Scarlett
Noah doesn’t raise his voice when he tells me.
That’s the worst part.
We’re in the car, the same blacked-out vehicle that ferried us through the jungle yesterday like a hearse with leather seats, and the island is pretending again—sunlight pouring itself over the road, palm trees bowing politely, the sea flashing blue through gaps in the cliffs like it’s advertising salvation.
My chest still aches beneath the carefully chosen fabric of my dress, the bandage hidden, the wound throbbing in a slow, traitorous rhythm that feels like memory.
Noah’s hands are steady on the wheel.
“Two days,” he says calmly. “That’s when the wedding will be.”
I don’t answer at first. I’m not sure I heard him correctly. The words hang in the air between us, light and casual, like he’s just informed me of a dinner reservation.
“Two… days?” I repeat, my voice thin, brittle. “Noah, the guests—”
“They’ll be informed,” he cuts in smoothly. “Anyone important can rearrange their schedule. Anyone who can’t was never essential.”
My stomach drops, a sick, lurching plunge, like I’ve missed a step and my body hasn’t caught up yet.
“That’s not how weddings work,” I say, forcing a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he says, and finally, finally, he looks at me.
There’s no rage in his expression. No heat. Just something cold and sharp and utterly convinced of itself.
“And I am.”
The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. I stare out the window, watching the jungle blur past, my reflection ghosted over the glass—perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect bride-to-be. If anyone looked at me now, they’d see composure. Wealth. Calm.
They wouldn’t see the way my pulse is trying to claw its way out of my throat.
“You’re doing this because of yesterday,” I say quietly.
Noah smiles.
It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m doing this because delays create opportunities,” he replies. “And I don’t like opportunities when they’re not mine.”
The car turns sharply, leaving the main road and gliding through the wrought-iron gates of a private estate perched above the sea.
White stone, arched windows, manicured gardens exploding with flowers that look too perfect to be real.
Somewhere below us, waves crash rhythmically against the rocks, a steady, unbothered pulse.
A bridal salon waits at the top of the drive.
Of course it does.
Inside, everything smells like money and flowers and quiet obedience. Women in linen and silk glide toward us with practiced smiles, eyes flicking to Noah with instant recognition. Power recognises power. They don’t ask questions. They don’t blink when Noah tells them the timeline.
“Two days,” he says again, as if the words are a spell. “She’ll need a dress. Simple. Elegant. No drama.”
I want to scream.
Instead, I nod.
I always nod.
They pull gowns from racks like offerings—ivory, pearl, bone-white silk that slides over my skin like a lie. I stand on a platform while hands adjust and pin and smooth, while Noah sits in a chair behind me, watching my reflection with a gaze that feels more like inventory than desire.
“This one,” he says eventually, gesturing lazily. “It photographs well.”
I look at myself in the mirror.
I look like a sacrifice.
My phone vibrates against my thigh.
Once.
Then again.
I don’t need to look to know who it is.
But I do anyway.
Unknown Number
White suits you. Always has.
My breath catches, sharp and traitorous.
Another vibration.
Shame it’s not for the right man.
I feel it then—that slow, deliberate unravelling inside my chest. Like a thread being pulled, one patient inch at a time.
I don’t reply. I don’t dare.
The consultant is talking about alterations, about timelines, about how “lucky” we are that the atelier can prioritise us. Noah stands, circles me once, and adjusts the fall of the fabric at my hip himself. His touch is clinical. Proprietary.
“Perfect,” he says. “We’ll take it.”
My phone buzzes again.
Two days.
That’s ambitious.
I swallow hard, my fingers curling into the silk.
Noah’s hand closes around my wrist.
He doesn’t look at my phone. He doesn’t need to.
“You’re very quiet,” he observes. “Is everything all right?”
I lift my chin. Force my smile.
“Of course,” I say. “It’s just… a lot.”
His grip tightens, just enough to remind me of yesterday. Of blood. Of promises made without witnesses.
“It will be over soon,” he says softly. “Then you’ll be safe.”
Safe.
The word tastes like ash.
As we move on to cake tastings—tiers of sugar and buttercream and obscene excess—I sit between Noah and a woman explaining flavour profiles, nodding, smiling, pretending my life isn’t being compressed into a forty-eight-hour countdown.
My phone vibrates again, hidden beneath the table.
I’ll see you before he does.
I don’t know how Kai knows.
I don’t know how he’s everywhere.
But as Noah reaches for my hand, his fingers closing possessively around mine, I realise something with terrifying clarity:
This wedding isn’t about love.
It isn’t even about ownership.
It’s a deadline.
And somewhere in the jungle, a man who never learned how to let go is counting down with us.
The party is obscene.
There’s no other word for it.
Lanterns float over the infinity pool like fallen stars, their reflections shattering across black water that bleeds straight into the sea beyond the cliffs.
White marble terraces spill with guests dressed in linen and diamonds, champagne flutes catching the light, laughter rising in polite, curated waves.
Somewhere, a string quartet plays something soft and expensive, the kind of music designed to make people feel important instead of human.
It’s beautiful.
It’s a cage with flowers braided through the bars.
Noah’s hand rests at the small of my back as we move through the crowd, his grip light but unmistakably possessive. He introduces me with a smile that never wavers.
“My fiancée.”
“My wife-to-be.”
“In two days.”
Each time he says it, something inside me flinches.
People congratulate us. Women kiss my cheeks and tell me I’m glowing. Men shake Noah’s hand like he’s just closed the deal of the century. No one asks if I’m happy. No one asks if I’m afraid.
Why would they? I look perfect.
My phone vibrates against my clutch.
Once.
Twice.
I don’t look immediately. I can feel the message like a pressure point under my skin.
Noah feels it too.
His fingers flex once, a silent warning.
“Smile,” he murmurs near my ear. “This is for you.”
I smile.
It hurts.
When I finally glance down, the screen lights up like a flare in the dark.
Did you really think I’d stand here and watch that fucking bastard try to lock you up like a prize horse?
My breath stutters.
Another message comes through before I can stop myself from reading.
Look at you. Wrapped in silk. Smiling like you’re not screaming inside.
The room tilts slightly. Or maybe that’s just me.
I lift my gaze slowly, scanning the crowd. Faces blur together—wealth, power, boredom. But then I feel it. That prickle at the base of my spine. That instinctive, traitorous pull toward the dark.
Kai is here.
I don’t see him at first. Of course I don’t. He’s never where you expect him to be.
Then I spot it—just beyond the ring of light, where the terrace gives way to shadow. A figure leaning casually against a stone column, half-hidden, dressed in black that drinks in the night. He doesn’t look like a guest. He looks like a threat someone forgot to remove.
His eyes find mine instantly.
They’re burning.
Pure, unrestrained fury—sharp enough to cut through the music, the laughter, the lie of this night. His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle jumping, his hands curled like he’s already imagining them around someone’s throat.
My phone vibrates again.
Don’t worry, little sister.
The main event hasn’t even fucking started yet.
A cold shiver slides down my spine.
Noah notices.
He turns slightly, angling his body to block my line of sight, his smile never faltering as he raises his glass to someone across the pool. “You’re trembling,” he says quietly. “Nerves?”
“No,” I lie. “Just cold.”
He chuckles softly, indulgent. “You always were sensitive.”
Kai’s gaze flicks to Noah’s hand on my back.
His expression changes.
The fury sharpens into something colder. More deliberate. A predator recalculating.
My phone lights up one last time.
Every step he takes toward that altar is a mistake.
Every hand he puts on you is borrowed time.
I swallow hard, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Kai pushes off the column.
He doesn’t come closer. He doesn’t need to.
He lifts his glass—mocking, lazy—and tips it slightly in my direction. A salute. A promise.
I realise then, with terrifying clarity, that this party isn’t a celebration.
It’s a declaration of war.
And I’m standing right in the middle of it, dressed in white, while two men who refuse to lose circle each other through silk, champagne, and blood-thin smiles.
Noah leans down, his mouth brushing my ear.
“Enjoy the night, Scarlett,” he says. “It’s the last one you’ll ever have like this.”
Across the terrace, in the shadows where monsters don’t bother pretending to be human, Kai mouths the words I feel more than hear:
Run.