Scarlett
The jet lands like a knife sliding into silk — smooth, silent, clinical.
Everything Noah touches is like that.
Perfect.
Polished.
Dead inside.
Even the runway looks staged for him — a private strip carved into lush island greenery, the tarmac shimmering with heat, the distant hum of waves swallowed beneath the low, controlled roar of the engines powering down.
Beyond the glass, the horizon stretches in endless blue, a postcard-perfect paradise curated for the kind of people who believe money can sterilise reality.
The door opens and heat slaps me in the face.
Thick. Tropical. Heavy enough to crawl under my skin and cling like sweat and guilt.
The air tastes like sunburnt salt and ripe fruit left too long in the sun, heavy with humidity that sticks to my throat.
Palm trees rustle lazily in a breeze too warm to be refreshing, the fronds casting trembling shadows across the sand as if even the trees can’t stay still under this kind of heat.
The world outside the steps is blinding white sand and turquoise water — the kind of place influencers lie about loving, the kind of place rich people pretend heals them, the kind of place Noah brings me when he wants the world to think he’s a good man.
But even paradise smells wrong.
Salt.
Heat.
Decay.
Like something beautiful rotting from the inside out.
The scent of dying seaweed drifts faintly beneath the perfumed air pumped from luxury villas up the hill. It’s an island trying too hard to hide its ugliness — a manicured facade stretched thin over something older, darker, unpolished.
Noah’s hand presses to the small of my back as we descend the steps — gentle enough that anyone watching would call it loving.
To me, it feels like a warning.
A silent, firm reminder:
You are not going anywhere.
Tourist smiles beam from the staff waiting nearby—white linen uniforms, gold-plated name tags, and hollow politeness trained into perfection. They bow with the kind of deference given to a king, not a man whose kindness is a costume.
I swallow, the locket cold against my chest beneath my silk slip dress.
I didn’t take it off.
I couldn’t.
Noah notices every time his eyes flick downward like a shark scenting blood but says nothing.
That’s worse.
Silence with Noah is a blade.
We step onto the runway where a black SUV waits — polished chrome, tinted windows, the kind of luxury car that screams wealth and whispers danger.
It gleams beneath the harsh sun like a predator lying in wait. The engine purrs, low and expensive, the type of smooth tone that lets you know the vehicle was built not just for travel, but for dominance.
His security team moves like shadows, loading our bags into the back.
Noah watches me instead.
“Smile,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
I flinch.
He notices.
“Scarlett,” he says, voice low and cold beneath the sugar-smooth surface, “people are looking.”
I force a smile.
It feels like pulling barbed wire across my teeth.
He nods, satisfied, and guides me to the SUV.
Inside, the air is cold enough to raise goosebumps along my arms.
The scent of leather and expensive cologne tightens my lungs, the interior spotless and dark, the kind of enclosed space where secrets suffocate and screams go unheard beneath reinforced glass.
Noah’s hand slides onto my thigh as the vehicle pulls away from the runway, heading down a private road lined with palm trees and impossible wealth.
“You’ve been distant,” he says.
His thumb strokes my skin.
It feels like interrogation disguised as affection.
“I’m tired,” I say softly.
“No,” he corrects, leaning closer, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re hiding.”
My pulse spikes.
“I’m not—”
“You lied to me.”
His voice is calm.
Too calm.
It should terrify me more than it does.
“I didn’t—”
His fingers tighten suddenly, bruising-tight, a sharp squeeze that makes a gasp tear out of me.
“There,” he murmurs, leaning back, studying my reaction. “Truth always shows itself if you press the right places.”
The SUV continues its glide up the coastline, passing manicured gardens exploding with orchids and hibiscus, villas tucked behind wrought-iron gates, and glimpses of cliff edges where waves crash violently below—reminders that beauty and danger coexist here in equal measure.
I pull my thigh away.
His jaw flexes.
“You’re being dramatic,” I whisper, staring out the window, pretending the water glittering in the distance is enough to anchor me, pretending the world outside doesn’t feel like a set piece in a horror film where I’m the heroine who dies halfway through.
“You’re wearing someone else’s locket.”
My stomach drops.
I keep my gaze fixed on the view.
“It’s mine,” I say.
“No,” Noah replies, voice like ice cracking. “If it were yours, I would have seen it before.”
“You don’t see everything.”
He laughs softly — a hollow sound.
“I see enough.”
The SUV pulls off the private road and up to a villa carved into the cliffside — white stone, dark wood beams, huge glass walls overlooking miles of impossible ocean.
Beautiful.
Suffocating.
A gilded cage with an ocean view.
Noah gets out first.
A driver opens my door, offering a polite nod, but his eyes flick briefly to Noah like he’s checking for permission.
Because even strangers sense it.
The tension.
The control.
The ownership.
Noah takes my hand as we walk into the villa.
His grip is too tight.
My pulse is too loud.
Inside, the air smells of jasmine, salt, expensive candles, and something sharper — something metallic.
Fear, maybe.
Noah doesn’t let go of my hand.
Not even when he steps in front of me, turning, blocking the panoramic view of the ocean like he wants to make sure the only thing I can see is him.
“Why did you lie to me?”
He asks it like a husband asking why dinner is late.
Soft voice.
Controlled tone.
Violence held in a velvet glove.
“I didn’t lie,” I say, voice cracking on the second word.
His gaze drops to my chest.
To the locket.
To the chain Kai clasped around my body.
His fingers lift it.
Slow.
Gentle.
Cruel.
“Scarlett,” he says quietly, “this is not from the house.”
I shake my head.
“N-Noah, I don’t know who—”
His voice snaps across the room like a whip. “Don’t insult me.”
The locket swings between us, catching the light, flashing gold and threat.
My pulse stutters.
Noah steps closer.
I step back.
He steps again.
I hit the stone wall.
“Who gave it to you?”
His voice is low.
Tight.
Controlled with effort.
He’s losing patience.
I close my eyes, because if I look at him, the truth will scream out of my bones.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
He exhales, long and slow — and suddenly the softness vanishes.
His fingers wrap around my jaw.
Not gently.
Not this time.
He tilts my head up, forcing my gaze to his.
“Scarlett,” he says, “I will only ask one more time.”
My heart slams.
“Kai,” I breathe.
The name slips out like a wound splitting open.
Noah freezes.
Everything stills.
The world holds its breath.
Then—his expression changes.
Not rage.
Not shock.
Something darker.
A slow smile spreads across his lips — a predator recognising another in the jungle.
“So,” he murmurs, “that’s who you were screaming for in the woods.”
My blood runs cold.
My throat closes.
“Noah—”
He presses a finger to my lips. “Shh.” His eyes bore into mine. “You should have told me sooner, Scarlett.” His tone shifts — low, intimate, horrific. “Because now?” He leans closer, breath warm against my cheek. “I get to fix this.”
Fix.
Like I’m broken.
Like Kai is a problem.
Like this is a competition and I’m the trophy.
“Noah,” I whisper, voice trembling, “what are you—”
He smiles wider.
“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I take care of the things that belong to me.”
Something sharp and cold settles in my ribs.
Something icy and familiar.
Danger.
Real danger.
Then his hand drops from my jaw, sliding down my throat, his thumb tracing the locket one last time before he lets it fall.
“We’re going to have a good week,” he murmurs. “You’re going to forget him.” His eyes flash. “I’ll make sure of it.”
A tremor rips through me.
I swallow hard.
“Noah—”
He steps back.
His voice soft again.
Too soft.
“Go shower,” he says. “You look… unsettled.”
I stare at him, stunned.
Shaking.
He gestures toward the hallway like a man offering directions to a guest rather than someone who just cracked open my entire chest.
“Scarlett.” His tone dips into warning. “You don’t want me to ask twice.”
I turn.
Walk away.
Fast.
Not because I want to but because running from Noah never looks like running.
It looks like obedience.
And as I step into the bathroom — marble walls, rainfall shower, polished gold fixtures — something hits me so hard my knees almost buckle.