The question burrows in my mind and refuses to let go.
Chapter Twelve
Lyla
* * *
The helicopter waits on the beach an hour later like a promise and a threat, rotors already slicing the humid air. Cameras circle us, greedy for every loaded glance, every careful touch as Scott helps me climb inside. I’m hyperaware of the lenses trained on us, but that doesn’t stop the traitorous urge to press closer to him. To cling like he’s the only thing left.
Behind us, the other contestants have gathered to watch us leave. Damon stands apart, arms crossed, expression carefully blank. Our eyes meet for a moment. He gives one slow nod.
Scott’s hand settles at my lower back. Warm, possessive, steady through the thin fabric of my dress. “Ready?”
I’m angry, yet there’s something deeper I feel. Something that makes me want more. Something I’m too terrified to acknowledge, which only confuses me further. How can someone resent and want a person at the same time? So no. I’m not ready to be alone with him. Not like this.
Avoiding this would be easier than facing it head-on.
“Let’s go,” a producer yells over the rotors to the pilot.
We lift off the ground, and the villa shrinks below us. Scott sits close enough that our thighs touch, his heat seeping through my sundress. Neither of us speaks as the Caribbean unrolls beneath us—crystalline water, scattered islands, paradise that feels more and more like purgatory the longer this show stretches on.
The pilot’s presence and the tiny cameras affixed to the corners of the cabin, make the silence suffocating. Every breath feels watched. Every accidental brush of Scott’s leg against mine has my senses going into overload.
Minutes that feel more like hours later, an island materializes below. A perfect crescent of white sand edged by dense jungle, looking utterly isolated. No doubt cameras lurk in every palm tree and crevice anyway.
As we descend, I spot the setup: an elegant pavilion on the beach, gauze curtains already snapping in a rising wind, a table for two laid with linens and crystal that look ready to blow away.
Dark clouds mass on the horizon, boiling forward faster than seems possible. The sky behind us is still bright blue while ahead it’s turning iron-gray.
“Storm’s comin’,” the pilot says as the skids kiss sand. “Movin’ quicker than forecasted. Producers want me to tell you we’ll monitor from the mainland, but if this weather hits directly, head for the bungalow. You should be fine.”
I brush off the warning. Good to know we don’t have to wait outside for help if a storm does come.
Scott unbuckles quickly and turns to face me. His eyes meet mine—quiet, unreadable, but carrying the same weight they’ve held since the challenge.
The pilot points through the palms. “Bungalow’s that way if you need it.” He points to the small building. “Fully stocked, reinforced for hurricanes. You should have power since the place runs on a generator.”
Then he’s gone, rotors fading into the gray sky.
Even though we’re the only ones on this island, my shoulders stay tight. The setup allows us just enough emptiness to drop our guards, to coax out whatever emotions or physical actions the producers want for the edit. I feel like doing the exact opposite.
Scott pulls a chair out for me with automatic courtesy, then takes the seat across from me. The elaborate spread—champagne chilling, fruit glistening, candles already guttering—looks ridiculous against the darkening sky.
“Hungry?” Scott asks, but his gaze stays on the approaching clouds, not the elaborate spread already trembling under the rising wind.
I chew slowly on a finger sandwich and stare out into the gray, almost black, sky. The turquoise ocean. Anywhere but at him. My pulse picks up at the growing seconds that tick by.
The first gust whips my hair across my face. The gauze curtains on the pavilion snap like flags in surrender.
What could possibly have been his motive for winning? Better yet, his reason for even being here? I know he’s said he came for me, but that could mean anything.
If he wanted the latter, he would have done it already.
True, but for all I know he could be playing the long game.
What is he hoping to get out of this entire experience? Was the grass not as green on the other side as he thought it was?
This line of thinking is getting dangerous.
