Chapter Two #2
Betrayal slices clean through me, sharper than the abandonment ever was because it’s present. Tangible. In my face.
“You don’t ambush someone on cable television just to have a conversation,” I bite out.
“I’m not asking to start over without explaining,” he says, controlled. “You deserve to know what happened.”
“Why does that matter now?”
His throat works. For the first time, something flickers in his expression—pain, maybe. Or frustration.
“Please,” he says, and the word is quiet enough it feels private. “Give me time to explain.”
Time.
The very thing he stole.
I shake my head. “You ran out of time the moment you left.”
His gaze holds mine like he’s trying to reach through me. “There are things you don’t know.”
“Stop,” I snap. “Don’t pretend you get to decide what I deserve. You don’t know me anymore.”
Before he can respond, Miranda clears her throat, slicing through the moment like a blade.
I tear my gaze from Scott and turn on her.
She’s smiling. Like this is delightful.
“What a perfect way to end our arrivals!” she trills. “And just think—this is only the beginning.”
I want to throttle her.
Not just for me. For Emily’s shattered glass. For Renee’s tight smile. For Sean’s haunted face. For the way the air feels like a trap.
Miranda corrals all twelve of us into a loose circle. Cameras shift. Boom mics dip closer.
“Now that we’re all here,” she begins, “I have something to confess.”
No shit.
“When you applied for Paradise Found, we told you that you were signing up for a tropical singles dating show.” She pauses like she’s savoring her confession. “Well…we weren’t entirely honest.”
Around me, voices rise—cursing, protesting, demanding contracts and lawyers.
Miranda lifts a hand, still smiling. “Paradise Found never existed. It was a cover.”
My stomach drops lower.
“Welcome,” she says brightly, “to The One That Got Away—the show that reunites you with your most significant lost love.”
The terrace erupts.
Trevor starts swearing. Renee looks like she might punch someone. Sean goes stiff. Kylie laughs like it’s a gift from the universe.
And Scott—He doesn’t move. His gaze stays on me like the rest of the world is background noise.
My anger turns cold.
“This is insane,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m leaving. Now.”
It’s not a negotiation as I choose to act on instinct.
Scott lifts his hand like he’s going to stop me. Then he catches himself and drops it to his side.
“Lyla—”
“Don’t,” I warn, not looking at him. “Don’t say my name.”
I scan for the nearest producer, the nearest exit, any sign of control.
Miranda appears at my side like she’s been waiting. “I’m afraid leaving isn’t an option, sweetie.”
I turn on her, fury sharp. “I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but I can and I will. Watch me.”
I start to move past her.
“Leave now,” she says, voice still syrupy, “and you’ll have to pay the penalty clause in your contract.”
I roll my eyes. “Send me a bill.”
“All two hundred fifty thousand or in increments?”
I stop cold.
The number doesn’t compute at first. It’s too ridiculous—until it does sink in.
My throat goes dry.
“What did you just say?”
“Your contract includes a penalty clause for an unexpected but voluntary departure.” Miranda repeats, like she’s explaining a return policy.
“For two hundred fifty thousand?” My laugh is sharp and humorless. “That’s more than the prize.”
“It’s our policy.”
My stomach turns.
I can’t afford that. Not in my worst nightmare.
Around me, the other contestants are doing the same math. The same panic. Trapped by signatures and fine print and desperation.
Miranda claps her hands again, bright as ever. “Now, let’s establish our villa couples.”
Of course. Once they trap you with money, they trap you even more with proximity.
“Each woman will draw a number,” she explains, holding up a velvet pouch. “Number one gets first choice of any man. Number two can choose from the remaining…or steal number one’s choice.”
Strategic warfare disguised as romance.
A few minutes later, my hands feel cold as I step forward with the other women, drawing slips in order.
Renee draws first. Valerie second. Emily third. Jessa Fourth.
My fingers dip into the pouch.
Paper slides against my skin.
I unfold my slip.
I’m fifth.
Kylie is last to draw, making her last to choose.
My pulse doesn’t slow. It spikes.
I scan the line of men with a sinking feeling as choices happen fast. Steals happen faster. Partners shift like pieces on a board.
When it’s my turn, my options are already narrowing. Unless I choose to steal, it’s down to Scott and Zayne—and I’d rather not lose an arm by these fierce women.
Scott stands there like he already knows. His mouth has that faint curve again. Certainty. As though he’s been waiting for me to be forced into his orbit.
Not a chance in hell.
“Zayne,” I say quickly, choosing literally anyone else.
Zayne steps toward me with visible relief.
Kylie is last to choose, and she doesn’t even pretend to consider. “I’m stealing Zayne.”
Zayne’s shoulders slump. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters as he steps away.
And suddenly I’m standing alone.
Miranda’s smile widens like she just won. “That leaves our final couple,” she announces. “Lyla and Scott.”
The cameras zoom. Someone whistles. Someone else laughs nervously.
Scott steps toward me. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then lifts back to my eyes.
“Hello, little one,” he murmurs.
Heat flickers low in my belly, immediate and unwanted.
Hearing his pet name for me, something I haven’t heard since he left, hits me hard. I let out a small gasp.
I quickly harden my expression and glare up at him. “Don’t call me that.”
His voice drops, rougher. “We’re going to have plenty of time to talk now.”
“The hell we are,” I say through my teeth.
He doesn’t argue. He just watches me like he’s already memorized every escape route I might take.
Scott
One king bed. One couch.
That’s the first thing I register when the bedroom door shuts behind us.
The room is too intimate for strangers and too small for history like ours.
White walls. Open beams. Gauzy curtains lifting in the ocean breeze.
The bed sits centered beneath a slow-turning fan, an soft ivory comforter over crisp sheets as though deliberately designed to encourage something to happen.
It won’t. Not like that.
Lyla steps inside without looking at me. Chin high. Spine straight. Every inch of her posture says she’s bracing for negotiation, not proximity.
The cameras in the corners blink red.
I clock every angle automatically. Lens height. Microphone placement. Window sightlines. Blind spots. Old habits. Old training. My body doesn’t know how not to assess threat.
She moves toward the dresser and sets her bag down with controlled precision. Not a single wasted motion. The same woman who can rebuild a torn wedding gown under pressure and make it look effortless.
“Say it,” she says, still facing away from me.
Her voice is level. That’s how I know she’s furious.
“Say what?”
“That you planned this.” She turns slowly. Her eyes are sharp, wounded beneath them. “That you knew and decided ambushing me on television was the best way to start a conversation.”
I shut the door fully and lean back against it, giving her space. Giving her the illusion of control.
“I knew,” I say. There’s no point in softening that. “But it’s not like I planned the room assignment.”
A humorless laugh escapes her. “That’s supposed to make it better?”
“No.” I hold her gaze. “It’s supposed to be honest.”
Her mouth parts like she didn’t expect the answer. I shouldn’t notice. I do anyway.
God, she’s beautiful.
Not the way she was at eighteen. Not soft and bright-eyed, looking at me like I hung the damn moon.
This version of her is sharpened. Controlled.
Her hair falls over one shoulder in deliberate waves.
Her sundress skims her waist and clings to curves that didn’t exist back then.
Blood immediately rushes south at the sight.
Focus.
“You don’t decide what I deserve or get to dictate when I’m ready to hear anything.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” She steps closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to test. “Because it feels like you decided that for me again.”
That lands.
The room feels smaller.
“I’m not here to force anything,” I say carefully. “I’m here because silence didn’t fix it.”
Her eyes narrow at me. “Silence didn’t fix it because you were the silence.”
I inhale slowly through my nose. I could push. But I see it in her face—She’s not ready for explanations. Not here. Not like this.
“You’re right,” I say. “I left. I didn’t explain. I own that.”
Her eyes flicker. Surprise. As though she was ready for an argument.
“Then I think you should leave.” she presses.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because I can’t breathe in a world where you think I didn’t choose you.
Because I’ve replayed the look on your face for ten years.
Because I would burn down anything that threatens you.
“You heard what Miranda said. That penalty clause is insane,” I point out. Technically, it’s not a lie. And this still gives me a legitimate reason to be “stuck” here.
“You’ve already disappeared once, I’m sure you can figure it out.”
I let out a deep sigh. “You know it’s not that simple.”
She steps closer again, anger rising. “Oh, please. How complicated can ghosting someone be? You’re already good at it.”
There’s more to what happened then, more than she knows.
I glance at the camera in the corner. The red light steady. Listening. Recording. This is the first real conversation we’ve had in a decade, and I’d rather it not happen under surveillance, much less for the world’s entertainment.
Her laugh is brittle. “Of course it’s not that simple. Convenient.”
“It’s not about convenience. I just can’t spend six-figures willy-nilly.” I could, but that’s beside the point.
I push off the door slowly, hands visible. Intentional.
She studies me for a long beat, as though searching for some angle I might have.