"Remember, Isla," Victoria added, her gaze piercing as she sprinkled salt sparingly. "A dish can be spoiled by excess, just as a young woman's prospects can be marred by… indiscretions."
The threat hung heavy in the air, a noxious perfume that threatened to choke Isla. Yet she met her mother's eyes, her own alight with a silent defiance that needed no words. She felt the fabric of her being frayed and worn but not yet torn asunder.
Marcus watched the exchange, his fork paused mid-air. He wanted to speak, to try and make them all feel better, but the unspoken words between mother and daughter held him back. Instead, he focused on his plate.
Aunt Bea set down her utensils, the gentle scrape resonating as though it were a declaration. She cleared her throat.
"Victoria," she began, her voice steady but laced with a firmness that hadn't been there before. "I think what we need is less criticism and more understanding around this table."
Victoria's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. The room seemed to constrict around them, the walls closing in.
"Understanding?" she echoed, the word dripping with disdain. "And what would you know about that?"
"I know enough to see that Isla is trying," she countered. "She deserves compassion, not constant judgment."
The escalation caught Isla off guard. Her heart hammered against her ribs; she couldn't recall the last time anyone had dared to challenge Victoria, let alone in her defense. The air was electric, crackling with the energy of shifting dynamics.
"Compassion?" Victoria scoffed, her voice rising. "It is because I care for her future that I am stern. You wouldn’t understand."
"Perhaps," Aunt Bea admitted, her gaze unwavering, "but I understand that support can foster growth better than any amount of fear. You, of all people, should know this. At the very least, talk to her and listen to what she has to say.”
Isla felt an unexpected warmth bloom within her chest, a spark of hope. Her mother rose to her feet with a snort of contempt.
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to this. I’m going to lie down. Clementine, I’ll take my evening tea in my room.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Walton,” Clementine said. “As you wish.”
Chapter35
"Olivia, no, stop!"
My voice was lost in the wind, a useless plea vanishing into the tropical air. I watched helplessly as my daughter's figure disappeared out the door of the resort’s main house. Marcus had stormed out seconds before her, a whirlwind of anger and desperation. Olivia yelled that she could stop him, and I was too late to block her way.
Then I heard the shots—crisp and too close—shattering the illusion of paradise.
My heart hammered against my ribcage, each beat spelling out Olivia's name in pure fear. Time slowed to a crawl; the sound of gunfire echoed off the palm trees, drowning the usual serenity of the island in complete chaos.
I sprinted forward past the infinity pool, where once sunbathers lounged in blissful ignorance. Now, it was a chaotic mess of screams. Training kicked in, and my heart rate spiked as adrenaline surged through my veins. The warm breeze that had felt welcoming upon arrival now whipped at my face with unforgiving haste.
"Move!" I barked at a cluster of guests frozen in shock. They scattered, my path clearing as I wove expertly among them. My blazer billowed behind me, an unwanted cape in this real-life horror show.
"Have you seen a teenage girl, short hair, blue T-shirt?" I demanded, grabbing the arm of a staff member who looked like he might faint. The man pointed frantically toward the beachfront bungalows. I didn't waste a breath on thanks, already darting away.
I skirted a toppled trolley of champagne flutes, the shattered glass crunching underfoot. With every turn, every shouted command, I became less of the composed agent and gave in to the primal protectiveness of a mother.
"Olivia!" I called again, voice raw.
The echo of my own desperation rang loud in my ears as I pushed through the manicured hedges that now seemed more like barriers than decorations. Each stride carried me further into the nightmare. More shots were fired. The fearful screams urged me forward.
Please be okay, Olivia. Please. Why would you do that? Why would you run after him?
My breath came in ragged gasps, the humid air sticking to my lungs as I rounded another pavilion. There! A shadow detached itself from the chaos—Marcus Cole. The setting sun cast an ominous glow on his erratic movements, his arm jerking with each shot fired, indiscriminate and wild. Screams punctuated the air like a macabre symphony, guests scattering, their faces masks of fear and disbelief.
"Down! Get down!" I barked at a cluster of petrified staff members huddled by a service entrance, even as I kept moving. My gaze flitted across every corner, every alcove, searching for my daughter.
"Olivia!"
No answer. She should have responded by now.
