Selix stands apart at the edge of the retreat’s firelight, arms wrapped around her slim waist, ivory silk robe cinched so tight it carves worry into the hollow of her throat. Her dark hair is messier than she’d ever allow, a few strands clinging to damp cheekbones. She feels every pair of eyes on her—judgment scalding her skin nearly as much as the accusation still echoing in the air: the blackmail, the retreat’s reputation teetering, her private battles gutted and flung into the open. She’s surrounded by the low murmur of guests and staff, but feels a distance so absolute she could vanish right here and no one would reach for her.

Calder paces beside the pool, furious, jaw set beneath the shadow of stubble. His black T-shirt clings to the sweat on his back, fists balled in the fabric at his sides. He won’t look at Selix, his posture a wall—broad, unbending, shoulders trembling with the effort not to scream. When he finally turns, his eyes are bloodshot and raw.

“You wanted control, Selix. Now you get to keep it—alone.” Bitterness rakes his voice. He yanks his gaze away, moving as if drawn by magnetism toward the one person he can’t forgive or let go.

Selix swallows. Her lips part, but nothing escapes. Her hands—fingers pale and cold—fall to her sides. She almost steps toward Calder, almost asks him to let her explain, but the crushing weight of humiliation keeps her still, toes curled in the sand.

A few steps away, Izelle stands out from the crowd, glare sharp against the swelling hush of scandal. She’s in denim shorts and a torn racerback, hair wild around her face, arms crossed over her stomach. She glances around, bracing herself, then stalks toward Ryven, whose body is stiff and upright, every line in his face drawn tight with pain.

“So it’s true?” the words crackle alive, trembling with accusation and heartbreak. Izelle’s chin is high, vulnerable despite the bravado in her stance.

Ryven can barely meet her gaze. His fingers twist the leather bracelet on his wrist—nervous habit, failing to ground him. His lips are dry, parted as if to speak, but no words form. He finally says, “I didn’t know. Not until now. I… I thought you trusted me.”

Izelle’s shoulders sag. Her anger dissolves, replaced by quiet devastation. “I did,” she whispers. “I tried.” Her eyes glisten, never dropping from his, daring him to look away first. The gap between them is heartbreak made visible—a chasm neither quite has the courage to cross.

Around them, the night’s tension thickens. Joryn’s laughter, usually bright, now rings hollow as he sits with Talya on a low bench. Talya’s hand covers her mouth, pain written in the set of her jaw and in the way she leans into Joryn’s shoulder. He murmurs something, brushing her knee with surprising gentleness.

Ryven finds himself alone even as the crowd swirls nearby. He stalks off, boots grinding against sand, shoulders hunched. Talya, catching the flicker of panic in his eyes, slips away from Joryn and trails after him into the shadow between tents.

She finds him by a shuttered lantern, arms braced against a tent pole, head bowed. “You don’t have to keep bleeding for everyone else’s mistakes,” she says softly. She doesn’t touch him at first. Only once he starts to shake—just slightly, breath catching—does she step closer, sliding her arm around his waist, pressing her forehead to his shoulder blade.

Ryven is rigid, but then he exhales and sinks into her warmth. His hand covers hers—a silent thanks, a plea for silence. Their embrace is not desire, but something rawer: two wounded animals sharing heat, the brief comfort before another long, cold night.

Across the courtyard, Calder and Selix face off. Her voice, when it comes, is hoarse and low. “You of all people know what it means to do something unforgivable and survive it.” Tears threaten, but she smothers them, tipping her chin high.

Calder scowls, desperation flickering in the furrow between his brows. “I do. But you don’t get to drag me down with you.” His voice softens at the edges, despite himself.

Selix steps closer, searching his face for any sign of softness, hoping for permission to reach out—but Calder is stone. The moment passes. He turns away, leaving her trembling in the hush, mascara smudged, heart exposed.

Guests glance, whisper, store up gossip for later. Everyone is fractured, alliances realigned, trust in tatters.

Later, when the retreat has gone dark, Ryven sits cross-legged in his tent, surrounded by silence. His hands shake as he flicks through a stack of old guest ledgers. A slip of paper falls out—anonymous, almost insignificant. Yet as he unfolds it, recognition strikes like lightning. His mother’s name, a code he remembers from childhood, embedded in the tangled blackmail records.

His breath hitches. Suddenly, the ghosts he’s chased for years are close—close enough he could almost reach out and touch them.

To be continued...