And he didn’t ask,“Are you okay?”
He didn’t check if I was hurt.
He didn’t even look at me like someone who cared whether I slept, ate, or breathed.
He looked at me like a problem.
A liability.
A woman who needed correcting before she embarrassed him.
My stomach twists painfully.
I get off the bed and stand on unsteady legs, the floor cold beneath my feet. The villa is drenched in soft, expensive sunlight — cream stone walls glowing warm, sheer curtains fluttering in the ocean breeze, the infinity pool outside sparkling like polished glass.
Everything is beautiful.
Everything is perfect.
Everything feels like a trap.
I walk toward the balcony, each step slow, careful, as though the air itself might crack under me. The sliding glass door opens with a whisper, and the humid island air rushes over my skin, sticking to me instantly.
Palm trees sway in the distance.
The ocean churns against the white sand far below.
Bright parasols dot the resort like scattered jewels.
A paradise people save years to visit.
But all I feel is a hollow pit in my chest.
I grip the balcony railing, knuckles white, breath uneven.
Noah is going to marry me on Sunday.
Here.
On this island.
In a ceremony he planned without asking me.
In a life he decided for us both and if I don’t comply—If I push back too hard—If I make the wrong sound—He’ll drag me home and do it even quicker.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Go to the police?
Tell them what — that someone blindfolded me? That someone touched me but left no mark, no evidence, nothing except my own terror?
Tell them my fiancé threatened to marry me by force if I don’t behave?
Tell them I think the man I condemned in court broke into my room last night because I whispered his name like a prayer into the dark?
They wouldn’t believe me.
