Celine leans against the laundry counter, her pale blue blouse rolled at the sleeves, hands trembling only slightly as she flips through a stack of freshly pressed shirts. Her dark curls are pinned back with practiced care, but wisps escape to frame her gentle face. She can’t stop thinking about the envelope she found tucked in Roen’s drawer—its contents too damning, its presence too heavy to ignore. Guilt gnaws at her belly. She watches Roen stride across the hallway, his black shirt open at the throat, jaw tight, every step controlled, unreadable. She should confront him, she knows. But when his eyes flicker up and meet hers, something raw and vulnerable flickers in their depths. For a moment, she wants to believe the best of him. She always does.

Evening presses close and humid. Siahra paces outside the kitchen, heart thrumming. Her long braid swings nervously down her back, and her jeans feel too tight. She glances through the window—Roen stands at the prep station, knuckles white as he dices limes, but she sees Zatira slip in behind him, cheeks burning, lips bitten red. Siahra can’t look away. Zatira fumbles with a tray of glasses, almost dropping them, her laugh too bright. She keeps sneaking glances at Roen. Siahra’s gut twists. The memory of the river—Roen’s mouth on her skin, the way he whispered her name as if it belonged to him—flares up, then is doused by a sour wave of doubt.

Later, she finds Zatira in the staff dorm, perched on her bunk with herb-stained fingers fumbling in her lap. Zatira’s eyes are red-rimmed, her khaki shirt wrinkled and untucked. “What happened last night?” Siahra asks, voice tight, arms folded across her chest. Zatira looks up, shame flickering over her wide, earnest face. “I just... I messed up. I didn’t mean for it to happen.” Siahra’s breath catches. “Did you sleep with him?” Zatira nods, barely perceptible, tears threatening. For a suspended heartbeat, they are two girls lost in a wilderness with no safe paths. Siahra backs away, something precious shattering inside her. “He was mine,” she whispers. Zatira sobs. “I’m sorry.”

Siahra staggers out, vision swimming. All the easy trust she brought to the jungle feels childish, wrong. She spots a guest lounging at the bar—a man with a predatory smile, white shirt unbuttoned to show tanned skin. He grins at her, slow and dangerous. Tonight, she thinks, she won’t be the good girl. She slides onto the stool beside him, knees brushing his, her voice softer and lower than she’s ever let it be. They flirt in urgent whispers, hands brushing, breath mingling. His fingers skate along her thigh beneath the bar, igniting a reckless kind of power inside her. Roen sees them from the shadows, jaw clenched so tightly it could crack. Siahra tilts her head, letting the guest’s lips find hers. Their kiss is hungry, messy, the world blurring around them.

Celine appears in the doorway, catching Siahra’s wild eyes for a beat. The lines on her brow deepen with worry, her mouth poised for a warning she never speaks. She knows too much, feels too much, her loyalty a cage of her own making. “Siahra, stay safe tonight,” she says softly, her words almost lost in the pulse of frantic music and laughter. But Siahra is already slipping away, the guest’s hand possessive at the small of her back, pulling her toward the darkness beyond the terrace.

Roen follows at a distance, rage and longing in every tense line of his body. Siahra laughs—sharp, brittle—then disappears with the guest into the tangled green. Roen wants to shout, to tear the guest apart, to claim her. Instead, he finds her necklace snapped and abandoned on the earth, its delicate chain sparkling against muddy leaves. His heart pounds with dread. Has he pushed her too far? Did he ever really have a choice?

Somewhere in the darkness, something breaks—a glass, a promise, maybe more. The night presses in, thick with sweat, secrets, and the sharp scent of betrayal. Shadows move beneath the trees. Siahra is gone.

To be continued...