61. Scarlett
Scarlett
T he silence after a nap was always the worst part—waking in a strange place, lungs unsure whether to breathe easy or brace for impact.
The villa was still.
Golden light stretched through the windows, painting lines across the white sheets tangled around my legs. For a second, I stayed there—hovering in the liminal space between real and pretend.
But I wasn’t here to rest.
I peeled myself from the bed, washed my face, then stood in front of the full-length mirror, dressing for a part I hadn’t asked to play.
A linen dress slipped off one shoulder, soft and breezy. I pulled it on anyway, ignoring how wrong white felt against my skin. Lip balm. Fingers through my hair. Chin lifted. Smile rehearsed.
Play the role. Sip. Survive.
Heels on.
Then I stepped outside.
The deck below was warm wood and salt-kissed air.
Lanterns glowed along the railing, their flames swaying as the sun dropped toward the sea—spilling gold across the water in long, glistening ribbons.
There were drinks.
Too many.
Zeke was absent—no surprise—but the others gathered at the wide teak table beneath the sky’s burning edge.
Trace sat to my left, tension radiating from his forearms braced against the wood.
Alden sprawled across from me, legs stretched, gaze calculating.
Kane leaned back beside him, halfway through a cocktail that came with an umbrella he definitely hadn’t requested.
Rhett sat to my right, sleeves rolled to the elbow, glass in hand, expression pulled somewhere between trouble and truth.
“You know,” Kane said, tipping his glass toward the sunset. “For a group on the run, we’re really committing to the vacation aesthetic.”
I raised my glass. “Chaos with class.”
Trace didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely.
Alden rolled his eyes. “You’re all insane.”
“You say that like it’s new information,” I said sweetly.
The boys chuckled, and for a second, it felt like the storm had paused—like we were just people again.
I leaned back, letting the breeze roll over my bare shoulders. For the first time in days, I felt… okay. Not safe. But held together by something thinner than peace, thicker than denial.
Rhett nudged me with his elbow. “Hey.”
I glanced over.
He didn’t smile this time. Just looked at me, all open and steady.
“You doing alright?”
I could’ve lied.
Should’ve.
Instead, I shrugged. “Define alright.”
He nodded as if understood something I hadn’t said.
Gently, he reached over and brushed a piece of hair out of my face.
A kindness rare enough to bruise.
“I know you’re the hurricane, Scar,” he said quietly. “But even hurricanes need somewhere to land.”
I blinked.
Because he was right.
Sometimes, even the storm gets tired of its own thunder.
***
Dinner was ridiculous.
The sun had fully dipped below the water, leaving the sky streaked with lavender and gold. Lanterns lit the long teakwood table on the sand, flames dancing in the breeze. Zeke still hadn’t shown, which somehow made it even better.
Kane passed a bottle of wine to Alden like he was handing over a weapon. “Careful, it bites back.”
Alden arched a brow. “So do I.”
“Oh my god,” I muttered. “Please save it for the next time you try to intimidate someone at customs.”
Trace didn’t laugh, but his hand curled into a fist beside his plate, the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Rhett, already one glass in, leaned toward me and whispered, “Is it weird that I’m kind of living for this post-apocalyptic luxury?”
“It’s giving me whiplash,” I whispered back. “But like… rich girl whiplash.”
He grinned.
Kane raised his glass. “To hiding in style.”
We all toasted.
Even Trace. His glass tapping against mine with a quiet clink.
Alden rolled his eyes. “You’re all idiots.”
“I’d rather be an idiot than a buzzkill,” I said, flashing him a sugar-sweet smile that dared him to challenge me.
Trace leaned back in his chair, muscles tense beneath his linen shirt “You always act like nothing gets to you.”
“Maybe nothing does.”
A pause.
Then Alden snorted. “Except tequila.”
The table cracked up.
It was stupid.
Warm.
Easy.
Trace reached for the wine, pouring another glass without looking up.
Alden stole another bite of my dessert when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
Rhett drummed his fingers against the stem of his glass in rhythm with the waves lapping the shore.
Kane leaned back with a lazy grin, kicking at Alden’s ankle under the table, calling him out without a word.
This was supposed to be dinner.
But it was a countdown.
And we were all pretending we didn’t feel the timer ticking.