CHAPTER 10: THE ISLAND DOESN'T LET YOU LEAVE
Isola di Sogni – Dawn Fog
Selene woke before sunrise, heart already beating too fast, like her body had decided something before her mind caught up.
She pushed off the sheets — stopped.
Someone had folded them.
Not neatly. Not like hotel staff would.
Folded the way she used to fold them in her old London apartment.
Hospital corners. One crease. Pillow angled left.
She never made her bed like that anymore.
She stepped back, pulse stuttering.
The air smelled different too. Lavender. The exact scent of her apartment diffuser from three years ago.
Someone had rearranged the room while she slept.
Someone who knew her.
Or knew who she used to be.
She checked the balcony doors — locked from the inside.
Her suitcase — unzipped.
Her toiletries — lined in a row she hadn't placed.
Her phone on the nightstand — dark.
Dead.
She plugged it in.
Nothing.
Not even a flicker.
A chill ran up her spine.
She grabbed her jacket, shoes, bag — and walked out.
The marina lay on the far side of the island, past the rose garden and down three sets of carved limestone stairs. The morning fog hung low, thick enough to blur the boats into ghost shapes.
A single attendant stood on the dock polishing a brass cleat.
A teenage boy. Too young to belong here. Too innocent-looking to be real.
"I need a boat," Selene said.
He looked up, startled. "You… you want to leave?"
"Yes."
He swallowed hard. "You can't."
"I wasn't asking for permission."
He shifted nervously. "All departures are paused, Miss Voss. For your protection."
Selene's stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
"I'm not supposed to—"
"Finish the sentence," she said, stepping closer.
He looked away. "They said you'd understand."
"Who's they?"
Silence.
Then he held out a clipboard for her to sign. "If you want, I can put in a request for you. Departure authorization usually comes in a few days."
"A few days?"
"Yes, Miss."
She stared at him.
"No one leaves the island without approval?"
"That's… correct."
"And you call that protection?"
"That's what they told us."
She stepped closer, voice lowering. "And what do you think?"
The boy's throat bobbed. "I think the island keeps who it wants."
She turned and walked away — fast — heat rising behind her eyes.
Her phone still wouldn't turn on.
When she reached the garden path, a golf cart with two staff members slowed beside her.
"Miss Voss," the driver said gently, "the owner requests you return to your villa. For rest."
"I'm not going back."
"It's for your well-being."
She kept walking.
The cart followed.
"Miss Voss," the man said again, "you don't have authorization to—"
She spun.
"Try to touch me," she said softly, "and I'll break your nose before the second one blinks."
Both men froze.
She walked away.
The cart didn't follow this time.
Back in her villa, the smell hit her first.
Coffee.
Fresh. Strong. Her exact blend — a brand that wasn't even sold in Italy.
A mug sat waiting on the dining table.
Steam rising.
She hadn't made it.
Selene scanned the room.
No one.
But the balcony curtain swayed.
She stepped toward it, slowly, breath tight.
Nothing behind it.
Only sea wind.
She slammed the door shut and locked it.
Then she saw the new thing on the counter.
A framed photograph.
She went still.
It was her.
Smiling.
Leaning against a white balcony rail.
Her hair shorter. Her lipstick red.
And beside her —
Evie Rojas.
Arms wrapped around her waist.
Both laughing.
The background wasn't London. Not Paris. Not New York.
It was her villa.
Here.
On this island.
A date was handwritten on the bottom.
June 2nd, 2024
The day before Evie disappeared.
Selene's breath caught in her throat.
She set the frame down — too hard. It cracked against the counter.
Then her phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
On its own.
Lighting up with a single notification:
1 Unread Voice Message — 00:07
From: Unknown Number
Her hands shook as she pressed play.
Evie's voice filled the room.
Breathless. Whispering. Afraid.
"Selene… if you're hearing this… it means they got to you too. Don't trust—"
Static.
A bang.
A scream.
Then:
"Run."
The message cut out.
Selene lowered the phone.
The villa felt suddenly too small.
Too silent.
Too full of ghosts.
She stepped to the mirror.
Looked at herself.
Really looked.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
Her reflection didn't answer.
CHAPTER 11: I THINK I KILLED HER
Isola di Sogni – Before Dawn
Selene dreamed of falling.
Not her.
A woman — screaming her name, arms flailing, hair whipping like a banner as she dropped backwards off the cliff. Selene stood on the edge, unable to move, her hands sticky with something red.
The woman's scream echoed too long.
And then, silence.
Only waves.
She woke gasping, her throat raw, the taste of salt and grit on her tongue.
She was lying on her side.
Not in her bed.
On the ground.
Cold stone. Damp air. Sea spray.
She sat up fast.
Her body ached.
The wind whipped her hair into her face — and she realized she was outside, near the cliff edge, barefoot, dressed only in the silk nightgown she'd worn to bed. The fabric clung to her skin, soaked through with dew and ocean mist.
The sand in her mouth was real.
So were the bruises on her wrists — deep, red-purple rings like someone had grabbed her. Or like she'd been tied.
Or both.
Her knees were scraped. Her left ankle throbbed.
And she had no memory of how she got here.
She staggered to her feet, heart pounding so loud she could feel it in her teeth.
The sky was still dark — but just barely. The horizon glowed with the thinnest line of sickly gold.
She turned, dizzy, searching for the path back to the resort—
And froze.
Lucien was already there.
Standing at the edge of the clearing. Arms crossed. Silent.
Watching her.
"How long have you been standing there?" she said, voice cracking.
"Long enough."
"Did you bring me here?"
"No," he said. "I found you."
His voice was unreadable.
Flat.
But his eyes — his eyes were fire under ice.
Selene stepped back a little. "Then what are you doing?"
"Waiting to see what you'd say."
"About what?"
He walked forward, slow and steady.
"About what you remember."
"I don't—"
"You screamed her name."
Selene blinked. "What?"
"In your sleep. Last night. Loud enough to wake half the east wing."
She shook her head. "No, I—"
"You were begging her to stop. Begging her not to jump."
Selene's stomach twisted.
Lucien stepped closer. "Do you know what you did to Evie?"
She looked up at him.
Her voice was a whisper.
"No."
Then—stronger:
"Do you?"
Lucien didn't flinch.
"I think I watched her die," he said. "But I don't know if I let her."
He stepped to the cliff edge.
"The last time I saw her — for sure — she was wearing the red dress. Your dress. And she was crying. You were there too."
"That's not possible."
"Unless someone's made it that way."
Selene shook her head. "I would never—"
"Wouldn't you?"
He turned to her.
"You said yourself you don't trust anyone. You lie for a living. You erase provenance. You forge beauty. Why not erase her?"
"I loved her."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Say that again."
Selene's lips parted.
"I loved—"
Then stopped.
Because she didn't know if that was true.
Or if someone had planted that idea, like everything else.
Lucien's voice dropped.
"Then why can't you remember her laugh?"
Selene's face broke — a crack in the surface.
She couldn't.
She couldn't hear it.
She could see it — the shape of Evie's mouth, open, smiling.
But not the sound.
It was gone.
Like someone had muted it.
Like someone had scrubbed the audio from her memories.
Her knees buckled slightly. She caught herself.
Lucien stepped forward — but stopped just short of touching her.
"Every day you stay here," he said, "you lose a little more. Today it's her voice. Tomorrow it's your own."
"What do you want from me?"
"Truth," he said. "Even if it hurts."
She looked down at her hands.
Faint scratches across the knuckles.
A half-moon gouge from a broken nail.
Like she'd clawed at something. Or someone.
"I think I killed her," she said.
Lucien stared.
"I don't remember doing it," she added, "but I think I did."
Then, quietly:
"And I think someone helped me forget."
The wind howled louder.
Lucien finally touched her — lightly. A hand at her shoulder.
"I believe you," he said.
And it was almost worse than if he hadn't.
When they got back to her villa, the staff had already made the bed.
Cleaned the floor.
Removed the photograph.
Removed the voice message.
Replaced the coffee with tea.
And on her nightstand—
A single white pill.
No note.
Just a line of text etched into the ceramic saucer beneath it.
To help with the dreams.
CHAPTER 12: THE SECRET TUNNEL
Isola di Sogni – Late Afternoon
It began with a crooked frame.
Selene noticed it while pacing the hallway outside her villa, her nerves humming, mind a tangled reel of bruises, dreams, and voices that didn't belong in her head. The painting hung in a narrow stretch of corridor — forgettable landscape, too symmetrical. She'd passed it a dozen times. But today, the bottom corner hung askew.
She stepped closer.
The frame wasn't nailed down.
She lifted it — and behind it, taped to the back of the canvas, was a map.
Not printed. Hand-drawn. On aged paper. Edges curled. Lines labeled in red ink with initials and strange symbols.
She turned it over. On the back, one word was scrawled in black pen:
LOOK BACKWARD
Her hands tightened around the edge of the frame.
Twenty minutes later, she found Hugo in the cigar lounge, sipping espresso and pretending to read Nietzsche for Narcissists.
She dropped the map on his lap.
He raised a brow. "Treasure hunt?"
"I think it's more of a graveyard tour."
"Fun." He folded the map. "I love a girl with a mystery kink."
They waited until sunset.
Then slipped through the west wing garden gate — the one marked "STAFF ONLY – UNDER RENOVATION" — and followed the crumbling stone path toward the rear cliff face, where part of the estate had been damaged in a long-forgotten landslide. The building curved here, unfinished and less polished. Real.
Hugo tapped the map as they walked.
"There's a tunnel entrance marked here," he muttered. "Past the old cellar, under the original chapel. I thought this place was pure sin, but apparently, it started with God."
Selene didn't laugh.
They reached the rusted service door. It groaned open after three hard kicks and a snapped padlock.
The air inside was cold.
Damp.
Alive.
The tunnel sloped downward fast — a narrow passage lit by flickering overhead bulbs, strung like Christmas lights by a madman. Walls sweated. The silence was too thick. Every footstep echoed like a confession.
They reached a fork.
Two paths.
One lined in red paint.
The other unmarked.
Hugo looked at her. "Which way?"
She pointed left.
"Red always means sex or blood," she said. "Usually both."
They reached the first voyeur room in silence.
It looked like an old surveillance office, retrofitted with luxurious chairs, velvet curtains, and a single pane of one-way glass overlooking a bedroom — not from the hallway or ceiling.
From inside the walls.
Selene stared through the glass.
The villa beyond was Lucien's.
She could see the edge of his bed. His unlit fireplace. A whiskey glass on the nightstand.
There was no camera in the room.
But here — in this chamber — they could see everything.
Hugo whistled low. "So this is how they know who's fucking who."
Selene moved past him, deeper into the corridor.
Each door was labeled. A number. A name. An initial.
E.M.
V.R.
H.S.
L.D.
Then — near the end:
S.V.
Her initials.
Selene Voss.
She stared at the door.
It was slightly ajar.
She pushed it open.
Inside: a single metal chair. A small monitor. A recording deck. Stacks of tapes, old and new, labeled with her name.
A camera was mounted in the corner.
It was on.
Blinking red.
Recording.
There were stills taped to the wall — images from her first night. From the masquerade. From her bed. Sleeping. Undressing. Arguing with Lucien. Laughing with Evie in the hallway from last year.
Proof.
Everything.
Every moment.
Every lie.
Laid bare.
Hugo stepped in behind her, suddenly quiet.
Selene stood frozen in the center of the room.
The walls felt like skin.
Sweating.
Watching.
"What the fuck is this?" she whispered.
Hugo exhaled, slowly. "This is not surveillance."
"What is it?"
"This is a behavioral archive," he said. "They're studying us."
"Studying what?"
He pointed at the monitors. "How far we'll go before we snap."
Selene turned, eyes sharp. "You knew."
"I suspected," he said. "But this? This is deeper. This is curated."
He stepped to the tape deck. Picked one at random. Pressed play.
Selene's voice filled the room — from two nights ago.
"If I ever disappear, make sure they don't bury me in red."
She didn't remember saying it.
Didn't remember the moment. The dress. The glass of wine.
She pressed stop.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Then Hugo spoke, almost gently.
"You were never just a guest, Selene."
She stared at the blinking red light on the camera.
And finally said what she hadn't wanted to until now:
"I don't think I came here to find out what happened to Evie."
Hugo's brow rose. "Then why did you?"
Her voice was flat.
"I think I came back to remember what I did to her."
CHAPTER 13: THE GIRL IN THE MIRROR
Isola di Sogni – That Night
The tape wasn't marked with a date.
Just a word, scrawled in shaky black ink across the label:
MARLA
Selene held it in her hands for a long moment before sliding it into the deck.
The monitor crackled to life. Grainy black-and-white. Static hissed at the edges. The camera angle was low, intimate — not voyeuristic. It had been placed intentionally, almost gently, as if the person behind it had meant to preserve something beautiful.
The villa on the screen was familiar.
Her villa.
But a year ago.
The bed was unmade. A record turned on a vintage player in the corner — the crackle of soft jazz mixing with distant laughter.
Then they appeared.
Evie Rojas.
And her.
Or someone who looked like her.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
Same scar above the right brow.
But the woman on the screen looked… freer. Lighter. Messier in a way Selene didn't allow herself to be anymore.
Evie flopped back onto the bed in a silk robe, laughing so hard she snorted. The other woman — Selene, but not quite — fell beside her, kissing her cheek, her collarbone, her stomach.
The sound cut in clearly now.
"You're such a brat," Selene's voice said.
"Takes one to love one," Evie replied, breathless.
"We can't stay here."
"Then don't."
"I'm serious."
"So leave."
"With you?"
Evie rolled toward her.
A slow smile.
"That's the plan, Marla."
Selene froze.
She rewound it.
Played it again.
"That's the plan, Marla."
The name hit like a slap.
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Evie whispered it again a few seconds later — laughing as she tucked a piece of hair behind "Marla's" ear.
It wasn't a code name.
Not a nickname.
It was spoken like truth.
Like love.
And Selene — Marla — didn't correct her.
She hit pause.
Stared at the screen.
The woman with Evie looked exactly like her. Same mannerisms. Same voice. Same tattoo on her inner wrist — the one she'd gotten at nineteen and half-removed by twenty-two.
But the way she smiled?
That was different.
That was someone who hadn't yet built the fortress Selene now lived inside.
That woman was open.
Unarmed.
Selene touched the screen.
It flickered slightly.
She let her fingers fall.
Then she fast-forwarded.
The image blurred — hours vanished in seconds.
Then stopped.
Different scene.
Same night.
Evie in the bath. Her arms on the edge. Champagne flute in hand.
Selene — Marla — standing at the mirror, wrapped in a towel, looking at herself.
She stared at her reflection in the glass for a long time.
Then she whispered:
"Do you think I could ever be someone else?"
Evie looked over.
"You already are."
"No, I mean for real. Not just on paper. Not just a forged name on a flight manifest."
"You think Selene is the lie?"
"I think Marla is the part I killed."
"Then let's resurrect her."
"How?"
Evie stood slowly. Wet, radiant. She walked to the mirror behind Selene, wrapped her arms around her waist, pressed her cheek to her shoulder.
"Say it," she whispered.
"Say what?"
"Say who you are."
There was silence.
Then:
"I'm Marla Jessin."
"Louder."
"I'm Marla Jessin."
Then the screen glitched.
Lines across the monitor. Audio hiss.
The recording ended.
Tape stopped spinning.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Hugo had been standing just outside the doorway.
He hadn't said a word during the footage.
Now, he stepped in slowly.
"You used a different name last year," he said.
Selene didn't look at him. "Marla Jessin."
"You checked in under it. Passport matched. Fingerprints too."
She turned to him.
"I think Selene Voss is the cover."
"Then who's the one looking into the mirror right now?"
Selene couldn't answer.
The woman on that tape had kissed Evie like a future.
She didn't know how to do that anymore.
Hugo crouched by the box of tapes.
Pulled out another, this one marked only with a number.
06.03.24
Evie's last day.
He didn't hand it to her.
Not yet.
"You sure you want to see this?" he asked.
Selene stared at the screen.
Saw her own face, smiling at something she could no longer remember.
Then nodded once.
Hard.
Like she was ready.
Even if she wasn't.
CHAPTER 14: YOU WERE HERE BEFORE
Isola di Sogni – Sienna's Private Salon, Dusk
Sienna Malcovich lived like a woman who never expected consequences.
Her private salon was carved into the top of the cliffside, just above the highest villa, where the air was thinner, and the wind came in angry and unfiltered. The walls were made of glass, the floor polished white stone, and the art… unsettling. Sculptures of women split in half. A taxidermy swan curled around a candelabra. A canvas painted entirely in lipstick.
Selene sat in a low chair, legs crossed, body still. She hadn't been offered tea. Or wine. Or anything at all.
Sienna lounged on a fainting couch nearby, barefoot, wrapped in a gold silk robe that slipped off one shoulder like it had somewhere better to be.
"You're not surprised," Sienna said, examining her nails. "That's a shame. I planned for drama."
"You lied to me," Selene said.
"Darling, I lie to everyone. It's good etiquette on this island."
"You told me I'd never been here."
"No, I said nothing you remembered was real." She smiled, lazy and unbothered. "Very different."
Selene leaned forward. "How long have you known who I am?"
"Which version?" Sienna's eyes sparkled. "Because Marla checked in last year with Evie Rojas. Room 12. Shared bed. Shared charges. Shared secrets."
Selene's stomach twisted.
"You stayed for nine days," Sienna went on. "You danced. You swam. You fought. You loved her. Or played at it. You left on the tenth morning. Alone."
Selene blinked. "I… I don't remember leaving."
"Of course you don't."
"You said she disappeared."
"She did."
"But I left—"
"Alone."
"So where did she go?"
Sienna's smile dimmed.
"She never checked out."
A thick silence settled.
Only the wind dared interrupt.
Selene stood slowly, heart racing. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Sienna shrugged. "Because you asked them not to."
"I never—"
"Marla did." Her voice sharpened, just slightly. "You paid for a full memory suppression. Premium package. You signed the papers. Yourself. In this very room."
"That's not possible."
"Oh, darling. Anything is possible when you're scared enough to forget."
Selene paced, hands clenched. "Why would I choose to forget her?"
"Because you loved her."
"That doesn't make sense—"
"Doesn't it?" Sienna stood, walking barefoot across the stone, her robe whispering against her skin. "Some people forget out of pain. Others out of guilt. You, my dear… you wanted to forget what you're capable of."
Selene turned sharply. "You think I killed her."
"I think," Sienna said softly, "that the last footage we have of Evie alive is her walking into the cliff chapel… after a screaming match with you."
Selene's breath caught.
"She went in alone," Sienna added. "You followed. Only one came out."
Selene shook her head. "No. No, I didn't—"
"You emerged thirty minutes later, barefoot, bleeding from one hand. The cameras went dark for that stretch of time. Convenient, yes?"
"I don't remember any of this."
"That was the point."
Sienna stepped closer.
"You loved a girl who loved danger. And maybe she got what she wanted. Or maybe she got you."
Selene looked up, eyes burning. "Why are you telling me now?"
"Because the island's done playing with you."
Sienna reached into a drawer.
Pulled out a bracelet — tarnished gold. Engraved.
To M, from E. Run only if I run with you.
Selene reached out with trembling fingers.
Took it.
Her hands shook as she held it.
"I need to see the chapel," she said.
Sienna met her gaze.
Then stepped aside.
"I suggest you go alone."
Selene left the salon as the last light drained from the sky.
The bracelet was still in her hand.
Her name engraved on it — not Selene. Not Voss.
M.
For Marla.
The girl she had been.
Or the girl she was before she did something she'd begged to forget.
CHAPTER 15: TELL ME I'M NOT HER
Isola di Sogni – Storm Building
The rain started too suddenly to be natural.
One second, Selene was walking the gravel path back toward her villa, fists clenched around the bracelet Sienna had given her — the engraving still burning in her palm — and the next, the sky cracked open above her like glass under pressure.
She didn't run.
Didn't flinch.
She walked through it, soaked to the skin in seconds, hair slick to her scalp, dress clinging like regret.
By the time she reached her door, the storm had already pushed open the balcony shutters.
The wind had rearranged the room.
Papers scattered. A glass shattered.
And Lucien was inside.
Waiting.
No umbrella.
No explanation.
Just there.
His shirt half-unbuttoned, chest rising with each breath like something had chased him here. Or like he had chased something inside himself and found it waiting, ugly and alive.
She stared at him.
He didn't speak.
Just looked at her — like she was already unraveling in front of him.
"You knew," she said, voice rough.
"I suspected."
"You let me think I was imagining it."
"Would you have believed me?"
She took a step toward him. "You saw us together."
"Yes."
"And didn't tell me."
"I didn't want to remember."
"But now I can't stop."
He moved then — fast, like gravity had given up on both of them — and gripped her arms, rain-soaked fabric squelching under his hands.
"I tried to forget her," he said. "I tried so fucking hard. But then you showed up again and—"
"I'm not her," Selene snapped.
Lucien's jaw flexed.
"I'm not."
"Then why do you smell like her?" he growled. "Why do you sleep like her, fight like her, come like her—"
She slapped him.
Hard.
His head snapped to the side.
But he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
She whispered, "Tell me I'm not her."
He looked at her.
Couldn't say anything.
She shoved him.
"Say it."
He grabbed her wrists — hard. "Do you want me to lie?"
"Yes!"
They stared at each other, breathless, bodies already shaking from adrenaline and something darker.
Then she lunged.
They collided — lips, hands, bodies — all teeth and rain and desperation. She kissed him like she wanted to punish his mouth for knowing too much, and he responded in kind — a bruising, messy connection that wasn't about seduction anymore. It was about needing to feel something that wasn't erasure.
Lucien spun her, slammed her back against the wall. Rainwater dripped down her legs. Her dress was already soaked through, translucent, sticking to every curve.
He yanked it over her head — not gentle, not slow.
She pulled at his belt like she was unwrapping a threat.
Their mouths never left each other.
She bit his lower lip; he groaned, shoved her panties aside and lifted her with brute force, her thighs wrapping around his hips like instinct.
He thrust into her hard, fast, with zero ceremony — the kind of fucking that asked no permission and gave no promises.
She gasped, clawed at his shoulders.
He pressed his forehead to hers.
And whispered, "Evie."
She froze.
Mid-thrust.
Mid-breath.
He blinked, horror cracking through his expression.
"Wait—"
Selene shoved him backward — off her, out of her.
She stumbled, pulling her wet dress back down, shaking.
"Don't you dare say that name while you're inside me."
Lucien stood there, lips parted, wet hair dripping over his eyes.
"I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did."
She wiped her mouth. Her own fingers trembled against her skin.
"You don't know who I am anymore," she said. "I don't know who I am."
He took a step toward her. "Then let's find out. Together."
"No," she said. "Not like this."
She grabbed the bracelet from the nightstand. The one with the engraving.
To M, from E.
She held it up.
"I think I already found out."
She didn't wait for him to speak again.
She walked into the rain, barefoot, half-naked, bleeding, shaking — but with one undeniable truth in her chest:
Someone had called her Evie.
And someone had believed it.
Including her.
CHAPTER 16: THE CONFESSION GAME
Isola di Sogni – The Final Masquerade
The invitation arrived as a single black card slipped under Selene's door.
THE CONFESSION GAME
Tonight. Midnight. Formal masks required. All truths encouraged. No phones. No names. No lies… unless you dare.
– S.
No location.
No RSVP.
Just a dare dressed as a party.
Selene stared at it for a long time before setting it down beside the bracelet she no longer wore.
Midnight came like a knife through velvet.
The ballroom had been transformed.
Gone were the lanterns and champagne towers. Tonight the space was cold, dimly lit by candelabras mounted in iron sconces. Curtains hung thick and black. Mirrors were draped. Music hummed from an unseen quartet, a slow, minor-key waltz that felt just off tempo enough to feel wrong.
Everyone wore masks.
Real ones, this time.
No flirtation, no glitter.
Just black and bone and silk and teeth.
Even Sienna wore a face of pure white, mouthless, with small painted tears. She stood on the raised dais beside a bell and a glass hourglass filled with red sand.
"Darlings," she called, voice echoing. "Welcome to the last game."
The crowd stilled.
"One by one, you will pair with a stranger and confess. One sentence. One secret. No names. The person who hears your truth must decide if they'll share their own. Or walk away."
She rang the bell.
The room shifted.
And the dance began.
Selene moved through the crowd like smoke.
She wore black — satin and lace, sleek and simple, with a half-mask that covered the top half of her face like a shadow. Her eyes scanned every guest, every angle, watching for signs — not of danger, but of recognition.
People whispered.
Laughed nervously.
Some wept after hearing secrets that cracked like bone.
Her first confession came from a woman with a trembling voice behind a gold-and-green mask.
"I paid someone to fake my mother's will."
Selene said nothing. Just nodded and stepped away.
She whispered her own secret to a stranger in a velvet wolf mask.
"I once forged a death certificate for a man who wasn't dead. I don't know what happened to him. I didn't ask."
The wolf didn't reply.
Just smiled.
Moved on.
Halfway through the night, the game changed.
Someone sobbed after a confession.
Someone else screamed.
And then—
The lights dimmed further.
The sand in the hourglass ran out.
Sienna didn't stop the game.
She rang the bell again.
And the confessions continued.
Selene paused near the back of the ballroom, by a curtained alcove.
The shadows were deeper here. Voices quieter. Secrets thicker.
A man in a horned mask leaned close to another, his voice rough, slurred.
"I watched her die."
Selene froze.
"I told her not to jump," the man went on. "But she laughed. Said she wanted to be remembered for the fall."
A pause.
"I didn't stop her."
Selene's pulse slammed in her throat.
Evie.
He was talking about Evie.
She moved.
Fast.
Stepped between them, yanked the horned mask from the man's face—
Hugo.
Smiling.
Of course.
She stared at him, stunned.
He just raised his brows and sipped a glass of champagne.
"You sick bastard."
"Careful," he said. "I'm fragile."
"Was that real?"
He tilted his head. "Does it matter?"
Selene's hands clenched. "You think this is a joke?"
"I think everything on this island is."
"You're playing with someone's death—"
"I'm playing with yours," he said, softly.
Her breath caught.
"What did you say?"
But Hugo only smiled.
Then stepped back into the crowd.
And vanished.
She turned to chase him—
But a hand touched her shoulder.
Lucien.
Unmasked.
Expression unreadable.
"Did you hear that?" she said.
"Yes."
"Do you believe him?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore."
Selene looked back to the center of the room.
Sienna stood alone now.
The bell silent.
The room hushed.
A masked figure in a long red coat stepped onto the platform beside her.
They said nothing.
Just pointed.
Directly at Selene.
Everyone turned.
The room swallowed the air.
Then the figure removed their mask.
It was a woman.
Smiling.
And she looked just like Evie.
CHAPTER 17: THE ROOM INSIDE HER HEAD
Isola di Sogni – Below Sea Level
There was a hallway beneath the wine cellar that wasn't on any blueprint.
Hugo had mentioned it once, half-drunk, half-daring her to check it out. A back door behind a fake wine rack. "Sienna stores more than Bordeaux in her basement," he'd said, tapping the side of his nose like the world was a riddle only he was clever enough to solve.
Selene found the latch behind a 1998 bottle of Château Margaux.
The door opened with a sigh.
The air beyond it was cold and still — like time had frozen inside.
The stairs led down farther than they should have.
Twisting. Narrow. Worn.
At the bottom, the concrete walls were stained with damp, and the tile floor had long since surrendered to mold. It didn't look like the rest of the resort. No luxury. No charm.
Just a long corridor with six doors.
Each marked by a letter.
A
B
C
D
E
And at the very end —
F
Selene stood in front of F, her breath visible in the cold.
The handle stuck. Then gave.
Inside, the room looked like every cliché she'd ever seen in a psychological horror film — a single cot, a metal sink, walls padded with thick, yellowed foam. No windows. No mirrors.
But what truly froze her was the table.
Covered in files.
Hundreds of them. Neatly stacked, labelled with initials and barcodes.
She searched for her own — hands moving faster, desperation taking over.
And then—
She found it.
A brown folder. Taped shut. No name on the cover.
Just a patient number.
And a post-it:
MARLA JESSIN
(Subject 43-C)
She peeled it open.
Inside: pages and pages of evaluation notes, behavioral observations, psychological assessments.
Some written in her own handwriting.
Some signed at the bottom with initials:
L.D.
Lucien Drake.
Her vision blurred.
She read phrases at random:
"Extreme emotional repression followed by violent romantic attachment."
"Patient exhibits belief she is someone else — possibly constructed identity."
"Requested procedure: MNX-3, Level 2 Memory Wash. Approved by L.D."
She flipped to the last page.
Most of it had been blacked out.
Not redacted.
Burned.
Charred edges, ash flakes.
But one line remained intact — faint, in Lucien's handwriting.
"She asked me to do it. I warned her. She said it hurt too much to love her."
Selene dropped the file.
The room tilted.
She grabbed the edge of the table to stay upright.
Memories — not hers, or maybe exactly hers — began to bleed through the cracks.
Evie's voice, whispering her name.
A needle.
A white room.
Lucien, saying goodbye.
Sienna watching.
And the echo of a promise—
"Make me someone else."
Selene sank onto the cot.
The walls weren't padded to keep people safe.
They were padded to silence screams.
She looked down at her wrist.
No bracelet now.
But she could still feel the phantom weight of it.
Her name engraved there.
And suddenly, she didn't know if it said Selene.
Or Marla.
Or Evie.
Or someone else entirely.
At the door, something scratched.
A whisper — real or imagined — crawling under the crack like smoke.
"They never let you leave until they've finished writing your ending."
She stood.
Stepped into the hallway.
At the far end, above the stairs, a shadow waited.
Tall. Still.
Lucien.
Watching her like a man who'd destroyed something he once tried to protect.
CHAPTER 18: BURN THIS PLACE DOWN
Isola di Sogni – Truth Has Teeth
Lucien didn't speak until they were back in the villa.
Selene was soaked in dust and sweat from the tunnels below, files stuffed into her bag like stolen organs. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. Her pulse hadn't come down in hours.
Lucien poured two glasses of something dark. Left one untouched.
"You've seen it now," he said. "What this place really is."
She stared at him, mute.
He leaned against the bar, watching her the way he always did — like he could hear the thoughts she was too afraid to say aloud.
"You think this is a resort for the rich to disappear into," he said. "It's not. It's a behavioral experiment. An ecosystem."
"Of what?" she asked. "Sex and trauma?"
"Choice," he said.
Selene scoffed. "Choice?"
Lucien nodded. "They observe how we act when we think no one's watching. When we believe we're free. When we fall in love. Or when we lose it."
Her stomach turned.
"And you knew?"
"I didn't know at first," he said. "I came here because of Evie. I'd heard rumors. Whispers of people who came here and came back... wrong."
He looked down.
"I thought I could protect her. I thought I could help her leave."
Selene narrowed her eyes. "And me?"
"I didn't know you were part of it," he said. "Not until you arrived and called yourself Selene."
Her voice dropped.
"You approved the memory wash."
He didn't deny it.
"I warned you. I told you what it would do. But you were in pain. You didn't want to remember what you'd done. Who you'd loved. Or how it ended."
"And how did it end, Lucien?" she asked. "Because all I've seen are fragments. Pieces. No answers."
He drained his drink in one long swallow.
"I don't know," he said.
And for the first time… she believed he meant it.
He left the villa not long after, claiming he had something to retrieve — a drive, a file, something he didn't name.
Selene didn't stop him.
She waited until the lock clicked behind him, then opened his bag.
Inside: A keycard. A burner phone. A folded map of the island — marked.
And at the bottom, a USB drive in a silver case.
Unlabeled.
Just a scratch across its surface.
She plugged it into her tablet.
A video opened.
Time-stamped: June 3rd, 2024 — 4:37 AM
No sound.
A view from a cliffside surveillance camera, slightly angled.
Evie stood near the edge.
Pacing. Agitated.
Lucien stood ten feet away.
Hands in his coat pockets.
Selene leaned in, breath sharp.
Evie turned — said something, gesturing wildly.
Lucien didn't move.
Evie stepped forward. Shouted.
Lucien took a single step.
She flinched.
He raised his hand.
Took another step.
Evie turned — as if to walk away — and he grabbed her arm.
There was a struggle.
Not long.
Three seconds, maybe four.
Then—
She stumbled.
Lucien shoved her back.
Not hard.
Almost like a reflex.
But it was enough.
Evie's foot slipped on the edge of the cliff.
Her body twisted in the air.
And she vanished from the frame.
Gone.
Lucien froze.
Stared at the space where she'd been.
Then turned slowly — and walked away.
Selene couldn't breathe.
She rewound it.
Watched again.
And again.
The angle didn't lie.
The camera hadn't blinked.
There was no glitch.
No ambiguity.
Lucien Drake had pushed her.
She stood in the center of the room, heart loud and awful in her chest.
The walls seemed to shrink.
The air thickened.
And for the first time since she'd arrived on this godforsaken island…
Selene felt hate.
Clean. Cold. Pure.
Not fear. Not lust.
Not doubt.
Just clarity.
He killed her.
And let her forget.
Then fucked her like it meant nothing.
Then asked her to trust him.
She deleted nothing.
Downloaded everything.
Then pulled the files from her own folder — every page, every falsified note, every erased record — and threw them into the fireplace.
Flames roared to life, hungry.
She fed them more.
The photos.
The map.
The footage of her and Evie, smiling.
Lies and truth burned the same.
When the last paper curled to ash, Selene stood over it, lit by firelight.
Not crying.
Not doubting.
Just deciding.
The island wanted an ending.
It was going to get one.
CHAPTER 19: LOVE ME TOMORROW
Isola di Sogni – One Last Masquerade
The storm broke just before midnight.
Selene watched the lightning fracture the sea, the waves beating the rocks below like a warning drum. The whole island felt electric, as if something buried deep had started to wake up.
Perfect.
She pulled on the red dress.
Evie's dress.
The same one she'd burned in her mind a hundred times.
The same one she'd found in Room 12.
She wore it like armor now.
Then she slipped on the gold half-mask — the one Evie had worn in the first footage.
And with a steady hand, she wrote a name across her invitation:
MARLA
Sienna's final masquerade was set in the abandoned chapel — the one built into the cliffside, cold stone and candlelight, pews pulled out to make room for the dance floor.
Every guest had received a custom mask.
No two were alike.
Selene moved through the room as someone else. Not the elegant art thief. Not the woman who'd been broken open by half-memories and half-lies.
Tonight, she was Marla Jessin.
Evie's lover.
Lucien's guilt.
The ghost who'd come back dressed for blood.
She found Hugo first.
He was drunk. Of course.
Spinning some heiress in a too-short skirt and a mask shaped like a moth.
He froze when he saw her.
"Jesus," he said under his breath. "You look like—"
She smiled. "I know."
He gave a low whistle. "Is this your villain origin story?"
"It's my ending."
"Yours or his?"
"Yes."
Lucien arrived late.
Alone.
No mask.
Of course.
He always wanted to be seen.
Selene didn't approach right away. She let the tension build. Let him see her in flashes — across the dance floor, behind a curtain, near the altar. Each time, he paused, heart written across his face like a man seeing a ghost he once loved and maybe still feared.
When she was ready, she approached.
Slow. Precise.
The music softened. Candles flickered low.
She stood before him.
He stared.
"You," he breathed. "You're—"
"Evie?" she said.
He flinched.
"No," he said.
She tilted her head.
"Selene?"
Another pause.
"No," he whispered.
Then she stepped closer. Pressed a single finger to his lips.
"Marla," she said. "Call me Marla."
His knees almost buckled.
And then — under the chapel's decaying arch, surrounded by masked strangers and broken rules — she whispered:
"Tell me what happened."
He closed his eyes.
She waited.
And this time, he told the truth.
"She wanted to die," he said.
The words landed without resistance.
"She told me she didn't want to leave. Not without you. But you were already gone. You'd run, Sel—Marla. You left her after the fight. You said things that broke her. We both did."
His hands shook. His voice didn't.
"She walked to the cliff that morning because she couldn't see a version of herself that lived past it. And she made me promise."
Selene's breath hitched.
"Promise what?"
Lucien's eyes filled. Not tears. Something worse.
Memory.
"She said, 'Don't let them take me. Don't let them turn me into a case file or an experiment.'"
He looked at her.
"She asked me to push her."
The storm outside cracked, thunder rolling over the chapel like applause from the dead.
"She made me swear," Lucien whispered. "And then she made you promise to forget."
Selene stared.
"I didn't—"
"She begged you. You were hysterical. You said you couldn't live with what happened. You said love wasn't supposed to come with a body count."
Her knees buckled.
Lucien caught her.
"You told me to take it from you," he said. "The memory. The guilt. The love."
She looked up at him.
"And you did."
He nodded.
"I did."
The room blurred.
For a moment, she wasn't in the chapel.
She was on the cliff.
Barefoot.
Evie in front of her. Crying.
Saying goodbye.
Then Lucien, beside her.
Taking her hand.
Saying: "I'll carry it."
The music started again.
Low. Hollow. Like it came from under the earth.
Selene stepped back.
Ripped off her mask.
The guests turned to look.
Gasps.
Recognition.
Fear.
She looked at Lucien — the man who had killed for her.
And lied for her.
And loved her enough to let her become someone else.
She held his gaze.
Then said, softly:
"Tell them everything."
And walked away.
CHAPTER 20: THE WOMAN WHO STAYED
Isola di Sogni – Some Time Later
The flames had gone out weeks ago.
The surveillance chamber beneath the resort — the one with the tapes, the recordings, the forgotten truths — had burned in a slow, hungry fire.
No alarms had sounded.
No staff intervened.
No one had tried to stop her.
Sienna was already gone by then. Left the island the same way she ran it — in the dead of night, with a smirk and a signed waiver. She hadn't said goodbye. Just left a single envelope on the grand piano with two words scribbled in red ink:
"Your turn."
Selene had stayed.
Not because she was trapped.
Not because she was lost.
But because, for the first time in her life, she chose to.
The woman who'd arrived was gone.
So was the girl who'd died.
And the one in between — the one who loved too recklessly, forgot too completely — had burned with the rest of the lies.
What remained was something new.
Or maybe something ancient.
She walked the halls now like they were hers.
Because they were.
The staff never questioned it.
When she took Sienna's old suite — the one at the very top of the cliff — no one blinked. When she requested the guest rosters, the security files, the rewritten identities, everyone obeyed. When she spoke, they listened.
No one asked her real name.
And she never offered it.
The island didn't feel haunted anymore.
It felt like a stage waiting for its next performance.
And Selene — or Marla, or whatever she was calling herself these days — was no longer the audience.
She was the director.
The hostess.
The watcher.
One afternoon, just before sunset, a boat docked at the far edge of the private marina.
From the observation deck, Selene saw her.
The new guest.
She looked young. Nervous. Wrapped in a scarf too heavy for the weather. The kind of woman who packed more secrets than dresses. The kind of woman Selene would have fallen in love with, once.
Now she only watched.
Waited.
Smiled.
She met the guest at the stone path leading from the dock.
The girl looked up, startled. "I thought someone else would—"
Selene extended her hand.
"Welcome to Isola di Sogni," she said.
The girl hesitated.
Took it.
"Thanks," she said. "I'm… I'm not really sure what I'm doing here."
Selene smiled.
Slow. Rehearsed. Warm enough to feel like safety.
"That's the point," she said. "Let me show you around."
And she did.
They walked together into the golden hour, through gardens that knew too much, past villas that whispered when the doors were closed.
Behind them, the sun began to sink.
And the island watched.
Smiling.
Waiting.
Because no one ever leaves clean.
But some learn to stay.
And some, like her, learn to reign.