Scarlett
The resort looks like a postcard designed to lie.
Torchlight flickers along the perimeter of the infinity pool, flames bending in the warm island breeze, reflecting gold across water so clear it looks unreal.
Music hums low and decadent—something expensive, rhythmic, designed not to offend anyone important.
The air smells like citrus, salt, and money.
Everyone here is beautiful.
Not soft beautiful. Polished. Sharp. Women in silk and linen, skin bronzed and glowing, laughter bright and careless. Men with rolled sleeves and quiet watches, hands loose around crystal glasses like nothing has ever demanded too much from them.
I sit at the edge of it all with a drink sweating in my hand, something bright blue with crushed ice and a slice of pineapple I haven’t touched. My smile feels bolted on. My spine feels locked.
Noah’s hand is firm at the small of my back.
Not affectionate. Not gentle.
Anchoring.
He leans in, mouth near my ear, his voice low enough that no one else hears.
“Mingle,” he says. “Smile. Act like you belong here.”
My throat tightens.
“And don’t,” he continues, fingers pressing harder, “mention your stain of a fucking brother.”
The word stain sticks to my ribs.
I nod because that’s what I do now. I nod, I swallow, I obey.
His friends orbit us in loose clusters—lawyers, investors, wives with perfect teeth and eyes that assess everything. I don’t know their names. I don’t think it matters. I’m an accessory tonight. Proof of something normal. Something stable.
My phone vibrates in my lap.
Once.
I don’t need to look to know.
I wait anyway. Count my breaths. Then slide it just enough to read the screen beneath the tablecloth.
Blue drink. Corner table. You look like you’re drowning.
My pulse jumps so hard I almost spill the glass.
I don’t reply.
I stare out at the party instead, at the way people move like they’re weightless, like the world has never pressed its hands around their throats. I watch a woman laugh—really laugh—head tipped back, eyes closed, unafraid.
I wonder what that feels like.
To forget yourself for even five seconds.
“She’s younger than I expected.”
The voice cuts in smooth and cool.
I turn to find her already there, perched beside me like she owns the space. She’s stunning in a way that’s deliberate—tall, dark hair cut blunt at her shoulders, skin like porcelain warmed by the sun. Her dress is white but not innocent, draped low across one shoulder, gold cuff at her wrist.
Her mouth curves, sharp and amused.
“Vivian,” she says, holding out her hand. “A friend of Noah’s. Old friend.”
Her eyes flick over me slowly. Not cruel. Curious. Measuring.
“Scarlett,” I reply, my voice coming out quieter than I intend.
She hums softly. “Pretty name.”
Then, casually—like she’s commenting on the weather—she adds, “I didn’t think he’d marry again.”
My fingers tighten around the glass.
“No?” I manage.
She takes a sip of her drink, eyes still on the party. “God, no. Not after the last time.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough to hurt.
“What… happened?” I ask, even as something in my gut tells me not to.
Vivian smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Depends who you ask,” she says. “Officially? Tragic accident. A woman who ‘couldn’t cope.’” My stomach drops. “Unofficially?” she continues lightly. “She stopped existing long before she died.”
I stare at her.
“She was beautiful too,” Vivian goes on. “Radiant, actually. The kind of woman people assume is happy because she looks like she should be. Noah adored her at first. Worshipped her. Bought her things. Dressed her up. Introduced her like a prize.”
My chest feels tight.
“Then she started disappearing,” Vivian says. “Not physically. Just… less of herself. She stopped talking at parties. Stopped laughing. Stopped correcting him when he spoke for her.”
Vivian finally turns to me fully.
“One night, she tried to leave,” she says. “Packed a bag. Told a friend she was going to ‘clear her head.’” I swallow. Hard. “She never made it past the gate.”
Vivian leans closer, voice dropping just enough to feel intimate.
“They said she fell,” she finishes. “Slipped. Terrible luck.” Her gaze searches my face now, sharp and knowing. “Funny thing about Noah,” she adds. “He doesn’t like things that try to escape.”
I can’t breathe properly. The music feels too loud. The lights too bright. The laughter too close.
Across the pool, Noah looks over.
Our eyes meet.
His smile is immediate. Possessive. Satisfied.
Vivian straightens, all elegance again. “Enjoy the party, Scarlett,” she says softly. “You look like you could use the distraction.”
She rises and melts back into the crowd.
My hands are shaking now. I set the drink down untouched.
You don’t belong here.
I stare at the message until the words blur.
Around me, the party keeps breathing. Laughing. Burning bright.
And for the first time, I understand something with terrifying clarity:
This place isn’t paradise.
It’s a cage with very good lighting.
The music swells again—deeper bass now, slower, almost hypnotic—and I realise my hands are still trembling.
I curl them into my lap, force my shoulders back, force my face into something neutral. Around me, laughter ripples. Glasses clink. Someone dives into the pool fully clothed and everyone cheers like it’s charming instead of desperate.
My phone buzzes again.
I don’t wait this time.
He put his hand on you like you were furniture.
My breath stutters.
I type before I can stop myself.
Stop watching me.
Three dots appear instantly.
Disappear.
I can’t.
My chest aches. I keep my eyes on the pool, on the torchlight trembling in the breeze.
This is dangerous.
So is pretending you’re safe.
I swallow hard.
Noah’s hand slides back to my spine, fingers spreading, claiming. He leans down to murmur something to one of his friends, but his grip tightens just enough to remind me he knows exactly where I am.
My phone buzzes again.
You look like you’re suffocating in silk.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I blink them away fast.
You shouldn’t be here.
There’s a pause this time. Long enough to make my pulse skitter.
You shouldn’t be with him.
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
Instead, I take a sip of the drink—sweet, cold, wrong—and nearly choke on it. Noah notices immediately, his hand lifting to my chin, thumb brushing my lower lip.
“Careful,” he says softly. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
The word lands like a slap.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
He smiles. It’s pleasant. Practiced.
“Of course you are.”
Vivian reappears like she never left.
She slips into the chair beside me again, seamless, elegant, her presence too intentional to be coincidence. This time, she’s holding my abandoned drink.
“You weren’t drinking it,” she says lightly, taking a sip without asking. Her eyes flick to Noah, then back to me. “Waste would be tragic.”
Something about that makes my skin prickle.
Noah’s gaze sharpens for half a second—just enough for me to notice—before he smooths it away.
“Vivian was just telling Scarlett stories,” he says. “She has such a vivid memory.”
Vivian smiles at him. Sweet. Slow.
“I remember things people prefer stay buried,” she replies.
My phone vibrates again.
She’s too close to you.
I glance down instinctively.
Vivian notices.
Her eyes drop to my phone.
Then—very deliberately—she places it face down on the table with one finger.
“Careful,” she echoes Noah’s earlier tone, but her smile is different now. Sharper. Curious. “People here don’t like secrets.”
My pulse spikes.
“I was just—” I start.
Vivian leans in, close enough that only I can hear her.
“You should know,” she murmurs, “Noah hates competition.”
I stare at her. “Competition?”
She tilts her head, studying me like a puzzle she’s already half solved.
“He always has,” she continues softly. “Especially from men who know him too well.”
My blood goes cold.
Before I can ask what she means, Vivian straightens and raises her voice just enough to be overheard.
“You must be exhausted, Scarlett,” she says warmly. “Island air does that. Noah, darling, you should take her upstairs. She looks… overwhelmed.”
Noah’s hand tightens instantly.
“Yes,” he says. “I think that’s a good idea.”
Vivian is watching me again. Watching too closely.
Her smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes flick briefly—briefly—past me, toward the shadowed edge of the resort. Toward the path that leads away from the party.
Like she’s checking something.
Or someone.
Noah’s hand closes fully around my wrist now, not gentle, not painful—just inevitable.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you some rest.”
As he pulls me up, Vivian meets my gaze one last time.
Her lips barely move.
“Run,” she mouths.
My phone vibrates in my palm.
The party keeps laughing and suddenly I’m sure of one thing:
Vivian isn’t just warning me.
She’s counting down.