Chapter Two
Off the coast of Belize
Two weeks later
Day One
Lyla
The speedboat cuts through water so clear it looks fake.
Sunlight fractures over the surface, throwing silver onto my knees and the white deck beneath my sandals. The island ahead is exactly what the casting ad promised—white beach, emerald jungle, a villa perched high on the cliffs like it’s watching us arrive.
Paradise.
I grip the railing anyway.
Two weeks ago, my biggest crisis involved a bride sobbing over ivory versus cream napkins. Now I’m headed toward a reality dating show I applied to at three in the morning because desperation makes people brave—or stupid.
“Ten days in paradise to find love?” Emily laughs beside me, her raven hair snapping in the wind. “This feels too good to be true.”
If it’s too good to be true, it usually is.
I smooth my sundress over my thighs and inhale slowly, grounding myself. I didn’t come here for romance. I came here for leverage.
One hundred thousand dollars and national exposure could take my business to new heights. It could buy me staff, breathing room, a future that doesn’t require me to keep sprinting on fumes.
For once, I want something that’s just…good.
The dock comes into view.
Cameras line it.
Not a couple of handhelds for behind-the-scenes footage. Real rigs. Boom mics. The kind of setup that makes your skin tighten because it’s not casual.
This is definitely not low-budget.
A production assistant beams as she helps us off the boat. “Welcome to Paradise Found! You’re our first arrivals!”
The other contestants file onto the terrace with me—Sean, Bradley, Zayne, Jessa, and Emily—faces bright with that specific blend of nervous excitement and hunger people wear when they know they’re being watched.
I tell myself my smile is normal. Tell myself my heart isn’t racing.
The host appears like she’s been conjured: Miranda. Glossy hair, glossy lips, glossy confidence. She moves like she’s hosting an awards show, not orchestrating emotional chaos.
“I can already feel the chemistry,” she purrs.
I clock the way her gaze lingers—not flirtatious. Measuring. Cataloging. The same look I’ve seen from vendors who smile while quietly inflating invoices.
Cocktails appear. The afternoon unfolds with a strange ease.
Sean talks about travel. Zayne does impressions. Bradley shocks everyone by knowing every word to a Broadway show.
For the first time in months, no one needs me to fix anything.
I’m just Lyla.
And for a few minutes, I can almost forget why I’m here.
Miranda claps her hands. “Contestants, our next arrival is here!”
We migrate toward the terrace railing, drinks in hand. Someone makes a joke about “first impressions.” Someone else laughs too loudly.
The stairs below the terrace come into view. A man climbs them, polished and confident, smile already in place—until his gaze lands on Emily.
The smile fractures.
“Emily,” he breathes, like her name is a bruise.
Emily’s drink slips from her fingers. Glass shatters against the stone.
“Trevor?” Her voice comes out thin. “What are you—What are you doing here?”
Trevor’s composure wobbles. “You applied, too?”
Around us, the air shifts. The laughter dies. The cameras seem louder.
“You two know each other?” Bradley asks carefully.
“We dated,” Emily replies flatly.
Trevor looks like he wants to explain. Emily looks like she wants to burn the terrace down.
One ex-couple. That’s odd. Is this some kind of twist they’re introducing to make the show more entertaining?
Miranda’s smile doesn’t change.
“Contestants, our next arrival is here!”
Another figure comes up the stairs—tall, composed, the kind of woman who knows exactly how she looks on camera and uses it. She freezes when she reaches the terrace, eyes locking on Bradley.
Her expression flashes shock.
Then she smooths it into something sharp and controlled.
“Well,” she says lightly, “this is unexpected.”
Bradley goes rigid beside me. “What the fuck are you doing here, Renee?”
Renee arches a brow. “Seems we’re both looking for love in paradise.”
The silence that follows is loaded. A history you can’t see but can feel.
Two. Coincidence is starting to lose credibility.
Miranda claps again. “Next arrival!”
A third person appears.
Sean’s easy grin vanishes so fast it’s like someone cut it off. His shoulders lock.
“No,” he mutters under his breath.
The woman steps onto the terrace and lifts her head.
“Sean.”
His throat works. “Valerie.”
Valerie’s gaze flicks briefly to the cameras, then back to him. “So this is why you ghosted me.”
Sean’s face goes pale. “I-I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Funny,” Valerie’s smile is cool, practiced. “I thought the same thing.”
Three.
My stomach tightens. A hollow weight settles under my ribs.
This isn’t random.
Miranda’s expression is too pleased. Too expectant. Like she’s watching dominoes fall exactly the way she set them up.
“Our next arrival is here!”
A man climbs the stairs—handsome in a safe, guy-next-door way. He reaches the terrace smiling like he’s ready to be introduced.
Then he sees Jessa, and the smile collapses.
Jessa inhales sharply beside me. Her fingers curl into her palm like she’s holding herself in place.
“Nick,” she says, and her voice is pure disdain.
He stops. His gaze sharpens. “You’re here. How have you been?” he asks, like this is normal.
Jessa lets out a humorless laugh. “Fine. Not that you ever gave a shit.”
Four.
The sunlight feels too bright now. The ocean too loud. The terrace too small.
By the time Miranda announces the next arrival, no one reacts. We’re all braced.
A woman comes up the stairs fast, heels snapping against stone, anger practically radiating off her. She doesn’t scan the terrace—She zeroes in.
Her eyes lock on Zayne. A smile curls on her lips like a weapon.
Zayne stiffens. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
She squeals like she’s delighted. “Zany bear! I’ve missed you so much!”
“Kylie,” he says, voice dragging with dread.
Five.
I don’t have to count anymore to know what that means.
Six women, including me. Five exes have already appeared.
There’s one left.
My breath goes shallow. I take a sip of my drink, and it tastes like nothing. My pulse thuds at the base of my throat.
I don’t look at Miranda. I don’t need her confirmation to know the next person up those stairs is mine.
The only question is which ghost they dug up.
I tell myself it won’t be Scott. It can’t be. I’ve spent ten years building a life where he doesn’t exist. Spent that time making sure he couldn’t undo me with a look. I’ve spent—
A man appears at the base of the stairs.
Broad shoulders under a dress shirt. Sleeves rolled to the forearms. The kind of build that isn’t just from a gym—discipline, repetition, something earned the hard way.
His stride is long and deliberate, every step purposeful.
He doesn’t look at the cameras, much less scan the group like the others did. His attention is already narrowed, locked somewhere ahead.
My stomach drops.
Please don’t let it be—
He comes closer. Details sharpen. Dark hair cut short. A jaw that looks harder than I remember. A body built thick through the chest and arms like time carved him into something more dangerous.
He reaches the top step and lifts his head.
His eyes find mine.
Blue. Striking. Familiar in the worst way. It hits like a wave.
Scott Bennett steps onto the terrace.
Ten years collapse into nothing like time has never passed.
Sound drains away. The ocean blurs. The villa tilts slightly, like my body can’t decide whether to run or freeze.
He looks older. Taller. Broader. The softness that used to live around his mouth is gone, replaced by something sharpened and controlled.
His gaze holds mine. And then his mouth curves—slow, deliberate. Unapologetic. Not hesitant. As though he’s been waiting for this moment.
“Hello, everyone,” he says calmly. “I’m Scott.”
He doesn’t look at anyone but me when he says it.
My champagne flute slips from my fingers. Crystal explodes against stone.
Someone says my name. It could be Emily. It could be the host. It could be a producer sprinting toward me.
I can’t hear any of it.
All I can hear is my pulse roaring in my ears.
Scott’s eyes dip briefly to the shattered glass, then lift back to my face as if he’s taking me in. As if he’s allowed.
My skin goes tight.
Heat unfurls low in my body—slow, unmistakable, treacherous. It slides downward, curling between my thighs like my body is betraying me before my brain can catch up.
No. Absolutely not.
I clamp my thighs together and force my shoulders back. Force my face into something controlled.
“You,” I manage, and my voice comes out thin.
He steps closer. Not rushing. Not crowding.
But his presence fills the space like it always did—solid, overwhelming, and inevitable.
“Lyla,” he says quietly.
My name on his lips sounds different now. Lower. Rougher. Like it’s been carried around in his throat for a decade.
My breath catches.
Dampness gathers between my legs in a humiliating rush. My nipples tighten beneath the thin fabric of my dress.
My body remembers.
My body is a dumbass.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is sharper now. Better.
He doesn’t answer right away.
He takes another step. Close enough that I catch his scent—cedar, spice, something clean and male underneath. A memory slams into me: his truck, summer nights, his hands on my hips.
Anger flares, hot and saving.
“I asked you a question,” I snap. “Don’t avoid it.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.
“I came for you.”
The words hit hard. My mind scrambles for logic.
He didn’t come for me when I cried myself to sleep. He didn’t come for me when I begged the universe for an explanation. He didn’t come for me for ten years. And now he’s standing here in front of cameras like he’s allowed to make a claim.
My anger surges.
“You knew?” I hiss, and I hate that my voice shakes. “You knew this was what the show really was, and you still came?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Yes.”