Chapter Thirteen
Day Five
Scott
Sunlight filters through the slatted shutters of the bungalow, soft and gold, turning the room into something almost peaceful.
Lyla is still asleep against my chest. Her cheek presses to my skin.
One arm drapes loosely across my ribs. Her breathing is slow, even, steady in a way that makes my heart stutter, remembering how it used to match mine years ago.
I don’t move. Don’t dare. Last night cracked something open between us—grief, truth, bodies finally saying what words never could.
For the first time since the show started, I let myself feel something close to hope.
Cautious. Fragile. One night doesn’t erase ten years of silence, doesn’t rebuild the trust I’d shattered when I walked away.
She lost a child because of me. Her entire world was turned upside down because of me. It’s no wonder she doesn’t trust me. I wouldn’t trust me.
But her head on my chest feels like proof we aren’t starting from nothing.
I trace the line of her shoulder with my thumb—barely touching, just enough to feel her warmth. Her hair smells like rain, salt, and us. I close my eyes and let the moment stretch, knowing it won’t last.
Lyla stirs. Her lashes flutter. For a second, she’s still, eyes fixed on my collarbone, as if she’s processing whether last night was real or a dream she can still wake from.
Then awareness hits. Her body goes taut. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t melt into me again either. I feel the shift in her breath, the subtle tightening of muscles that were loose seconds ago.
I speak softly to her. “Morning.”
She swallows. “Morning.”
We stay frozen for a long moment. Her fingers flex against my side, then still.
“Oh, my god, we…” she whispers, almost to herself.
“Yeah.” I keep my hand light on her back. “We did.”
She glances around, like she’s bracing for impact.
“But it mattered,” I add quietly. “More than you know.”
Her gaze lifts. Searching, conflicted. As if the truth I gave her last night is reshaping everything she thought she knew about me, about us. Her brows pinch. She bites the inside of her cheek, no doubt reconciling the man holding her with the one who disappeared.
She doesn’t speak. Instead, she shifts slightly, her cheek on my shoulder. I feel her inhale, slow and deliberate, like she’s stealing one last breath of me before reality pulls me back.
I press my lips to her hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer, but doesn’t pull away.
We stay tangled until the distant thrum of helicopter blades slices the quiet. First faint, then louder.
Our bubble has officially been burst.
Lyla tenses. “That’s our ride.”
“Yeah.”
She eases out of my arms. I let her go, watching as she sits up. The sheet pools around her waist. Sunlight catches the faint marks I left on her skin. Nothing harsh, just echoes of last night’s reverence.
She reaches for her sundress on the floor and shakes it out. I grab my shorts and shirt nearby. We dress in fragile silence, as though speaking too loud will shatter what’s left.
At the bed’s edge, she pauses, fingers twisting the hem of her dress. “Scott…”
I look up.
“Thank you,” she says, a small smile flickering on her face. “For last night. For telling me everything.”
I nod. “I’m sorry it took us this long.”
Her eyes flicker. Something raw passes through them. Then she looks away. “We should go.”
Every step toward the door feels mechanical, pulling us from tangled sheets and whispered confessions.
Outside, the helicopter waits, rotors spinning lazily. A producer waves us over with a tablet. She looks to be relieved when she sees us.
“Oh, good, you two are still alive,” she says brightly, schooling her expression to a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Ready to head back?”
Lyla nods. I place a hand on the small of her back, guiding. She doesn’t flinch but doesn’t lean in, either.
When we climb in, the door seals behind us. The chopper lifts off with the bungalow shrinking below.
Lyla shifts immediately and presses against the opposite door, staring out at the ocean like it holds answers my face can’t give.
I watch her retreat, my chest aching like a fresh bruise. This is what I’ve reduced her to: a woman so terrified of abandonment she’s already running before I’ve left.
The producer drones on through headsets—weather, producer complaints about no footage last night. I tune it out. All I see is Lyla’s shallow breathing, rigid shoulders, and careful distance.
She’s going to choose Damon.
The realization should destroy me. But underneath the pain, clarity surfaces.
She doesn’t trust I’ll stay. She doesn’t need promises or words. She needs proof. And the only proof that matters is action.
If I fight her choice, I prove I don’t respect her judgment. But if I leave, would that only prove her point? Just watching her with another man, even so much as the thought of it, is unbearable. Leaving for that reason would only prove her fears right.
Maybe the only way to break the cycle is to stay. To respect her choice and hope she comes back on her own. To be present every day, even when it’s torture, until she realizes I’m not going anywhere.
Fuck.
Keeping my distance was already torture enough. But now that I’ve had her under me—touched her, smelled her skin, heard her laugh—I can’t fathom letting someone else, Damon, touch what’s mine.
Losing her once was torture. Losing her again, and probably for good if that happens, is worse than any agony.
Five minutes pass. Ten. Silence stretches like an open wound.
“You’re going to choose him,” I say. That’s not me demanding. It’s just fact.
Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t turn. “I don’t know.”
“You will.” I keep my voice level despite the clawing in my chest. “Because he’s never left you. And I have.”
“Scott—”
“I’m not asking you to change your mind.” The words burn. “But I need you to hear this. You’re going to choose him. Anything to make you feel safe.”
She finally looks at me— Eyes wide, a tear spills.
“But I’m staying,” I say. “If you choose him. If he kisses you on camera. Even if you’re in his bed. I’m still going to be here.”
“Why would you—”
“You need to know if you can trust me to not abandon you.” I hold her gaze. “So here it is. Push me away. Test me. Do what you have to in order to get the answers you need.”
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
“You’re terrified the past will repeat.” I lean closer to her. Her eyes are filled with trepidation. “This is me saying it won’t.”
The skids touch down. She unbuckles fast and climbs out without waiting.
I watch her disappear into the swarm of women—hugs, questions, laughter.
And I know with devastating certainty what I’ve just set in motion.
Lyla
Every time I close my eyes, I see Scott’s face. The raw pain when he spoke about his father’s threats, the crack in his voice when he said leaving me was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
Vincent Bennett threatened to destroy my family if Scott didn’t end us.
The truth has looped in my head since I woke up on his chest this morning. It changes everything. He didn’t leave because he got bored with me or thought the grass would be greener on the other side. He left to protect me.
But anger still simmers beneath the understanding. Not at his choice—I can see the impossible position his father forced him into—but at the secrecy. At ten years believing the worst of him, believing I wasn’t worth fighting for, when the truth was so much more complicated.
On the helicopter ride back, he wanted to be close to me.
I secretly craved more—his hand on mine, his arm around me, anything to keep the fragile warmth of last night alive.
But I couldn’t let myself take it. The moment the skids touched down and the doors opened, I bolted.
Straight to the pool deck. Away from him.
Away from the careful politeness we’ve both been clinging to since dawn, when his hands were still on my skin and every reason to resist him disappeared.
God, the way he made me feel.
Even now, the memory sends heat pooling low. His mouth worshipping me, claiming me like a man starved. For those hours, I’d been his completely—no walls, just raw need and connection.
And that terrifies me more than his abandonment ever did.
Because if I let him back in that deep again, in my body, my soul, and he leaves—even for the right reasons—it will break me beyond repair.
“You look like hell,” Emily says as we settle into a quieter corner of the villa. We stretch out in sun chairs facing the blinding tropical horizon. I don’t look at her, but I hear the sympathy threaded through her bluntness.
“Thanks. Exactly what every woman wants to hear.”
“I call it like I see it.” She studies me with the directness that made us fast friends. “Want to talk about it?”
The offer hangs between us, tempting. I’ve carried this alone for less than twenty-four hours, and the weight of it already feels crushing.
“It’s complicated.”
“The best things usually are.” Emily leans back, sunglasses hiding her eyes. “Try me. I’m a good listener.”
Where do I start?
The boy who loved me enough to sacrifice everything?
The man who kept me in the dark for my protection?
Or the terrifying truth that I want him again?
“Scott told me why he left,” I say finally.
“And?”
The words spill out—Vincent’s threats, Scott’s impossible choice, ten years built on a lie. Emily doesn’t interrupt once. Her expression shifts slowly from shock to thoughtfulness.
“Holy shit,” she breathes when I finish. “That’s…romantic in the most fucked-up way I’ve ever heard.”
“Romantic?” I stare at her. “He made a life-altering decision without me. Let me believe our relationship meant nothing.”
“You were both kids,” Emily says quietly. “You can’t expect an eighteen-year-old to go to war with his father and come out knowing exactly what the right move is.”
I shake my head.
“If you really think about it,” she continues, “leaving was his way of fighting back. I’d be saying something very different if he’d dumped you like his dad told him to.”
“He still left.”
Emily nods slowly. “That’s true. And I can’t imagine how much that hurt you back then. But you deserved the truth, even if it was ugly. He did the right thing telling you.”
“He’s been trying to explain since the first day we got here. And I kept pushing him away, convinced whatever reason he had would just be some lousy excuse.”
If I’d let him explain sooner…would anything be different?
Maybe it would have changed everything. Maybe nothing at all. I’ll never know. But the important thing is that I know now.
“Hate what he did all you want,” Emily says gently, “but you have to admit how much he gave up.”
She squeezes my hand.
“His life with you. His home. And staying completely silent for ten years just to keep you safe? That’s not a man who didn’t care. That’s a man who cared too much and believed silence was the only way to protect you.”
Tears prick my eyes.
“You’re allowed to be angry about that silence,” she continues softly. “God knows I would be. I can’t imagine what you’ve carried all those years by yourself. But don’t hate him for something he had no control over.”
“That’s the thing.” My voice comes out quieter than I expect. “I can’t hate him. Not anymore.”
Emily hesitates, like she’s weighing whether to ask the next question.
“What happened over there?” she finally asks. “The crew was freaking out when we lost power—especially when your mics went dead.”
If they don’t know now, it’s probably best they never do.
“Last night…” I swallow. “God, Emily. I’ve never felt anything like that.” Heat creeps up my neck even thinking about it. “And it scares the hell out of me.”
I stare out at the endless stretch of ocean.
“But I still want him.”
She exhales slowly. “If you let him back in—and history repeats itself, no matter the reason—you’re afraid of getting hurt all over again.”
She reads me like an open book.
I nod, my throat tight.
She takes both my hands in hers. “Here’s the thing. Forgiveness isn’t about erasing the pain. It’s about deciding if the man in front of you is worth the risk. The longer he stays here, the longer he fights for you—even if you choose someone else—the more proof he’s giving you.”
“But what if that proof is only temporary?” Anxiety twists tighter in my chest.
“Lyla, sweetie,” Emily squeezes my fingers. “You don’t have to decide everything right this second. For now, until he fully proves himself to you, protect your heart. But don’t shut him out completely. Just…watch him. Observe.”
I turn my gaze back to the water stretching endlessly ahead of us. Sunlight scatters across the ripples.
“What if I choose wrong?”
“There’s risk in everything we do. That’s just life.
” She shrugs lightly. “And if it turns out you did choose wrong? Then you choose again. Except for death, almost nothing in this world is permanent.” She studies me for a moment longer.
“But don’t choose out of fear. Choose the man—whoever he ends up being—because you want him.
Because the risk feels worth it.” She stands, squeezing my shoulder.
“I’m here if you ever need someone to listen. No matter what.”
As she walks away, I sit there with her words.
My heart feels torn. Torn between safety…and the terrifying pull of him. And the only decisions I feel capable of making are to take a long shower and put on fresh clothes.