Morning light cut across the table when the invitation showed up, carried in on steam rising from a mug I did not ask for. A tray stood before me, its cover gleaming under the window's glow, lifted to reveal melon and papaya arranged too neatly—almost mocking in their precision, like they knew what waited inside my chest. Paper rested beneath ceramic, crisp letters spelling things without warmth or apology. An island called Koh Samet is expected to arrive at seven o'clock. The stay would stretch exactly that long. Reason listed plainly: shape how people see you now. Clock hands meet at ten tomorrow. No room for delay. Halfway through, the words blurred into smears across the page, steam long gone from the mug resting in my hands. Not a hello. Nothing about why. Certainly not, sorry. Instead, truth after truth dropped flat, one beside another, unshakable as stone.
Just as my thoughts tangled between schedule and command, a knock came. There stood Narong, framed by the door, guiding a shiny cart piled high with my belongings—arranged too neatly, like someone had known just how I'd want them. Not a hair out of place, not a crease unironed, his whole stance hummed with quiet authority, the kind that assumes you'll follow. "Reporters are asking why there's no honeymoon, Khun Lalin," he stated, tone smooth and lifeless, like painted wood. "A few papers now claim the wedding meant nothing more than business. Khun Phakin thinks vanishing together for seven days might soften the rumors." My gaze drifted beyond him, aimed at the closed doors of the West Wing—dark, silent, holding their breath. Not once had Phakin stepped out since evening fell. That moment when his heartbeat pressed into my hand. How he kept me close while everything else faded, leaving only that still center.
"Does he bother asking?" I said, sharper than I meant. "Or just take what he wants?" My words hung hard between us. Narong stayed still, yet a flash—almost soft—crossed his face. "Bangkok obeys Khun Phakin," he murmured. "Here, though? You might see another version." A breath passed before he spoke again, gentler now, like an afterthought: "The shore here stuns the eye. Bring little with you." What he really meant had nothing to do with bags.
Halfway through the morning, thick city noise gave way to quiet inside a Gulfstream cabin. Cool air now, silence too—not loud anymore, just a soft hum beneath words. A private plane dressed up like royalty: pale leather seats, glossy tables, and richness that sits wrong on skin. Across from me, Phakin waited, dressed in dark gray fabric cut tight—a uniform almost, built for defense. My outfit was light cotton, loose weave, and nothing stiff. It looked different next to his frame. His eyes stayed down when my foot touched the step. Footsteps fading behind us, eyes stayed fixed on the paper. Maps of what could be spread wide, numbers whispering futures between coffee rings and pencil marks.
It wasn't until we leveled off—until the shore blurred below like smudged paint—that he broke the silence. "You keep looking," came his voice, still facing forward. "I'm wondering how a man chained to old days can spend every hour drafting what comes next," I answered, glancing at the blueprints. His gaze shifted to mine then; the weariness had vanished, swapped out for sharpness, almost clinical. "The future? Just yesterday bolted together stronger," he told me. "I make structures hold because I've seen them fall apart. That truth sank in while digging through wreckage."
A crimson sky stretched above, thick with silence. What about me? I said, quieter now. Am I part of your plan—or just another thing you need to manage? He placed the pen down slowly, as if each movement mattered, then tilted toward me, shrinking the space like it meant something. "You're a factor I've contained," he replied. Contained? I repeated. Is that what you name it when you hold me so close I feel your pulse through skin? His expression changed—slightly, subtly. Without rushing, he moved one hand across the gap, laying his fingertips along the back of mine. Light contact. Heavy consequence.
"On the island," he said, low, "there are no guards inside. No staff. Just you and me. You will play the woman who tamed the lion. If there are cameras, you will give them a story." "And when there are no cameras?" I whispered. He withdrew, the mask sliding back into place. "Then stay out of the sun. I don't want my investment damaged."
A shape stood above the edge, built not by chance but choice. Glass walls met sky without apology; sunlight bounced off pale rock beneath. Beauty lived there, sure—sharp, deliberate, and cold. My feet moved quietly through each space, noting doors and counting ways out. One room. Another down the hall. Always apart. Of course. Nothing surprising about that.
When light sank low across the sea, Phakin appeared barefoot on the wood floor, wearing loose cloth, strands of hair lifted by wet air—gentler now, which made things worse. A lens watches from the next ridge, he told me. Not long after, it started getting dark. Air jammed inside my ribs. How should I act? Hold your place. Smile like something good just happened. He came up slow, hands looping round my middle, drawing me against him. One finger drew lines near my neck; his face settled beside mine. From far off, it seemed warm. Close in, it carried the quiet before heavy weather.
"Hush," he whispered. "Soon they will notice every detail." Being calm feels impossible if the truth stays broken, I answered back. A thin grin appeared—no joy behind it. All stories bend reality somehow, he claimed. Ours simply costs more than most. His hand guided my chin up, touch light, gaze locked deep. "Stay still," his voice barely carried through the air, closing the distance until my breathing caught sharply. Lips never met. Instead, he rested his brow against my skin and stayed. Shaking ran through us both.
A moment hung, shaky, as thoughts of payback melted like frost. Two figures stood there, pressed down by old echoes. Back he stepped, coldness locking back into his bones. "Finished," he told me. "Get indoors." "All?" I said. "Nothing more than a show?" He froze. Knuckles whitened. "Could it ever be anything different?" came his reply. "If this is vengeance," I moved closer, "you are losing. The pain lives in you." A wish flickered across his eyes—raw, brief—as quickly as it was wiped away. "Sleep now," he barked.
Out there by myself, the island quit being safe and became something else entirely. Then movement caught me—there he was inside, palm flat against the window, staring hard. I meant to leave, but my body locked up instead. The distance between us is nothing more than a sliver of glass. His eyes hit mine without warning.
Cliffhanger: A twist unfolds—Lalin realizes someone else has been tracking Phakin all along. The moment shifts, quiet but sharp. Not just her eyes now. Trust splinters without a sound. What felt private suddenly cracks open. Someone else was always there, hidden close.