Arlo
I press the final fold of fabric into place and pull the zip closed, forcing the suitcase to yield.
My phone lies face down on the dresser, its screen dark, but I don’t need to look at it to know exactly what I’ve been doing.
At precisely seven this morning, Ophelia left her dorm. I watched her descend the stairs, bag in hand, the others falling into step beside her.
I followed each camera feed as they crossed the courtyard, as their luggage was stowed, as the car rolled past the gates and out of sight.
Last night, it was the same. I’d listened to every word of their conversation.
And now, I know exactly where they’re going.
Adelaide’s records were laughably easy to breach, a few lines of code, a bypassed firewall, and there it was, the address of her family’s chalet in Switzerland.
So, no, despite knowing better, Ophelia isn’t leaving this island without me.
Certainly not to another country. Not while I still have breath in my lungs.
The plan taking shape in my head is reckless at best, but logic has never survived where she’s concerned.
I despise myself for it, for this fixation that corrodes reason and restraint, but hatred does nothing to dull the need. I can loathe her, I can loathe myself, and still, I can’t stop.
The moment I step into the living area, a knock pounds against the door, impatient and heavy handed.
I don’t need to ask who it is, Isaak never bothers knocking, Hunter at least understands civility, and Ido isn’t even on the island.
Which leaves me with one inevitable name.
I cross the floor and open the door. Milo’s grin greets me, annoying and incurable.
A lighter flicks open and shut in his hand, the small flame flaring and dying with each metallic click. It’s constant and restless, proof enough that the man’s nerves are wired wrong.
He shoulders past me without waiting for an invitation, brushing against my arm just enough to be irritating.
I close the door and fall in behind him. He collapses onto the sofa, boots planted on the table as though he owns the room.
I regard him for a beat, wondering, if I could get away with murder, whether anyone would notice if I throttled him here and sent him tumbling off the Elaris cliffs.
But he’s Milo Markev, Bratva blood through and through. He’s not worth the intolerable reckoning that would come knocking at my door.
Unfortunately.
“Tell me, what do I owe the displeasure of your company?” I ask, my voice even.
Milo smirks, lolling his head lazily. “Missed me, didn’t you?”
I stare at him. “What do you want?”
He tuts, feigning offence. “You’re tense, mate. Brooding again. What’s the matter, Ophelia not working her magic lately? Thought she’d have pulled that stick out of your arse by now.”
I don’t bother responding. His grin widens.
“Someone’s being rather prissy,” he drawls.
“Someone’s about ten seconds away from being pitched out of a third storey window,” I snap.
He simply shrugs, entirely unruffled.
“Why are you here?” I press.
“For someone who claims to despise company, you do ask a lot of questions,” he replies, producing a pack of cigarettes.
“If you so much as light one in my dorm, I will kill you,” I warn. “And I only asked one question. Three times,” I add.
He tucks the cigarette pack back into his pocket. “I came to see if you’re ready for the trip,” he says calmly.
“How the hell do you know about that?” I frown.
“Do you think you’re the only one who keeps an eye on people? You watch Ophelia, I keep tabs on Octavia. I know everything about my girl.” He gives a smug grin.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Right.”
Something mischievous lights his eyes. “Don’t,” I warn.
He only smirks. “We’re each seeing a Bellanti sister. Call it… in-law adjacent.”
“I’m not dating Ophelia,” I snap. “And you’re not dating Octavia either, you’re just delusional,” I add, in a clipped voice.
A dangerous look flickers across his face.
“Octavia is mine,” he grits out, his eyes narrowing before that deranged grin spreads, all teeth and lunacy.
“She doesn’t realise we’re dating yet, true, but we’re coming up on our three month anniversary.
Bloody hell, I haven’t even bought her a gift.
Flowers, maybe? You think she likes flowers? ”
I stare at him, my mouth open. “You need professional help. Focus. Are you actually flying to Switzerland with me?”
“Yes,” he says, perfectly matter of fact. “We’re all going. Isaak and Hunter as well. We’re taking Isaak’s jet.”
I should be surprised. And I’m not.
I’ve sensed there’s tension between them and the other two of Ophelia’s friends, but I’ve never given two shits, to ask why.
“Fine,” I say. “When do we leave?”
I don’t voice the part where, if they don’t start that damn jet within the next hour, I’ll take my own. It sounds desperate, even in my head.
And I might be a lot of things, but desperate isn’t one of them.
Especially not for Ophelia fucking Bellanti.
However, that doesn’t stop me from flying all the way to another country, because this hate, is so damn strange.
Like I always need eyes on her just to breathe normally.
It’s infuriating.
I tell myself the sensible thing would be to fly home to France for Thanksgiving. My father expects me, he’s already arranged the dinner, the guests, the press appearances.
But somehow, what was meant to be France turns into Switzerland.
Just like that.
And I hate her more for it.
After everything she’s done, she still has this pull on me, dragging me in no matter how far I try to run.
My fucked up self can’t seem to stay away.
Milo grins, completely oblivious to the chaos running riot in my head. “Isaak wants us there sooner rather than later. He’s twitchy as fuck, you know how he gets when he’s planning something.”
“Planning or plotting?” I ask, in a flat voice.
He laughs, the sound low. “With Isaak? Same bloody thing.”
Rising from the sofa, he slips the lighter back into his pocket and saunters to the door. “Grab your things. We’re wheels up in an hour.”
I retreat into my room and take my bag, passport and phone.
When I step out again, the corridor hums faintly with movement, the echo of footsteps and muted conversation drifting through the hall.
Milo’s already gone, no doubt off to fetch his luggage. I lock the door and head for the lift.
Downstairs Isaak is waiting, phone in hand, Hunter stands beside him, all calm. Milo appears a moment later and we make our way to the waiting car.
Even as we walk, I can’t shake the need to know where Ophelia is and what she’s doing.
Once the car pulls away the thought lingers, perhaps I can breach the jet’s surveillance feed and have a look for myself.
After all, I’ve got a few hours to spare.