Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Casey
I stood in the shadows of that narrow third-floor balcony, watching Paul ride his bicycle below.
These past few days, he'd completely changed tactics. The old Paul—always rolling up in luxury cars with suited lackeys trailing behind. Now he was trying to squeeze himself into my small, threadbare world in a way that was almost masochistically clumsy.
I watched him park the bike under a dingy streetlamp, pull a canvas bag from the basket, and set it carefully on my front steps.
No more expensive truffles or air-shipped delicacies.
Just lunch he'd made himself. Sometimes coconut rice balls that weren't quite round.
Sometimes mango crepes with the sweetness all wrong.
I knew he'd spent hours in that cramped kitchen with the busted exhaust fan, face covered in flour. I'd heard he signed up for the native community's coconut harvest, working alongside those rough locals, rope tearing blisters into his palms.
After leaving the food, he'd just stand there, staring up at my place forever. Cheap shirt, hair wild in the ocean breeze—a mess he never would've tolerated before. I hid behind the balcony railing, feeling that iceberg I'd built over six years start melting in the warm, salt air.
I'll admit it—there were moments I almost ran downstairs to tell him to stop torturing himself. This version of him felt more real than the one who used to look down on everyone. I even had a dangerous thought. If he could actually keep this up, maybe I could try believing him again.
My brain screamed to keep my distance, but my eyes wouldn't leave his sweat-soaked back. That raw effort almost made me drop my guard.
But every time I touched the doorknob, that cold night six years ago came flooding back. The last thread of reason yanked me back hard. All I could do was stand in the dark and watch him pedal that beat-up bike into the night.
Wednesday afternoon, the director came to find me.
"Ella, you have to come to Friday's charity gala at the community hospital.
" She looked at me with that expectant elder's gaze.
"It's critical for fundraising. We need new water filtration for pediatrics.
You're our best nurse. You need to be there. "
I wanted to say no. I hated those wine-and-masks events—they just reminded me of Boston. But thinking of those kids getting repeat infections from bad water, those clear eyes, I couldn't refuse.
Mark came out of his exam room, white coat still smelling of disinfectant. He must've heard us. He walked over and handed me a water bottle, eyes gentle with that steady calm. "I'll go with you, Ella."
At home, I opened that old suitcase buried deepest in the attic. Hadn't touched it in six years. At the very bottom, pressed flat, was a black silk evening gown. Paul had given it to me six years ago.
Back when things between us burned hottest. He'd picked it himself before taking me to some reception.
I remembered the drizzle that day, him pulling up with the dress box in the back seat.
At the boutique, while the clerk helped me try it on, he waited on the couch outside.
When I stepped out, he stood, his long fingers tracing my spine, voice rough.
"Casey, this dress was made for you. Like you were meant to be mine. "
This dress wasn't just clothing. It carried all the real-and-fake tenderness of those days. I stripped off my scrubs and put it on. Looking at myself in the mirror, fingers trailing the pleats, my heart twisted.
Friday night, the Hilton ballroom blazed with lights. Mark was already waiting when I arrived. He'd traded the white coat for a sharp navy suit, looking warm and polished.
"Ella, you look beautiful tonight." Mark smiled gently.
"Thank you, Mark." I took his arm and walked into the hall.
Jazz drifted through the ballroom, piano lazy and smooth. The champagne tower glowed gold under the lights. Servers wove through the crowd with trays. Halfway through, the director stepped onstage and tapped the mic. The room quieted. She began thanking everyone for supporting the hospital.
"We especially want to thank a friend from Boston," her voice echoed through the hall.
"He not only donated five hundred thousand dollars, but he specifically requested it go toward the heart disease screening project in the district Ella oversees.
Please join me in thanking this generous anonymous donor. "
My heart skipped. Anonymous donor. From Boston. Designated for the heart screening project in the poor district—my project. My fingers clenched around my clutch. Through the applause and searching looks, I saw him.
Paul Vincent. He wasn't wearing those ratty shirts from lately.
He'd put on an exquisitely tailored dark suit.
Standing in the center of the crowd with a champagne flute, the lights made him stand out sharply.
Hair slicked back, jaw clean-shaven—nothing like the sun-peeled beach version. A different man.
His gaze swept the room until it locked on me. In that instant, every sound vanished. He stared at my black dress, something complicated flickering in his eyes.
Mark felt me stiffen. He followed my line of sight, frowned slightly, and shifted closer—a protective stance.
The music started, slow, almost mournful.
"Ella, may I have this dance?" Mark extended his hand politely. I wanted to escape Paul's stalking gaze, so I nodded and gave Mark my hand.
We turned slowly at the edge of the dance floor. Mark's movements were gentlemanly, his hand barely resting on my waist. "He's watching you," Mark said quietly. "If you're uncomfortable, we can leave anytime."
"No, I can't leave." I bit down. "I'm here representing the hospital."
Mark didn't push it. He just kept guiding me, footwork steady, steering us toward the edge away from the crowd. But as we spun into the center, the music suddenly changed—from gentle waltz to something fast and aggressive.
A dark shape crashed in. Paul Vincent practically collided with us, shoving Mark aside with zero grace. Pure violence. He grabbed my wrist with one hand, clamped the other around my waist like a vise, and yanked me away from Mark.
"Sorry, Dr. Mark." Paul's voice was rough, crackling with barely contained rage. "I requested this song. So this partner? She's mine now."
"Paul Vincent, that's enough!" Mark grabbed Paul's shoulder angrily.
Paul didn't even turn around. He pulled me, half—dragging, to the far end of the floor. His grip hurt. My waist ached where he held me.
"Paul, let go! What the hell is wrong with you?" I hissed, struggling in his arms. The humiliation of being controlled like this made me shake.
"I won't." He held tighter. "Casey, we need to talk."
He dragged me through the side door onto the ocean-facing terrace. The ballroom noise cut off behind the heavy glass. The world shrank to wind and crashing waves. Paul gripped my wrist and pushed me against the carved marble railing.
"Talk about what? About how you humiliated me like some thug, or how you bought off the rules here with five hundred thousand dollars?" I looked up, eyes red with fury and shame.
Paul braced his hands on either side of me, voice ragged. "Casey, you wore this dress and stood next to him. Danced with him. You know what that did to me? I was losing my goddamn mind with jealousy!"
"It's just an old dress to me, Paul!" I screamed back, trying to shove him away. "Don't trap me with your self-righteous bullshit emotions! I wore it because I don't care what it means anymore!"
He stared at me, losing control. "So what? You're still wearing the dress I gave you to flirt with some other guy? You trying to tell me that even after running to this godforsaken island, you still can't give up the luxury I gave you? Or is the outfit supposed to help you find a new meal ticket?"
The instant those words left his mouth, I saw panic flash in his eyes—like he hadn't meant to say something so cruel.
I knew it wasn't what he really thought.
Jealousy had blinded him; the terror of losing me had cornered him into choosing the words that would hurt most. But I still shook with rage.
"Paul Vincent, you bastard!" Tears spilled down my face. "You think everyone's life revolves around money? I wore it because I consider it a dead thing! And you, you're exactly the same as six years ago. You've never learned to respect anyone!"
The jealousy and fury in Paul's eyes melted into bottomless regret and helplessness the moment they met my tears. He opened his mouth to explain, but the words stuck in his throat.
"Casey... I didn't mean it like that..." He tried reaching for me, voice almost pleading. "I just... seeing you dance with him, I couldn't take it. Couldn't stand you in that dress next to him. I'm sorry. I lost it."
I wiped my tears hard and pushed his hand away. Reason reclaimed the high ground. That fragile trust we'd just started building shattered on those few cutting words.