Genuinely, visibly pissed.
I can't help it—I snicker.
Her trip has been anything but relaxing. The invitation to the hunt directed her to go downstairs immediately upon receiving it, so she did—of course she did, eager little thing.
But I left her waiting for the limousine for nearly an hour in her apartment lobby. Just sitting there in my clothes, probably wondering if I'd forgotten about her entirely.
It was necessary, though. Cruel, yes, but necessary. I needed to arrive in the Caribbean before she did. Needed to be here, waiting, watching, in complete control of the infrastructure before her plane ever touched down.
Once she finally got to the FBO terminal at Idaho Falls Regional Airport, I had her plane grounded for two hours under the pretense of 'mechanical issues.' Some vague problem with the hydraulics that required a full inspection.
She sat in the private lounge—I watched her on the security cameras—pretending to read a magazine while internally spiraling with anxiety. Wondering if this was part of it. If I was testing her. If she should leave.
She didn't leave.
Which set the perfect tone for the 'normal not-normal turbulence' she experienced during the entire seven-hour flight. Nothing dangerous, of course. Nothing the pilots couldn't handle easily. But enough chop, enough sudden drops and jarring bumps to keep her white-knuckled and nauseous the whole way.
I specifically instructed them to take a route through some rough weather patterns. Make it memorable. Make her arrive already off-balance, already questioning whether she's made a terrible mistake.
Small games. Necessary delays. Minor psychological adjustments to ensure she arrives exactly as unsteady as I need her to be.
Control, I've learned, isn't just in the grand gestures—it's in the minutiae. The orchestration of a thousand tiny details that add up to total dominance before she even realizes the game has started.
She thinks she understands what this 'hunt' entails—they all do when they first arrive here, armed with their fantasies and half-formed expectations culled from fiction and forum posts.
But it's never the same chase twice. Every woman brings different fears, different desires, different breaking points.
The island itself shifts the dynamic—weather patterns, wildlife sounds, the particular quality of moonlight filtering through jungle canopy. So many variables to account for on Story Island. So many opportunities for improvisation within the carefully constructed framework.
I allow myself a small breath of satisfaction, settling deeper into my chair as I scan the array of monitors before me. Very pleased with how meticulously this particular event has been choreographed. Every contingency planned for, every potential complication anticipated and neutralized before it could manifest.
Volk's presence on the sister island two miles south of here is a distraction I could do without. His scales weren't due to be balanced until next week.
But adaptation is a hallmark of genius.
And I am nothing, if not a genius.
I adapted.
He's here, he'll be dealt with, the scales will balance, and Scarletta Mae Desmond will have a Valentine's Day experience she'll never forget.
I watch her squint against the harsh Caribbean sun, one hand still pressed against her windblown hair as a man in an impeccable linen suit materializes at the bottom of the aircraft stairs. He doesn't introduce himself. Doesn't offer pleasantries or small talk.
Just gestures toward the tree line where a narrow stone path disappears into the hibiscus hedges.
She follows.
Good girl.
I zoom in on camera three, tracking her progression along the winding trail. The path is deliberately disorienting—curves back on itself twice, creates the illusion of distance when the staging suite is only two hundred yards from the landing pad. Psychological preparation. By the time she arrives, she'll feel isolated, cut off, dependent on whoever's waiting inside.
The suited man motions towards the pavilion's entrance—there's no door, just a gap between two massive support columns—and steps aside.
Scarletta hesitates.
Then enters.
And there they are.
