Scarlett
The night opens up like a wound.
A deep one — glossy, raw, and throbbing beneath the illusion of paradise. Warm torches flicker along the private path, their flames bending in the coastal wind as if trying to warn me back, whispering that nothing here is as beautiful as it pretends to be.
The villa doors spill us onto a private beach where the world is too perfect — torches burning in tall glass cylinders, sand smoothed into flawless patterns that look raked by a god, not a person, and a table set for ten beneath a canopy of soft golden lights that sway with the ocean wind.
It’s paradise for people who don’t bleed.
For people who don’t fear the shadows.
For people who don’t love the wrong monsters.
Noah’s hand finds the small of my back again — too firm, too deliberate, too claiming — as we walk toward the gathering of wealthy executives and polished wives who look at me like I’m a decorative accessory Noah hasn’t finished paying off.
The air tastes of salt and burning citronella, a chemically sweet scent meant to mask the fact that insects still crawl in paradise, still bite, still draw blood.
Waves crash rhythmically behind us, folding into the sand with a soft, muffled violence, like the ocean itself is holding secrets beneath its surface.
The ocean crashes softly behind us, waves folding into themselves like muffled screams.
The air smells of salt, grilled lobster, and something deeper — expensive perfume layered over barely concealed tension.
Noah leans down, his lips brushing my hairline in a gesture that would be tender if it weren’t suffocating.
“Smile, Scarlett.”
My spine locks.
His fingers glide around my waist, anchoring me to him.
The guests glance over — smiles too white, too shiny, too paid for — and Noah’s grip tightens like he’s reminding me he’s the one steering this performance.
I smile.
Or something like it.
Not wide.
Not warm.
Just enough to survive.
Just enough for him.
He leads me to the long table, murmuring to businessmen in tailored linen suits, their watches catching the candlelight in violent flashes. Their wives glance from me to Noah, eyes glittering with quiet judgment — the kind that says they’ve heard the rumours.
The kind that says they believe them.
Overhead, the moon hangs low — swollen and peach-coloured — haloed by thin clouds that drift like smoke. Even the sky feels too staged, too perfectly artistic, like the island is trying to seduce us into forgetting the danger woven through every grain of sand.
My dress clings to me in the heavy heat, the silk sticking to my spine, the locket cold against my chest as if Kai himself has iced the metal.
I can’t swallow.
I can barely breathe.
Noah’s wine glass is full before we even sit.
Mine too.
Red.
Deep.
Dark.
I don’t touch it.
I’m not that stupid anymore.
“Drink,” Noah murmurs without looking at me.
My stomach twists violently.
I keep my hands folded in my lap.
He places his hand on my thigh under the tablecloth — polite in appearance, threatening in pressure.
“Drink,” he repeats, voice low, smooth, a razor wrapped in silk.
I lift the glass.
Let it touch my lips.
Don’t swallow.
He watches.
I tilt my head enough to let a few drops slide in.
He relaxes.
His hand stays on my thigh.
The beach lights blur, the sound of the waves a throbbing pulse behind the noise of laughter and cutlery and the murmur of money disguised as conversation.
I stare at the ocean because it feels like the only honest thing here.
Noah follows my gaze and then he smiles a slow, calculated smile.
As if the sea gave him an idea.
He taps his glass gently, drawing attention.
The conversation tapers.
He stands.
I stiffen.
His hand slides from my thigh, leaving cold panic in its wake.
“To future partnerships,” he begins, voice carrying easily over the surf and chatter, “and to decisions that shape the rest of our lives.”
People raise their glasses.
To him.
To the man whose charm is a weapon and whose money buys silence.
He doesn’t toast back.
Instead, he turns to me.
The crowd follows his gaze.
My skin prickles.
My heartbeat goes jagged.
“This week,” he says, voice warm enough to be mistaken for loving by people who don’t know him, “isn’t just about business.”
My breath locks.
He takes my hand.
Raises it to his lips.
Kisses it.
A display.
An announcement.
A claim.
“This week,” he continues, “is about the woman beside me.”
The guests clap politely, smiling at the romantic performance.
But Noah’s eyes stay pinned to mine, unblinking, cold steel under soft light.
“Scarlett and I…” He lets the sentence linger long enough for dread to crawl up my ribs. “…will be finalising our engagement.”
A sharp ringing fills my ears.
The world tilts.
My wine glass rattles on the table.
“And,” he adds, smiling wider, “at the end of this week, she will stand on this very beach and marry me.”
The applause is thunderous.
It feels like a burial.
Noah leans close, voice low, meant only for me and the demons in my chest.
“You heard me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against my temple like a brand. “By Sunday, you’ll be my wife.”
My lungs clench.
His hand slides down to grip my waist — not lovingly, not protectively.
Possessively.
“And you’ll forget every thought you ever had about your bastard brother.”
The words land like a blow.
My throat closes.
My fingers shake.
Kai’s name detonates behind my ribs.
Noah feels the shudder as if he’s attuned to my pulse.
His lips graze my ear. “Say yes.”
I can’t.
I can’t speak.
My mouth moves but no sound comes out.
He squeezes my waist until pain shoots up my side.
“Scarlett.”
The threat in my name is unmistakable.
I force out a whisper.
“Yes.”
He smiles.
Satisfied.
Triumphant.
He lifts his glass, addresses the table again, basking in approval, praise, attention.
I sit frozen beside him.
Silent.
Suffocating.
Dying.
When the conversations resume, music swells from hidden speakers near the torches — something slow, expensive, romantic.
A lie of a song.
Noah places his empty glass down and straightens his suit jacket.
“I have business to handle with the investors,” he says, tone clipped and final, “and you—”
He brushes a finger along my jaw.
It feels like a leash.
“—are going back to the room.”
I blink.
“What?”
His hand grips the back of my neck.
Just for a second.
Just enough to steal the air from my lungs.
“Don’t embarrass me,” he murmurs.
“Don’t argue.”
“Don’t run.”
He releases me.
Steps back.
Adjusts his cufflinks like nothing happened.
“Go wait,” he says, smiling for the table as he dismisses me without looking again. “I’ll come to you when I’m done.”
I stand.
My legs shake.
The beach sways beneath me.
Heat presses against my skin like a second punishment.
I leave the table with a smile plastered on my face, every step a silent scream, the locket cold against my racing heart.
Behind me, Noah laughs with the men who think he’s a hero.
Ahead of me, the villa glows like a trap — white stone lit by soft amber lanterns that cast long, stretching shadows along the path. The sound of laughter fades behind me, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves and the whisper of wind through palm leaves.
The villa door slams behind me before I realise I’ve even touched the handle.
I stumble inside, bare feet slipping on polished stone, my heartbeat thundering so violently the world seems to vibrate around it.
The air smells of jasmine and salt and cold luxury and I hate all of it — every perfectly placed flower, every soft golden lamp, every surface that reflects a life I never chose.
My hands shake as I press them to the kitchen counter, trying to steady myself, but the marble is too cold, too clean, too indifferent to hold the weight of what’s happening.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper to the empty room, my voice cracking. “I can’t marry him. I can’t—I can’t—”
The locket hits my chest with every ragged breath, a tiny metallic knock reminding me of the only person on earth I shouldn’t be thinking about.
“I can’t marry him,” I repeat, louder this time, as if volume might make the universe listen. “He’ll kill me. He’ll ruin me. He’ll—”
My words choke out.
My throat burns.
I pace the length of the living room, silk dress swishing against my shaking legs, palms dragging through my hair as I try to breathe.
“I can’t stay,” I whisper.
“I can’t leave.”
“I can’t—God, where would I even go?”
My vision blurs at the edges, fear narrowing everything into a painful tunnel. I press my back to the wall, sliding down the smooth plaster until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to my chest, dress pooling around me like a broken promise.
“I don’t have anyone,” I breathe. “I don’t have anywhere.”
My mind claws at options, at escape routes, at fantasies so fragile they shatter before I can hold them.
I could run to the airport.
Noah would find me before the plane even left the runway.
I could call the police.
They would ask for proof.
They would see a rich man with perfect manners and me — a shaking woman wearing wine stains, secrets, and a locket no sane fiancée should own.
I could run into town.
But I’m on an island designed for people who don’t run.
Traps disguised as paradise.
My breath comes faster, shorter, sharper.
A spiralling panic.
A drowning.
“I can’t…”
“I can’t…”
“I can’t marry him—”
A floorboard creaks behind me.
I freeze.
Every hair on my body rises in a slow, electric shiver.
I don’t turn.
I don’t breathe.
My pulse slams once—twice—painfully—before a hand slides over my eyes.
Soft fabric.
Dark.
A blindfold.
I choke on a gasp, hands flying upward, but strong fingers capture my wrists, guiding them down with slow, deliberate force that steals the fight from my muscles before it ever reaches the surface.
“Noah—” His name leaves my mouth in a single trembling exhale.
Of course he followed me.
Of course he didn’t leave me alone.