Chapter Twelve
Lyla
The helicopter waits on the beach an hour later like a promise and a threat, rotors already slicing the humid air.
Cameras circle us, greedy for every loaded glance, every careful touch as Scott helps me climb inside.
I’m hyperaware of the lenses trained on us, but that doesn’t stop the traitorous urge to press closer to him. To cling like he’s the only thing left.
Behind us, the other contestants have gathered to watch us leave. Damon stands apart, arms crossed, expression carefully blank. Our eyes meet for a moment. He gives one slow nod.
Scott’s hand settles at my lower back. Warm, possessive, steady through the thin fabric of my dress. “Ready?”
I’m angry, yet there’s something deeper I feel. Something that makes me want more. Something I’m too terrified to acknowledge, which only confuses me further. How can someone resent and want a person at the same time? So no. I’m not ready to be alone with him. Not like this.
Avoiding this would be easier than facing it head-on.
“Let’s go,” a producer yells over the rotors to the pilot.
We lift off the ground, and the villa shrinks below us.
Scott sits close enough that our thighs touch, his heat seeping through my sundress.
Neither of us speaks as the Caribbean unrolls beneath us—crystalline water, scattered islands, paradise that feels more and more like purgatory the longer this show stretches on.
The pilot’s presence and the tiny cameras affixed to the corners of the cabin, make the silence suffocating. Every breath feels watched. Every accidental brush of Scott’s leg against mine has my senses going into overload.
Minutes that feel more like hours later, an island materializes below. A perfect crescent of white sand edged by dense jungle, looking utterly isolated. No doubt cameras lurk in every palm tree and crevice anyway.
As we descend, I spot the setup: an elegant pavilion on the beach, gauze curtains already snapping in a rising wind, a table for two laid with linens and crystal that look ready to blow away.
Dark clouds mass on the horizon, boiling forward faster than seems possible. The sky behind us is still bright blue while ahead it’s turning iron-gray.
“Storm’s comin’,” the pilot says as the skids kiss sand. “Movin’ quicker than forecasted. Producers want me to tell you we’ll monitor from the mainland, but if this weather hits directly, head for the bungalow. You should be fine.”
I brush off the warning. Good to know we don’t have to wait outside for help if a storm does come.
Scott unbuckles quickly and turns to face me. His eyes meet mine—quiet, unreadable, but carrying the same weight they’ve held since the challenge.
The pilot points through the palms. “Bungalow’s that way if you need it.” He points to the small building. “Fully stocked, reinforced for hurricanes. You should have power since the place runs on a generator.”
Then he’s gone, rotors fading into the gray sky.
Even though we’re the only ones on this island, my shoulders stay tight. The setup allows us just enough emptiness to drop our guards, to coax out whatever emotions or physical actions the producers want for the edit. I feel like doing the exact opposite.
Scott pulls a chair out for me with automatic courtesy, then takes the seat across from me. The elaborate spread—champagne chilling, fruit glistening, candles already guttering—looks ridiculous against the darkening sky.
“Hungry?” Scott asks, but his gaze stays on the approaching clouds, not the elaborate spread already trembling under the rising wind.
I chew slowly on a finger sandwich and stare out into the gray, almost black, sky. The turquoise ocean. Anywhere but at him. My pulse picks up at the growing seconds that tick by.
The first gust whips my hair across my face. The gauze curtains on the pavilion snap like flags in surrender.
What could possibly have been his motive for winning? Better yet, his reason for even being here? I know he’s said he came for me, but that could mean anything.
If he wanted the latter, he would have done it already.
True, but for all I know he could be playing the long game.
What is he hoping to get out of this entire experience? Was the grass not as green on the other side as he thought it was?
This line of thinking is getting dangerous.
I’d rather not be here, but the thought of going back to the villa isn’t all that enticing, either. I’m stuck. And something tells me, with this large, dark and looming cloud coming, the next couple of minutes are going to dictate what happens next.
“So much for the romantic dinner,” I mutter, gesturing at the table as small drops of rain begin to pelt the linens. The candles flicker and die one by one. Seeing them extinguish feels predictable.
There’s also the question of why he’s on this show in the first place.
A question, since he showed up on the dock, I’ve chosen to ignore.
But the more time has gone on, the more that questions keeps invading my thoughts.
A part of me wants to at least hear the excuse and be done with it.
Maybe then he’d disappear into the depths of the past. But that other part, the part that’s fearful of what he might say, is just as loud.
It’d be up to me whether or not to believe his “truth.”
“Congrats,” I say, my voice thick with sarcasm. “Now that you have me here, what’s your grand plan?”
Scott’s jaw tightens. Leaning forward, his eyes lock on mine. “How else could I get you to talk to me?”
“About what exactly? I have nothing to say, so nothing needs to be said.”
He rests his elbows on the table, leaning impossibly closer. “It’s a giant fucking elephant in the room with us. It needs to be said.”
“And what would that be? Your shitty choices?” I throw his words right back at him. “You’ve made your bed. Why can’t you just lie in it like I have?”
“Because there’s more to the story than you know. And you should know.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re here. I’m unfinished business for you,” I say with fake and sarcastic enthusiasm. Damon’s words echo in my head. Does he see you as a partner…or a prize?
Scott shakes his head as if in annoyance.
I continue. “You’re only here because you want to twist some shitty-ass narrative where you’re the victim in your decision-making. Not that you found some greener grass somewhere and was too much of a coward to say it was over to my face.”
At first, he doesn’t say anything, his head down. Then he looks back up at me as if he’s thought of something. “You seem rather confident about my motives when you don’t even know the reasoning behind them.”
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. “I don’t have to assume. I was a casualty of your motives.”
“So you’re perfectly content with hating me, even when you don’t have the whole story?” He arches a brow, staring at me skeptically.
“What other part of this story is there to tell? You left for yourself. End of story.”
Before he can argue back, the wind whips the gauze curtains sideways, and the sky opens.
All at once, rain comes down hard and horizontal in seconds, soaking us instantly.
Scott is immediately on his feet. “We need to get to shelter. Now.”
He eats the distance between us, reaching for my hand. I push it away. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“So you’d rather die in this storm.”
I scoff. “Please, I’m not going to die. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Lyla, don’t do this.”
“Do what? I’m perfectly fine where I am.”
In all honesty, I’m not. But anywhere is better than near him.
I look off into the horizon, lifting my chin in defiance.
“Yeah? Well, I’m not fine with it.”
Before I can protest, he has me over his shoulder, walking away from the table.
I kick and scream, hitting his broad, muscled back with my fists. “Put me down, you rat bastard.”
Ignoring me, he makes his way to the small bungalow. My sundress clings like a second skin. My hair is soaked and sticking to my neck, falling into my face.
All I can see in front of me is the roaring storm and the heels of his feet on the sand below.
“Stop squirming.”
“Fuck you,” I scream, balking in anger.
When we reach the shelter, he opens a sliding door and steps inside. Sand is replaced with white-tiled floor.
The storm is muffled once he closes the door behind him. I feel his hands on my feet as he takes my shoes off.
“Can you put me down now?”
“Are you going to behave?”
“I’m not a child.”
“Says the woman who insisted on staying out in a tropical storm just out of spite.”
I hesitate, mostly out of embarrassment. “Fine.”
“Good girl.” He sets me gently on my feet.
The shelter is small but solid. An open-concept space with only a translucent ivory curtain dividing a king bed at the far wall from the rest of the space.
A kitchen with bare-bones essentials is to our immediate left.
A living room rests between the two. The more I look around, the more I realize it’s more a modern bungalow than an emergency shelter.
If I wasn’t so angry, and he wasn’t standing next to me, I could admire this more.
Scott walks farther into the space and into the small living room before taking off his rain-soaked shirt with a wet slap and sitting on one of the chairs.
I gape at him. Every move he makes, every muscle that shifts under his tanned skin, is something I can’t look away from. I unconsciously bite my lip.
No. Resist, Lyla. Resist.
I gasp when the lights begin to flicker. I tense as they strobe once. Twice. Then hold.
“D-do you think we’ll lose power?” I stammer.
He glances at the large windows, where wind is already shoving chairs across the deck. “At this point, I don’t think it’s a question of if we lose power. It might be when. The pilot said this place runs on a generator. At this rate, I’m wondering if it might fail on us.”
“Fail? You mean, we could lose power?”
“Likely, but anything’s possible.”