Because some terrible, secret part of me had wanted him to hold on.
The path from the beach to the reception wound through hibiscus blooms the size of open hands and flowering ginger that perfumed the air with something sweet and wild. It should have been beautiful. It should have been calming. Evening sunlight spilled through the leaves in bruised streaks of gold and violet, turning the world soft at the edges, as if painted in a dreamer’s palette.
But nothing in me was soft.
Nothing in me could dream.
Every step felt like I was walking deeper into a trap laid with petals and lace.
Riley kept pace beside me. Too close. Always too close. His strides were long and relaxed, his tailored suit moving withthe casual grace of someone born into polished cruelty. To the wedding guests who drifted behind and ahead of us, we looked like a picture. A united family. A seamless merger. The newly minted siblings strolling toward the celebration of their parents’ happiness.
But I knew the truth. He was not walking with me. He was stalking me. His proximity was calculated, a silent pressure against the edges of my senses. Every few steps, the brushed collision of our sleeves or the brief whisper of his shoulder grazing mine felt like tiny sparks being struck against tinder. Each touch was deceptively light, crafted to look accidental, but every one of them was deliberate, intentional, and laced with the quiet promise that flight would be useless.
The leash is short. I hold the end of it.
The rhythm of his steps was steady, but my pulse was not. My hand, damp and trembling, curled around my phone. It felt absurd in my grip, like a relic from a life I no longer recognized. I needed it now more than ever. I needed connection. I needed Sienna or Chiara. Anyone from the world where laughter had not been a luxury and love was not a weapon wielded in shadows.
I wanted the sound of their voices to anchor me. I wanted the familiar comfort of girls who joked about tests and breakups and Netflix shows, not boys who used threats as currency.
The phone buzzed.
My heart rose, fragile and hopeful, only to be cracked cleanly in half when I looked at the screen.
Not a name.
A number.
The same number.
The one that had haunted me for weeks, its messages coiling through my life like thin black threads tightening with every new warning.
I opened the notification.
The words glowed against the screen like a verdict.
I see you have made your choice. Good luck.
The final words struck with icy precision.
Good luck.
Not a blessing.
A curse wrapped in politeness.
A door slamming shut.
My vision tunneled. I felt the heat of the island air evaporate from my skin. My blood ran cold, a chilling rush that doused every nerve with raw panic. Someone was watching me. Someone was keeping score.
Is the sender here?
My gaze jerked to the guests around us, their faces half obscured by shadows beneath the palm trees. A group of women in bright dresses. A man adjusting his camera strap. A teenager texting. Any of them could have been the eyes behind the screen.
Did they see Riley’s hand on my waist?
My breath cracked.
A surge of paranoia forced my attention to Riley, as if my mind were begging him to be the lesser evil.
