamp, every surface that reflects a life I never chose.
My hands shake as I press them to the kitchen counter, trying to steady myself, but the marble is too cold, too clean, too indifferent to hold the weight of what’s happening.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper to the empty room, my voice cracking. “I can’t marry him. I can’t—I can’t?—”
The locket hits my chest with every ragged breath, a tiny metallic knock reminding me of the only person on earth I shouldn’t be thinking about.
“I can’t marry him,” I repeat, louder this time, as if volume might make the universe listen. “He’ll kill me. He’ll ruin me. He’ll?—”
My words choke out.
My throat burns.
I pace the length of the living room, silk dress swishing against my shaking legs, palms dragging through my hair as I try to breathe.
“I can’t stay,” I whisper.
“I can’t leave.”
“I can’t—God, where would I even go?”
My vision blurs at the edges, fear narrowing everything into a painful tunnel. I press my back to the wall, sliding down the smooth plaster until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to my chest, dress pooling around me like a broken promise.
“I don’t have anyone,” I breathe. “I don’t have anywhere.”
My mind claws at options, at escape routes, at fantasies so fragile they shatter before I can hold them.
I could run to the airport.
Noah would find me before the plane even left the runway.
I could call the police.
They would ask for proof.
They would see a rich man with perfect manners and me — a shaking woman wearing wine stains, secrets, and a locket no sane fiancée should own.
I could run into town.
But I’m on an island designed for people who don’t run.
Traps disguised as paradise.
My breath comes faster, shorter, sharper.
A spiralling panic.
A drowning.
“I can’t…”
