There are exactly two reasons I don't do this.
One. Deep down, in the part of me that's learned to think like him whether I wanted to or not, I don't think it would actually work.
Whatever money I have access to—these millions that still don't feel real, that I can't quite wrap my head around—he's got a billion times more than that.
Literally.
His resources outweigh mine so completely it's almost laughable to compare them. The power differential is staggering.
If he genuinely wants to find me, if I become a problem he needs to solve, he will find me. He'll deploy whatever tools, whatever people, whatever technology it takes.
And unlike me fumbling around trying to figure out how disappearing even works, he'd know exactly how to do it efficiently.
And two… and this is the part that makes me hate myself a little more each time I acknowledge it… I don't actuallywantto leave.
Not him, not this place, not even this completely fucked-up scenario we're living in.
It's… God, it's exciting. It makes me feel alive in a way nothing else ever has.
It's also sick. Deeply, fundamentally sick.
And I'm so goddamn tired of being sick.
This changes today.
At the airport,standing in the check-in line with my single carry-on bag, I have second thoughts.
Is it crazy to fly to Vegas to shop?
Yes. I mean, there's no other answer than yes, is there?
That's the rational response. The sensible one. The thing a normal person would say if you told them what I'm doing right now—booking a last-minute flight to Nevada because I've decided the boutiques in Idaho Falls aren't going to cut it for whatever this transformation is supposed to be.
But… if one had the funds—and I do, courtesy of Caleb's relentless deposits that keep appearing in my account like accusations I haven't responded to—and one had never been to Vegas, which I haven't, and one was shopping for a glow-up, which is apparently what I'm calling this performance now, and one lived in sleepy Idaho Falls where the most exciting store is a Target that still has a Pizza Hut inside it… is it really crazy?
The woman ahead of me in line checks two massive suitcases and I wonder where she's going, if it's somewhere normal,somewhere that makes sense. I adjust my grip on my bag and don't move when the line shifts forward.
I need a change.
Not just a trim or a new lipstick shade or one of those magazine makeover articles that promises transformation in five easy steps. Not a tiny change. A massive change. The kind that turns you into someone else entirely—someone you can pretend to be until maybe, eventually, you forget you were ever anyone different.
I need advice about this change too. Professional advice. Like, actual cut-and-color expertise from someone who went to school for this, who knows what they're doing, who can look at me and see potential instead of the girl who's been wearing the same oversized hoodie rotation for the past two years.
Someone who can work miracles with highlights, and layers, and whatever else people pay for at real salons.
And not just hair advice either—I need the whole package. The full Pretty Woman treatment, the complete before-and-after transformation montage where the frumpy nobody walks into the boutique and walks out looking like she belongs in a different tax bracket.
Because I do belong there now. In that different tax bracket, with all the women who smell like expensive perfume, and have skin that glows from regular facials, and bodies maintained by personal trainers.
Who cares if I didn't earn it the normal way—and objectively, didn't I earn it? I mean, what the fuck, right? After everything that happened, after the island and the cabin and watching him—no. Not thinking about that. But still. If anyone's earned the right to spend money they didn't technically work for in any traditional sense, it's me.
I'm not poor, dirty, sick Scarletta anymore. I'm not the girl who wore the same leggings for four days straight becauselaundry felt impossible. I'm not the one who forgot to eat, who lived on instant ramen and black coffee, who couldn't afford a haircut.
In fact, all this working out—the endless treadmill sessions, the yoga classes I rotate through to avoid familiar faces, the weights I habitually lift while zoning out—has given me a hot bod I only dreamed of as a teenager.
I'm practically cut. Lean muscle in my arms, definition in my abs, thighs that don't jiggle anymore when I walk. My ass is an actual shape now instead of just existing.
I look good. I know I look good because men tell me constantly, and I smile and say thank you and ghost them before the third date.
