Chapter 7
The spa smelled like eucalyptus, cucumber water, and rich women pretending not to check their phones.
Sara had booked the bridal recovery package months ago, imagining a peaceful afternoon of massages and steam rooms before the real honeymoon began.
She had pictured herself floating through the resort in a robe, glowing and slightly embarrassed by how happy she was.
Instead, she sat in a white lounge chair with her phone tucked beneath her thigh while Abbie got a foot massage beside her and muttered threats at a volume suitable for luxury settings.
“I could drown him in a plunge pool,” Abbie said. “It would look wellness-related.”
Sara took a sip of cucumber water. “Please stop plotting murders in the spa.”
“I’m brainstorming.”
“You’re scaring the attendant.”
“The attendant agrees with me. She just has professionalism.”
The attendant, polishing glasses near the infused-water bar, hid a smile.
Sara tried to relax her shoulders. The folder on her phone had grown by the hour. Brooklyn’s posts. Brayden’s reflection. The watch photo. The key card handoff. Screenshots Abbie had pulled from other influencers’ stories. Tiny details that meant nothing alone and everything together. Receipts.
She had always thought that word sounded petty. Now it felt like a weapon.
Abbie’s massage ended first. She stood and reached for her robe. “I’m going to find the sauna and imagine Brooklyn roasting in it.”
“Abbie.”
“Steam is cleansing.”
Sara shook her head, but a real smile almost came. When Abbie disappeared down the hall, Sara let herself close her eyes for a second.
A soft voice sliced through the quiet.
“You’re handling all this really well.”
Sara opened her eyes. Brooklyn stood near the lounge chair in a white spa robe belted tightly around her waist. Her hair was piled on top of her head, her makeup still perfect in a way that made the whole room feel less relaxing.
Sara’s fingers closed around the armrest. “All what?”
Brooklyn’s smile widened. “The wedding. The attention. Brayden’s world. It can be a lot when you’re not used to being public.”
Sara set down her water. “I grew up around attention. My family just doesn’t beg for it.”
Brooklyn blinked once.
Then she laughed softly. “That’s cute.”
Sara stood because sitting made her feel too exposed. “Did you need something?”
“I wanted to check on you. Girl to girl.”
“You and I aren’t girls.”
Brooklyn’s gaze flicked over Sara’s robe, her pearl earrings, the wedding ring she still wore because she wasn’t ready to hand Brayden any warning. “No, I guess not. You’re the wife.”
The way she said it made wife sound temporary.
Sara’s pulse beat hard in her throat. “Yes. I am.”
Brooklyn stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Then maybe you should act like you understand him.”
Sara stared at her.
“Brayden is going places,” Brooklyn continued. “He has vision. Heat. Hunger. He needs someone who can keep up with the life he’s building.”
“The life he’s building?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’d love to hear you explain it.”
Brooklyn’s lips curved. “Some women are born into luxury and think that makes them interesting. Some women have to become unforgettable.”
Sara felt the insult settle under her skin, not because it was true, but because Brooklyn believed it. She really did think Sara was a soft little rich girl who had inherited the groom, the resort, the dress, the room, and the right to be loved.
Before Sara could answer, Abbie’s voice cut across the spa.
“Oh, good. The Groupon mistress has thoughts.”
Brooklyn turned, eyes flashing.
Abbie walked toward them in her robe and slippers, looking like a woman prepared to commit violence in terrycloth.
“Excuse me?” Brooklyn said.
“You heard me. I just didn’t expect you to understand me. You seem like the kind of person who thinks captions are literature.”
Sara bit the inside of her cheek.
Brooklyn lifted her chin. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Anything that hurts Sara has everything to do with me.” Abbie stopped beside Sara. “So let me help you. The next time you want to lecture a wife about understanding her husband, try not to do it at a wedding you arrived at as a man’s carry-on baggage.”
Brooklyn’s cheeks pinked. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“No, sweetie. I’m warming up.”
Sara touched Abbie’s wrist, not to stop her entirely, just to keep the spa from becoming a crime scene.
Brooklyn looked at Sara again, her smile returning in a thinner, meaner shape. “Careful, Sara. Public scenes don’t look good on girls like you.”
Sara’s hand tightened around Abbie’s wrist.
Girls like her. Brooklyn walked away before Sara could answer, the belt of her robe swinging sharply with every step.
Abbie inhaled through her nose. “Please let me push her into a decorative fountain.”
“Not yet.”
Abbie turned slowly. “Not yet?”
Sara looked toward the hallway where Brooklyn had disappeared. Her humiliation had changed texture. It was no longer a weight pressing her down. It was heat, controlled and dangerous.
“Not in a spa,” Sara said. “Too small an audience.”
Abbie’s smile was delighted. “Oh, I raised you well.”
Sara needed air after that. She changed back into her sundress and left the spa before the treatment she had paid for began.
Outside, the resort garden wound beneath flowering trees, with stone paths shaded by palms and white lanterns strung overhead for the evening.
The air was warm, but her skin felt cold from the shock of wanting to hurt someone and not being ashamed of it.
She stopped near a fountain and gripped the edge.
“Sara?”
Dominic’s voice came from a respectful distance.
She turned. He stood a few feet away in dark trousers and a linen shirt, his jacket folded over one arm. He looked like he had been on his way somewhere and had stopped only because he recognized the shape of distress in her shoulders.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically.
His eyes moved over her face. Not invasive. Careful. “That’s usually what people say when they’re deciding whether to fall apart in public.”
She gave a rough little laugh and looked down. “I know I look ridiculous.”
“No.” His voice was quiet. “You look like someone who just found out the person who owed her loyalty didn’t have any.”
The gentleness of it made her chest tighten. She turned back to the fountain. Water spilled over white stone in soft, elegant streams. Last week, she would have taken a picture. Today, she wished the sound were louder.
“I keep thinking I should’ve known.”
“Maybe.” Dominic stepped no closer. “But knowing sooner wouldn’t make him better.”
Sara looked at him then.
He held out the jacket. Not draping it over her shoulders. Not assuming. Offering.
“You looked cold.”
She wasn’t cold anymore, but she took it anyway.
The jacket was warm from his body and smelled faintly like cedar and clean soap.
Sara slipped it around her shoulders, and the weight of it settled over her in a way that felt private.
Brayden would have turned the gesture into a reel.
Dominic looked toward the garden path to give her a moment to adjust it without being watched.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number popped up with a video attachment.
Thought you should have this. Brooklyn posted it to close friends and deleted.
The sender’s profile photo was one of Brayden’s creator guests, a woman Sara vaguely remembered from the welcome party. Brooklyn had apparently trusted the wrong influencer with access to her private stories.
Sara opened the video with fingers that were steady again.
Brooklyn appeared on-screen, laughing in soft golden light, her face half-hidden behind a champagne flute.
“Honeymoons with plot twists,” Brooklyn whispered to the camera.
A man laughed off-screen. Brayden. Sara saved it. Then she looked at Dominic.
“I’m not leaving,” she said.
His gaze held hers. “Then stay because you choose to. Not because they embarrassed you into proving something.”
Sara pulled his jacket closer. For the first time since the villa, control felt possible.