CHAPTER 1: THE INVITATION
Isola di Sogni – Day One
The sea shimmered like mercury beneath the descending helicopter. Selene Voss leaned forward slightly, the wind from the open side panel teasing strands of her dark hair loose from their clip. Her sunglasses reflected the pale sprawl of Isola di Sogni as it came into view — a luxurious, privately owned island sculpted with impossible taste and money.
Beaches curled like wet lips around marble villas. A domed mansion rose at the center, surrounded by topiary cut into shapes that felt half Greco-Roman, half fever dream. The water was almost too still, like it had signed a nondisclosure agreement.
The pilot didn't speak much — just nodded toward the landing pad where three staff members waited in off-white linen and polite smiles. Selene slipped her invitation back into her blazer for the fifth time, checking the name again:
Selene Voss – Reserved Client Access – Villa 7
Welcome to Isola di Sogni.
We look forward to doing business with you.
– L.
No last name. No logo. Just a silver-embossed letter on heavy paper. And a promise of a job that paid enough to scrub her name off the most elite blacklist in Europe.
As she stepped off the chopper, heels clicking onto stone, a tall man with deep-set eyes and perfectly forgettable features stepped forward.
"Ms. Voss. Welcome to the island."
She gave a cool smile. "Thank you. You are?"
"I'm only staff," he said, voice as neutral as a hotel hallway. "Your things have been sent to your villa. There's a welcome cocktail waiting, and someone will be by to escort you to your briefing shortly."
Selene arched a brow. "Briefing?"
"That's what it says here," he replied, glancing at a tablet — blank screen. "You'll find the client's request in your villa."
"Who's the client?"
A pause. The faintest trace of a smirk tugged at his mouth. "They didn't tell me."
Selene turned away before he could see the flicker in her expression. She hated this kind of game — but she was good at it.
Villa 7 was perched on the cliff's edge, elegant and secluded. Ivory stone, curved glass, a private pool that spilled toward the sea. As Selene stepped inside, the doors opened automatically, the interior already cooled. A glass of champagne glowed gold on the table beside a small silver envelope.
She picked it up slowly, peeled it open.
Inside: a single card, handwritten.
"You still owe me a night. Love me tomorrow. – L."
Her heart gave one slow, irritated beat. She turned it over — nothing. Not a logo, not a stamp, not even a smudge of cologne.
Someone was trying to be poetic.
Selene downed the champagne in three gulps, then walked out onto the terrace.
She should leave. She should. It was probably a trap. A game. A petty ploy to remind her of something she'd done — or forgotten.
But she stayed.
Because L was someone who knew how to get her attention. And getting to the bottom of it would be more satisfying than running.
An hour later, wrapped in a silk robe and fresh from a steaming bath, she padded into the living room to find a woman already sitting on her sofa — uninvited.
Tall, redheaded, mid-40s and surgically ageless. She wore a white suit and no shoes, one bare leg crossed over the other like it was a conscious weapon.
"Selene," the woman said with a breathy, amused voice. "You're even prettier this year."
Selene's brow ticked up. "Have we met?"
The woman smiled with all teeth. "Maybe. I forget so many beautiful women."
"Who are you?"
"Oh, darling," she said, reaching for Selene's untouched fruit plate. "That's the wrong question. The right question is: who are you, really?"
Selene stared at her.
"No idea who sent the invitation," the woman continued casually, picking up a grape. "But everyone's very excited you came. You're going to make things... complicated."
"I was told I had a client."
The woman popped the grape into her mouth. "You do. You just haven't met them yet."
"Are you the client?"
"God, no. I'm just the host." She stood with feline grace and extended a hand. "Sienna Malcovich. Owner. Artist. Collector of rare experiences."
Selene didn't take the hand. "What am I doing here?"
Sienna leaned in close, her breath wine-sweet. "Darling, if you don't know that... then the next few days are going to be delicious."
After Sienna left, Selene checked every inch of the villa for bugs, cameras, hidden recorders. She found one: a tiny transmitter tucked inside the curtain hem. It wasn't standard surveillance. It was old. Personal. Sloppy.
Which meant it was meant to be found.
She took it and dropped it into her half-full champagne glass, listening to the fizz drown it slowly.
Night fell like a velvet robe.
Selene stood at the edge of the infinity pool, staring down into a sea that refused to give reflections. She wore nothing but the breeze. She didn't care who watched anymore.
Somewhere in the forest beyond her villa, a string of low lights twinkled. A party. A pulse. Voices. Music.
And laughter — low, male, intimate — so close she could've sworn it was behind her.
She turned.
No one was there.
Only a folded note now resting on the chaise where she'd left her towel.
She hadn't heard anyone approach.
Her heart tripped once — then she opened it.
"You won't remember me tonight.
But you'll remember me tomorrow."
There was no signature. But she already knew what letter would've been there.
L.
And despite herself — despite everything — Selene smiled.
Not with her mouth. But with her blood.
CHAPTER 2: THE MAN WITH THE UMBRELLA
Isola di Sogni – Sunset
Selene walked barefoot across the shoreline, the hem of her linen dress damp from where the sea had licked at her ankles. The sun was bleeding out slowly behind the cliffs, turning the water to molten brass. Wind stirred the edge of the sky, hinting at rain, but she kept going.
She needed out of the villa. Away from the cameras she'd already found — and the ones she hadn't. From the lingering scent of Sienna's perfume in her pillows. From the feeling that she was being watched even in her sleep.
It had been less than twenty-four hours on the island.
It already felt like longer.
She followed the curve of the sand toward a stony inlet tucked between two jagged cliff faces — a place she'd spotted on the map and guessed wasn't listed in the resort guide. The trail down was narrow and overgrown, vines curling like fingers, the slope slick with moss.
She liked it.
No music. No staff. No flirtatious strangers with polished teeth and dead eyes.
Just the hush of tidewater, the rasp of wet sand underfoot — and then, suddenly—
A single drop of rain.
Then two.
Then dozens, all at once.
A sudden warm deluge, like someone had slashed the sky open.
Selene cursed softly and spun toward the trail — but before she could move, a shadow fell over her.
And an umbrella.
Large. Black. Perfectly out of place.
She looked up — and into him.
Dark suit, open collar, no tie. Wet hair slicked back but not fussed with. His face wasn't classically handsome — the nose too sharp, the mouth too cruel — but the effect was… magnetic. That dangerous stillness of someone used to watching other people move.
He held the umbrella without speaking.
"Thanks," Selene said coolly, stepping slightly under it.
"I watched you come down here from the path," he said, voice low and almost lazy. "Didn't expect the rain. But then, most people don't."
Selene studied him. "Do you always follow strange women onto secluded beaches during storms?"
"Only when I know their name."
Her skin stiffened slightly.
He smiled — slow, amused, but without warmth. "Selene Voss. Art authenticator. Private acquisitions expert. Bit of a reputation in Paris, isn't there?"
"And you are?"
He tilted his head. "A man holding your umbrella."
"That's not an answer."
"Then ask me a better question."
His eyes were strange. Light hazel — almost amber — with a calmness that felt surgical. He wasn't flirting. He was studying.
"Alright," she said. "Why do you know my name?"
He paused. A flicker of something in his expression.
"I knew someone who knew you," he said.
"And who was that?"
"She's gone now."
The answer landed soft but sharp, like silk over a knife.
Selene's mouth curved, almost against her will. "You're being cryptic. It's not as sexy as you think."
"You're wet," he said.
She blinked.
He gestured downward. "Your dress."
Selene looked. Rain had clung to the fabric, turning the white linen sheer. Her nipples peaked visibly through it. Her thighs were outlined like sculpture. She didn't blush. But she didn't meet his gaze either.
"Still not as sexy as you think," she said dryly.
"I disagree."
His voice dropped on the last syllable — like a piano key pressed harder than the rest.
Selene stepped back slightly. "I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't offer it."
"Why not?"
"Because once I give it to you…" He leaned closer, his breath damp and warm near her cheek. "You'll start looking for me. And I'd rather be the one doing the looking."
A beat passed.
Then he stepped away, folding the umbrella, letting the rain soak his suit. He didn't flinch. Just looked at her like he'd already undressed her twice and was deciding if it was worth doing a third time — slowly.
"See you tomorrow, Selene."
And then he turned, walked up the slope, and vanished into the trees without looking back.
Selene stood alone in the rain, the umbrella forgotten at her feet.
Her heart was steady.
Her breath was not.
She returned to her villa an hour later.
The umbrella was gone.
But on her bed was a new note — no envelope, just a card propped against her pillow.
You didn't ask the right question.
– L.
CHAPTER 3: MASK ME AGAIN
Isola di Sogni – The Masquerade Night
By nightfall, the island had transformed.
The sprawling villa at the center of Isola di Sogni pulsed with light and music, veiled in candle smoke and soft jazz that curled through the open archways like perfume. Gold lanterns floated in the pool. Champagne cascaded from crystal towers. And everywhere, guests moved like fragments of myth — hidden behind masks of ivory, obsidian, and glittering filigree.
Selene stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, observing.
Her own mask was simple: black silk with a faint shimmer that caught the light like a secret. It didn't matter. People looked at her like they knew her anyway.
Someone brushed her shoulder. Another murmured her name — or something like it. A gloved hand passed her a drink she hadn't asked for. The night was folding inward already, thick with suggestion.
Sienna, in a red dress carved to her bones, floated by and smiled. "Play nice, darling. Or at least play interesting."
Selene didn't answer. She sipped the champagne, then slipped away into the corridor that led toward the less crowded west wing — toward the older part of the estate, where candles burned lower and conversations dropped to a whisper.
Her heels clicked along ancient tile. The corridor smelled of wax, jasmine, and something… earthy.
A masked woman laughed in a velvet booth, a man's hand on her thigh beneath the table. In a curtained alcove, two guests kissed like they had days to kill. But Selene walked past them, untempted. Detached.
Until she heard it:
A voice in the dark. Low. Familiar.
"I liked you better in red."
Selene turned sharply.
No one.
She moved forward. Another turn. Another corridor. The music behind her faded, replaced by silence and distant sea wind.
A masked man stood alone beside an antique statue of Aphrodite. Black tuxedo. Black mask. No drink. Just stillness.
Selene didn't speak.
He did.
"Do you remember what you said to me? That night, in the gallery?"
Her blood chilled — slowly, deliciously. "What gallery?"
"You told me," he said, stepping closer, "if I touched you, it would ruin both of us."
He was close now. Close enough for her to smell him.
God. That scent. Vetiver. Amber. Rain.
Lucien.
It had to be Lucien.
Hadn't it?
"And did you?" she asked, her voice low, edged.
"Ruin you?" he said.
He tilted his head.
"Not yet."
His hand rose — slow, deliberate — and traced a line from her collarbone to the hollow of her throat.
Selene didn't move.
"Take the mask off," she whispered.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because if you know who I am, you'll make it mean something. And tonight, I want it to mean nothing."
The words hit her harder than they should have. Her breath caught in her throat, the edge of fear threading beneath the ache of want.
Still, she didn't stop him when he moved behind her. Didn't flinch when he touched her waist. His hand slid up, over the silk of her dress, slow and deliberate. She pressed her spine to his chest, eyes closed.
He whispered in her ear.
"Tell me to stop."
She didn't.
"Tell me your real name."
She couldn't.
He kissed her throat.
She gasped.
His hands were skilled, certain — not hesitant, not cruel. He didn't grope or fumble. He explored her like he'd done it before. Like he'd memorized her. Her body melted into his touch, traitorous and hot. She reached back, curling her fingers into his hair, anchoring herself to the moment — even as it pulled her further out to sea.
One hand slid under the hem of her dress. Fingers traced the inside of her thigh.
She didn't wear underwear.
She never did at events like this.
He found her slick. He exhaled against her skin — reverent, almost laughing.
Then he whispered:
"You taste like you remember me."
Her knees almost gave.
He turned her around, lifted her easily, set her back against the cool marble of the wall. The statue loomed above them — ancient, headless, watching. She braced herself there, legs parting without instruction.
He knelt.
Right there. Mask on.
She moaned when his mouth met her.
Hot. Skilled. Obsessive.
She clutched his hair, breathing fast now. Her mask slipped sideways but she didn't fix it. Couldn't. The world had narrowed to fingers digging into her hips, tongue moving like a promise he'd made long before this moment, long before this night.
She came fast. And hard. Clenching around nothing, biting her knuckles to keep the cry from echoing through the corridor.
When she opened her eyes, he was already standing again.
She looked at him — dazed, furious, aching.
"Who the fuck are you?"
He said nothing.
He touched the edge of her mask — not to remove it, but to straighten it. Then leaned in, mouth brushing her ear.
"Tomorrow."
And just like that — he vanished down the corridor.
Selene slid to the floor slowly, her legs shaking, her body flushed.
Her dress was soaked between her thighs.
She could still taste his name on her skin.
Except she didn't know his name.
Lucien?
Or someone else entirely?
She didn't know what scared her more.
CHAPTER 4: SHE LOOKS JUST LIKE HER
Isola di Sogni – Morning After the Masquerade
Selene stared at her reflection.
Still masked. Still flushed.
She hadn't slept. Not really. She'd slipped into the villa just before sunrise, body humming, thoughts knotted.
And now she was awake again — lying in a robe that still smelled like someone else's cologne, staring into the polished glass of her bathroom mirror. The image staring back was her. Of course it was. Sharp jaw. Full lips. Slight scar above the right eyebrow. Same hair she'd trimmed herself two weeks ago in a Florence hotel suite.
And yet, she looked… unfamiliar.
She tore the mask off the counter and shoved it into the drawer.
By late morning, the resort's central bar was empty. The air was still soaked in lemon oil and sea salt, filtered light glancing off the brass counter like a spotlight no one had turned off. A single bartender worked the espresso machine — silver streak at his temple, hands too clean for someone in service.
He didn't look up when she sat down.
"Do you serve questions?" she asked, voice dry.
"Only after noon," he replied, handing her an espresso without asking what she wanted.
Selene sipped. It was bitter and perfect. She hated that.
Her eyes wandered across the wall behind the bar — old photos framed in dark wood, each capturing wild, glittering scenes from past masquerades. Blurred faces, champagne-slicked floors, velvet masks — all glamour, no soul.
And then, one photo stopped her.
Top right corner. Faded black-and-white. Taken a year ago.
There she was.
Except it wasn't her.
Same mouth. Same brows. Same way of holding the jaw like a dare.
She stood in a crowd of masked guests, laughing, lips parted like she was about to say something important.
Selene stood slowly, heart drumming now, walked to the photo and leaned in.
Beneath the frame, a nameplate:
Evie Rojas – Last Seen: June 3rd, 2024
She froze.
She touched the name with her fingertips. Cold metal. Real.
"Who is this?" she asked.
The bartender didn't look up.
"I said—"
"I heard you."
She turned. "She looks like me."
He polished a glass. "No, she doesn't."
"Yes. She does."
"No," he said again, setting the glass down. "Because that would mean something strange is happening. And that would be bad for business."
Selene narrowed her eyes. "You're saying this is… a coincidence?"
"I'm saying you should finish your drink."
"I want to know who she is."
He sighed and finally looked up. His eyes were oddly kind. "You don't, Miss Voss."
"What happened to her?"
"She left."
"When?"
"Before you arrived."
"You're lying."
He smiled softly. "Maybe. Or maybe I've been told not to answer certain kinds of questions."
"Who told you that?"
The man gestured around him. "The walls. The money. The part of this place that doesn't want to be seen."
Selene stepped closer. "You ever hear of a woman named Evie Rojas going missing here?"
"I hear a lot of things. Most of them are true. Doesn't mean they're useful."
Her hand dropped to the edge of the bar, where the varnish had worn away from years of fingertips and spilled cocktails. Something scratched against her skin.
She looked down.
Etched into the dark wood, faint but deliberate:
HELP ME
She scraped her nail along it.
It was real.
Fresh.
Directly beneath the photo of Evie Rojas.
Her breath caught.
She turned to the bartender again, but he was already walking into the back room, the door swinging closed behind him without a sound.
That night, she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, the fan's slow rotation slicing her thoughts in even pieces.
She couldn't stop thinking about the face in the photo.
How exact it was.
Not similar.
Not passable.
Identical.
She reached for her phone — no signal. Opened her laptop — network disabled.
Then the room lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And in the silence that followed, a soft knock at the door.
She rose slowly, tying her robe. She didn't ask who it was. She opened the door.
No one was there.
Just a small envelope.
Inside:
You don't remember her yet.
But you will.
There was no signature.
Just a faint scent on the paper.
Rain.
And vetiver.
CHAPTER 5: ROOM 12, KEY MISSING
Isola di Sogni – Midnight
The key appeared on her pillow just after midnight.
Small. Brass. Unmarked. Wrapped in a single strip of black velvet ribbon, like it had been gifted with care. Or precision.
No note this time.
No card.
Just the weight of the metal in her hand — warm, as if someone had only just placed it there.
Selene held it up to the bedside lamp. It looked old, hand-cut. Not part of the digital locking system the resort used for its villas. This was analog. Private.
Deliberate.
She dressed silently — black slacks, black blouse, boots with soft soles. Her body moved with purpose, but her skin was already prickling with the static hum of adrenaline. Her breath was quiet. Too quiet.
The halls were empty, save for the distant hum of something classical playing in the east wing. The music in this place never stopped. Even when the guests did.
She reached the corridor of the older villas — the ones under renovation. Dust clung to the air here. Paint peeled where no one was watching. Security cameras blinked... and then stopped. She watched one go dark just as she passed it.
Someone wants me here, she thought.
Someone wants me to see something.
She reached Room 12.
There was no sign. No keypad.
Just a tarnished keyhole.
She slid the key in.
The door creaked open, the sound long and soft, like an exhale.
Inside, the room was… still.
Untouched.
No sheets on the bed. Just a frame. Furniture covered in white sheets. A faint layer of dust — but not enough.
Someone had been in here. Recently.
She stepped farther in, every sense alert. The light from the hallway died as the door swung slowly shut behind her.
The room was dim. But her eyes caught the glint of glass on the floor.
A wine glass.
Shattered.
Red stain pooled beneath it — old, dried, nearly black.
She crouched beside it, touched the edge with two fingers.
Sticky.
Wine?
No. Thicker than that.
Blood.
She stood — heart rising, mouth dry — and that's when she noticed the vent beneath the bed. Old wood slats, uneven. One had been lifted slightly.
She pushed the bed frame back. Pulled the slat free.
Beneath it: a narrow set of steps leading downward into black.
No light.
No sound.
Just cold air breathing up from beneath the villa.
She hesitated only a moment.
Then descended.
The chamber below smelled of stone and rot and lavender.
Like someone had tried to cover something up. Badly.
It wasn't large. Maybe the size of a walk-in closet. No windows. A single hanging bulb, dusty and swinging slightly from some unseen draft.
She pulled the chain.
Light flickered on.
The walls were covered in photos.
Photos of her.
Of Selene — or someone who looked like her. Hair down, lips parted, face flushed. In bed. On the beach. In a bathtub. Laughing. Crying. Naked. Sleeping.
Some of them were clearly old.
Others were… from yesterday.
One photo was clipped at eye level.
Evie Rojas.
Red dress.
Leaning against the bar.
Laughing at something off-frame.
And beside it — pinned with a rusted safety pin — was the exact same dress.
Same shade.
Same cut.
Same fabric.
Selene stepped forward, hand trembling slightly as she reached out to touch the sleeve.
The fabric was damp.
Stained.
With something dark near the waist.
She touched it.
Still wet.
Still red.
Her breath caught—
Then stopped.
Because behind her, the chamber door creaked.
Footsteps followed.
Selene turned fast.
Too late.
Lucien Drake stood at the bottom of the steps, the low bulb casting his face half in shadow.
His eyes flicked once over the room. The dress. The blood.
Then landed on her.
"Tell me," he said, voice low, dangerous, "why the fuck you're down here."
Selene straightened slowly, heart pounding, throat tight.
"Someone sent me the key," she said.
"And you used it?"
"I thought you might want me to."
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
"You think this is a game?" he asked.
"No," she said. "I think it's already started."
He stepped toward her, slow and deliberate.
"Do you know what this room is?"
"No."
"Yes, you do."
He stopped inches from her.
"Say her name," he whispered.
Selene looked at him.
"Evie."
Lucien's jaw clenched.
"You were her," he said. "Or you watched her die. Either way, you brought her here."
She stared at him, stunned. "That's not true."
"You sure?"
"I don't remember her."
"But you remember this dress."
She didn't answer.
He stepped closer, voice lowering, dark with something between fury and something worse.
"You come here with your perfect face and your careful lies, and you dig through the pieces like they don't belong to anyone. Like you're not part of it."
"I didn't come here to—"
"You came here to finish what you started."
His hands suddenly gripped her arms, hard.
She didn't pull away.
They were too close. Heat rising. Breath mingling.
Neither moved.
"You're hurting me," she whispered.
"Good," he said.
But his hands didn't move.
Neither did hers.
Then — slow — he let go.
Stepped back.
Looked away.
And said:
"Get out. Before I forget what I promised her."
Selene backed up the stairs.
Into the villa.
Out the door.
Heart hammering in her throat, skin burning from where he'd touched her.
She didn't stop until she reached her own villa again.
And there — on her nightstand — was the key.
Still wrapped in velvet.
Exactly where it had been before.
CHAPTER 6: A BODY BETWEEN US
Isola di Sogni – A Storm Coming
Selene found Lucien in the villa garden just after sunset.
It wasn't planned. She hadn't meant to seek him out.
She told herself that as she followed the winding path past fountains and manicured hedges until she spotted him alone near the seawall, cigarette burning low between two fingers, the ocean raging beneath.
His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. Hair mussed by the wind. He looked like a man left halfway through an argument—with himself.
He didn't turn when she approached. Didn't flinch. Just said:
"You shouldn't be here."
"That's becoming a theme," Selene replied.
A beat passed.
Then, slowly, he turned to face her. And for the first time since they met, Lucien looked tired. Not just in the body — but beneath it.
"I didn't want you to see that room," he said. "Not yet."
"You didn't leave me much of a choice."
Lucien nodded once. Exhaled smoke. "Evie left things behind. That dress. The glass. A voicemail I haven't deleted. I go back and listen to it sometimes, hoping it sounds different."
"Why?" Selene asked.
"Because in it… she's laughing. It sounds like she didn't know she was about to disappear."
Selene's voice dropped. "She didn't."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then said quietly:
"She was my lover."
Something twisted in Selene's chest.
Not jealousy. Not yet.
But something.
"She was here for two weeks. We didn't tell anyone. I wasn't supposed to be with her. There were rules. And I broke all of them."
Selene folded her arms. "And now you're what? Mourning her? Investigating her? Replacing her?"
Lucien's eyes flicked up to hers.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I don't remember," he said, sharper now. "Not all of it. Not cleanly."
Selene stared.
"I have gaps," he said. "Not the kind where you forget what you had for lunch. The kind where someone says, Don't you remember that night? That party? That scream? And I don't. I have flashes. Sensory things. A red dress. Wet footprints on the marble. A song. Her voice saying—"
He stopped.
"What?" Selene asked.
Lucien looked away.
"What did she say?"
"She said, 'You'll still want me when I'm gone.'"
He gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Bitch was right."
Selene shifted.
He looked at her then — really looked.
"And now you're here," he said. "With her face. Her posture. You wear the same perfume. Did you know that?"
"No," Selene said quietly.
"I thought maybe I was seeing her in you. Projecting. But that dress in Room 12? That was Evie's. I remember. And when I saw it on you—"
"I've never worn it," Selene said.
"Yes. You have."
"I haven't—"
"You were in it last year."
Selene's spine went cold.
"That's not possible."
"You were here with her," Lucien said. "At least once. I saw you. I was watching her. And then I saw you."
Selene stepped back, shaking her head. "No. You're confusing me with someone else. You said yourself — your memory—"
"Is broken," he said. "And so is yours."
She opened her mouth — and then stopped.
Because she couldn't remember what she'd done two nights ago after the masquerade. She remembered the sex — the hallway, the mask — but not the walk back. Not her villa. Not if she spoke to anyone else. Not even if she undressed herself or woke up in the bed.
A blackout.
But she hadn't drunk enough for that.
Had she?
Selene looked up at him, a knot tightening slowly in her stomach.
"I know what this sounds like," he said, voice lower now. "But you need to listen to me."
"Why?"
"Because if they're doing this to you — like they did to her — you'll be gone by the end of the week."
Selene's mouth was dry. "Gone how?"
"Memory wiped. Name erased. They'll keep the face if they like it."
"Who's they?"
He said nothing.
Instead, he stepped forward — close enough to touch, to taste.
"I don't trust you," she said.
"I don't blame you."
"But I think you're lying."
"I probably am," he said softly. "But I don't know when I started."
He reached out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. It wasn't seductive. It was tender. Frightening in its sincerity.
"You think you're the one seducing me," he whispered.
She looked up at him.
"But I'm already yours."
Selene pulled away.
She couldn't stand the way her breath hitched at his voice.
She walked fast, back toward the path, not looking back.
Didn't notice — at first — that the bracelet on her wrist wasn't hers.
Or that it was engraved on the inside.
Evie – Isola di Sogni – June 2024
CHAPTER 7: THE RULES OF THE GAME
Isola di Sogni – Late Morning
Selene arrived late to brunch on purpose.
She never liked walking into a room before it was poisoned.
The rooftop terrace was awash in silk canopies and soft jazz, the smell of sugared fruit and roasted lamb mingling with sea breeze. Guests lounged on low cushions, draped over one another like fainting Greek gods. The sky was too perfect, the colors too saturated, like someone had edited the afternoon in post-production.
And at the center of it all — Sienna Malcovich, in white lace and black sunglasses, her laughter drifting like perfume.
"Darling," she sang when she spotted Selene. "You're just in time."
"For what?" Selene asked, sliding into the empty cushion at the far end of the table.
Sienna raised her glass. "To play."
Selene's eyes flicked across the table.
Each guest had a black envelope by their plate.
Hugo was already grinning, flipping his card back and forth.
Lucien was here too, standing in the shade behind a half-empty wine glass, gaze locked on nothing in particular. He hadn't seen her. Or pretended not to.
Sienna tapped her flute with a butter knife. "Today's entertainment," she purred, "is simple. Each of you has received a card. On that card is your rule for the afternoon. You must obey it. If you break it…" She smiled. "You lose."
"Lose what?" someone asked — a tall blonde man in a coral blazer.
Sienna's smile widened. "Wouldn't you like to find out."
The staff moved like ghosts, placing glasses, refreshing plates.
Selene opened her envelope.
One line:
You may not tell the truth unless asked twice.
Her fingers tightened.
"Of course," Sienna added airily, "you're not required to play. You can always walk away. Though it is… impolite."
No one moved.
Selene glanced across the table.
The man in coral raised his glass to her. "First time here?"
"Yes," she said automatically.
Then paused.
He smiled.
"Really?"
"No," she replied.
He blinked.
She gave a slow smile.
"Oh," he said. "You're her."
"Who?"
"The one who came back."
The game twisted fast.
One woman could only speak in questions.
Another was forbidden from making eye contact.
Hugo's card had one line: Lie about everything. Especially what you feel.
He was currently telling Lucien he was madly in love with him.
Lucien didn't blink. Just muttered, "Happens a lot."
Selene kept quiet, speaking only when asked — careful not to lie too early. But something about the air was shifting. Like the island was sweating through its skin.
A waiter poured her wine.
She didn't drink it.
Lucien was still across the terrace, not eating. Not watching her directly.
But she felt his attention like a weight on the side of her jaw.
Then Coral Blazer leaned in again.
"You're even prettier in person," he said. "Evie always said you had a forgettable face. But I never agreed."
Selene's stomach turned.
"What did you say?" she asked.
He grinned. "Too soon?"
"Who are you?"
"Don't remember me?" He chuckled. "Well, I guess that makes two of us."
Her hands clenched under the table.
"Selene," Sienna called sweetly, "truth or dare?"
Selene looked up. "Neither."
"Oh, but you have to choose."
"I don't play games I didn't invent."
Sienna tilted her head. "Everyone plays mine eventually."
Then, without warning, the man in the coral blazer collapsed forward — face first into his plate. Glass shattered. Guests screamed. Someone stood up too fast and knocked over a table.
Selene was on her feet in an instant.
Lucien was already beside the man, checking for a pulse.
Nothing.
Sienna remained seated.
Perfectly still.
Sipping her champagne like she was bored.
"Poison," someone whispered.
Selene stared at the empty glass beside Coral Blazer's hand — wine still half-full. A dark ring of lipstick on the rim.
Her lipstick.
Except—
She hadn't touched that glass.
Had she?
Someone had switched them.
Or she had.
She didn't know anymore.
A security team arrived five minutes later.
The guests were asked — politely — to return to their villas.
Sienna stood and smiled at the stunned crowd.
"Don't worry," she said gently. "Brunch is still being served in the east wing. For those with a strong stomach."
Selene stared at her.
"You planned this," she said.
Sienna tilted her head. "You say that like I had to."
She leaned in.
"Tell me, darling. When you saw him drop… did your heart race?"
Selene said nothing.
"Good," Sienna whispered. "Means you're still in the game."
Selene didn't go to her villa.
She walked to the cliffs instead.
Wind in her hair. Salt on her tongue. Thoughts unraveling.
She opened her palm.
The card from the envelope was still there.
But now, a second line had been written beneath it — in ink that hadn't been there this morning.
You may not tell the truth unless asked twice.
You may not remember what you forget.
She closed her hand.
Tight.
Hard.
The waves crashed louder below her.
CHAPTER 8: THE L WORD
Isola di Sogni – Moonlight, Later That Night
The library wasn't on any of the resort maps.
Selene had found it by following the scent of cigars and old paper through the east wing's hidden hall — the walls lined with silent, shuttered portraits. The door had no handle, just a pressure point. A mechanical click. A breath of dust.
Inside: mahogany, low lamps, and floor-to-ceiling books that hadn't been read in years.
Lucien was already there.
Leaning against the fireplace, drink in hand, shirt sleeves rolled, collar open.
He didn't turn when she entered. Didn't need to.
She could feel the heat coming off him already.
"You're good at hiding," she said.
"I wasn't hiding."
"Then what were you doing?"
He took a sip. "Waiting."
"For what?"
"For you to stop pretending you don't want answers."
She stepped closer. "Then give me one."
"To which question?"
Selene stopped within arm's reach.
"Did you poison him?"
Lucien looked at her finally. "No."
"You were watching me."
"Always."
She stared at him. "Why?"
He smiled faintly. "Because I like watching women lie to themselves."
Selene slapped the drink from his hand.
The glass shattered against the bookshelves, splashing liquor across his shirt.
He didn't flinch.
"I'm not Evie," she said coldly.
"I know."
"I'm not your memory. I'm not your guilt."
"You're worse," he said, voice soft. "You want to know the truth. She never did."
She grabbed his shirtfront, hauled him close. "Then tell me."
"I already did."
"No, Lucien. You haven't told me anything. You—"
He kissed her.
Hard.
Without permission.
Without apology.
Her gasp vanished into his mouth.
She hit him once — a sharp slap to the chest — and then pulled him closer, fisting the damp fabric of his shirt as he walked her backward into the bookcase.
Her body arched, his thigh sliding between hers, one hand in her hair, the other pinning her wrist to the wood.
"You hate me," he breathed against her throat.
"Yes."
"You want to hurt me."
"I will."
"But first…"
He kissed her again.
This time, slower. Meaner. With the weight of everything he wasn't saying.
She bit his lip. He smiled against her mouth.
He spun her — fast — hands dragging her hips back against him. She gasped as he pressed into her from behind, still clothed, the friction maddening.
His fingers undid her slacks with ruthless efficiency.
She heard the zipper.
Felt his hand slide inside, down, between—
"Oh my god—" she gasped.
He didn't stop.
Didn't ask.
Didn't wait.
She came against the books, biting her forearm to muffle the cry, her body folding forward, hips shaking under his grip.
Then he turned her around again, lifted her onto the desk, shoved papers and books aside like they were nothing. She pulled open his shirt, buttons popping loose, nails dragging down his chest.
She wanted to scar him.
Mark him.
Remember something real.
He pushed into her in one smooth, brutal thrust.
Her head dropped back.
He didn't kiss her again.
Just watched her — like he was trying to see if this was the moment she'd break.
It wasn't.
She pulled him deeper.
Wrapped her legs around his waist and moved with him, matching pace for punishment. His hand slid up her throat — not choking — just a reminder. Of who was inside her. And who she'd let in.
She came again.
This time, she did cry out.
He followed with a strangled noise, body curling into hers, still buried deep, breath hot against her ear.
And for one full minute, they didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just breathed.
He left without a word.
By the time she sat up, the desk was a ruin of scattered books, spilled ink, and damp pages.
Her legs trembled when she stood.
She found her slacks on the floor. Her shoes kicked halfway under the desk.
She moved to the mirror above the fireplace to fix her hair.
And then she saw it.
A smudge.
Lipstick.
On the collar of his shirt.
Deep red.
Not hers.
She didn't wear red.
Selene stared at her reflection, the answer sliding into her gut like a blade.
Had someone else been here before her?
Or was she just the second round?
A clean-up job.
A silence tactic.
She looked back at the desk.
Something was carved into the wood.
It hadn't been there before.
One word.
Evie.
CHAPTER 9: HUGO KNOWS
Isola di Sogni – The Service Tunnel, Midnight
Selene hated being summoned.
Especially by someone like Hugo Sinclair.
The note had arrived under her door, typed in Courier font on old hotel stationery, folded into a perfect triangle.
"Midnight. Maintenance corridor. Wear something you can run in."
– H
She wore black boots, jeans, and a fitted leather jacket — less for utility, more for effect. Let him think she came prepared for war.
The resort's maintenance tunnel was narrow, dimly lit, with exposed pipes overhead and cold tile underfoot. A hallway built to hide people — or move them without notice.
She followed the sound of music. Tinny, upbeat, wrong for the setting — Billie Holiday scratched through a portable speaker like the ghost of another era had been trapped in a bluetooth loop.
Then she saw him.
Hugo.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside a vintage reel-to-reel tape recorder, a flask in one hand and a ridiculous pair of pink-lensed sunglasses on his nose.
"Darling," he said without looking up. "You came. And dressed like a sexy noir detective. I'm flattered."
"You're drunk," she said.
"Not enough."
She stepped closer, arms crossed. "What do you want?"
"Oh, so transactional. Can't two acquaintances meet in a sub-basement at midnight to discuss mutual trauma?"
"You left a body at brunch."
"I didn't leave it. He collapsed. Totally different energy."
Selene didn't blink.
He sighed.
Then patted the floor beside him. "Sit, Voss. Time to play a little truth or illusion."
She stayed standing.
He clicked a button on the reel-to-reel.
The machine whirred. Then hissed.
A voice crackled through the speakers.
"—Selene, come on. Just one dance. No one's watching."
A laugh. Light. Familiar.
Then her own voice, unmistakably hers:
"If I dance with you, you'll fall in love with me."
"Too late."
She stared at the recorder.
"No," she whispered.
Hugo grinned. "Oh yes."
"That's not me."
"Same voice. Same laugh. Same don't-you-fucking-touch-me tone."
"Where did you get this?"
"I collect things. Audio. Gossip. Blackmail."
He clicked forward.
More static.
"Evie," Selene's voice again. "You said you weren't going to drink tonight."
Another voice — muffled. A woman's. Soft. "One glass isn't drinking."
Then laughter.
The tape clicked off.
Silence.
Selene's breath was shallow.
"You were here last year," Hugo said, tapping ash into an empty espresso cup. "Not as Selene, though. You were registered as Marla Jessin. Passport matched. I checked. You checked in with Evie Rojas. You left alone."
"I don't remember that."
"Memory's a funny thing," he said lightly. "Especially on this island. Some say the air here messes with your brainwaves. Others say it's the cocktails. I say it's the guilt."
She looked at him, sharp. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because no one showed Evie. And now she's gone."
Hugo leaned back against the wall, smiling faintly.
"I think you loved her. Or killed her. Or maybe both. I haven't decided yet."
Selene took a slow step forward. "You said you had footage."
"Oh, I do." He pulled a tablet from his bag. "Video. Masquerade last year. You and Evie. Dancing. Kissing."
He tapped the screen. Pressed play.
There they were.
Two women in red and black. One clearly Evie — vibrant, laughing, drunk on something more than alcohol. The other… her. Selene. Holding her from behind. Whispering something into her ear.
Selene watched her own face lean in. Saw Evie tilt her head.
She whispered: You're not real.
Then the video froze.
Selene stared, skin crawling.
"I don't remember any of this," she said.
"Of course not," Hugo said. "They took it from you."
"Who?"
Hugo's smile didn't change. "That's the question, isn't it?"
Selene turned to him. "And what do you want?"
He shrugged. "A story. The truth. Maybe a kiss, if you're feeling reckless."
She leaned in. Close.
"Next time," she whispered, "leave your threats in someone else's pillow."
"Oh," Hugo said brightly. "Not a threat. Just a reminder."
"Of what?"
"That if I know this much, someone else knows more. And they're not as charming as I am."
She left him in the tunnel.
The sound of her own voice from a year ago followed her like perfume.
By the time she reached her villa, the tablet was already on her bed.
No note.
Just the video still paused — her lips against Evie's ear.
Frozen.
Unforgiving.