72. Scarlett
Scarlett
I woke up gasping. Sheets tangled around my legs. My tank clinging to damp skin. Heart thrashing in my chest.
The sun hadn’t quite set yet—warm orange light spilling through the curtains like the day was trying to flirt with me.
The air inside the villa was warm, thick with the scent of gardenia and something saltier—like the ocean had crept inside while I slept. My hair stuck to the back of my neck, skin dewy from the heat.
I rolled over, blindly reaching for my phone on the nightstand. Light filtered through the shutters, low and golden now. Opened a text:
From:
T
Dinner at 7. Meet us by the water.
No greeting. No emoji. Just that clipped command hidden beneath the single initial I hadn’t changed in years.
‘T.’
I stared at it for a second too long. Then set it down.
Of course he didn’t say please. Of course he assumed I’d show.
I sighed and swung my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet brushing cool hardwood. My body ached from training; muscles sore in places I forgot I had—but it was the good kind. The kind that reminded me I still had power under my skin.
Still had fight.
Still had something no one had managed to break.
My phone buzzed again.
Chaos Crew ? Group chat
Lena
You alive? Or are you buried in the sand with your ego?
Sloane
Please tell me you’re wearing the dress.
Me:
Queen nap complete. Wearing the dress. No bra. You’re welcome.
I stood and padded across the room, dragging the black satin dress off the back of a chair. Slit high enough to feel illegal. Thin straps. Soft as sin.
I slipped it on and checked my reflection in the mirror.
The bruises were faint now—faded gold on my thigh and along my ribs—but I didn’t cover them. Let them look. Let them see what I’d survived.
I let my natural waves flow across my shoulders, twisted a gold cuff onto my wrist, then dabbed perfume behind my ears. Something floral and sharp—garden rose with a bite.
Out on the deck, the sky was bleeding pink. The villas around me were quiet.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard Kane laugh, followed by Rhett yelling something about not ironing his damn shirt.
I smiled.
And then I walked barefoot down the steps and onto the path that would lead me to the water—because heels in the sand were stupid, and my feet were still wrecked from training. Let them see the bruises. I’d earned every one.