It’s a coincidence. It has to be.
People don’t rearrange their lives for ghosts.
Later that night, I sit in my apartment with the acceptance email open on my laptop.
The glow from the screen washes the room in blue light. The city outside my window hums, distant and indifferent.
Paradise Found.
Tropical beaches. Curated romance. A fish bowl of an environment where everyone brings out their inner TV personality for money and fifteen minutes.
It’s almost laughable.
My dating history could be summarized as a promising start, slow unravel, then quiet disappointment.
The only exception is the one man who didn’t unravel.
He detonated.
I close my eyes and let the memory surface, just once.
His truck parked by the lake. The smell of gasoline and summer air. His hands always warm, always sure. The way he used to say my name like it belonged to him.
And then—nothing. Silence.
I spent months wondering what I did wrong. Replaying every conversation. Every touch.
Eventually the exhaustion won.
You can only bleed over a ghost for so long before you build scar tissue. I built a business instead.
Structure. Contracts. Clear expectations. Predictable outcomes.
Love isn’t predictable. But money is. Exposure is. Paradise Found is leverage.
That’s all it is.
I click Reply. I accept.
The second I send it, a strange calm settles in my chest.
This is strategic. Smart. And most definitely not about him.
I shut the laptop and walk to my bedroom, shedding my blazer, my heels, the perfectly composed wedding planner persona.
In the mirror, my reflection looks steady. Controlled. Competent. Not like a woman who still feels a flicker of something at the sound of a name she hasn’t spoken in a decade.
“Please let it be coincidence,” I murmur to the empty room.
Because if it’s not… If he knew… If he’s anywhere near this… I don’t know what version of myself he’ll meet.
The girl he left behind doesn’t exist anymore. And the woman standing here doesn’t break easily.
I climb into bed and turn off the light.
Ten days in paradise. Ten days under cameras. Ten days that could help my business in the long run.
It’s opportunity. It’s exposure. It’s controlled risk. It has nothing to do with Scott Bennett. I repeat that to myself until sleep takes me. And I don’t dream.
