LOVE IN DUNGEON

The first time Jackson Reid laid eyes on the Dungeon, he’d been too broken to care about its name. It wasn’t an actual dungeon, of course, but that’s what the locals called it—a forgotten edge of Maine where saltwater air replaced city fumes, and lobster traps were more common than cell signals. Fisherman’s Corner was its official name, but only the tourists used that. Jackson hadn’t come here for the view. He’d come here to disappear. Two years ago, his life had looked nothing like this. He had a penthouse apartment in Portland, a six-figure job in digital marketing, and a woman who had promised forever. Or so he thought. When Tessa told him she was pregnant, he had gone all in—bought a house, painted a nursery, even gave her access to his accounts. He wanted to do right by her. By the baby. But forever ended when the DNA results came back. He wasn’t the father. She didn’t even cry when she told him. She just packed up what she could—including most of his money—and left. All he had left was a heart too heavy to carry and a brother who offered him a cot in his fishing shack. And so, Jackson Reid landed in the Dungeon. Salt air. Wooden docks. Blue-collar lives that didn’t ask questions. That was exactly what he needed. He didn’t mind the early mornings or the cold Atlantic biting through his jacket. At least the ocean didn’t lie to him. It just kept pulling and pushing, like life. Amelia Carter gripped the steering wheel as her Tesla glided over potholes like it was fighting for its life. She had no idea where she was going. Somewhere. Anywhere that wasn’t Boston. Her hands trembled, not from fear but from exhaustion. Her makeup had worn off hours ago, mascara trailing beneath her eyes like bruises. Her phone was dead. Her charger was broken. She hadn’t planned this trip—just got in the car and drove. Men had always told her she was “intimidating”—too successful, too confident, too everything. Until they needed something. Her last boyfriend, Derek, had needed a “loan.” Before him, Bryan had needed a sponsor for his “dream business.” Love always came with a price tag. Every time she gave a piece of herself, it felt like something got taken. Now, she had nothing left to give. When her car gave a violent jolt and coasted to a stop near a weather-beaten sign that read Fisherman’s Corner – Pop. 1,028, she let out a hollow laugh. Figures. Of course the car would die here. She got out, her designer boots sinking into the gravel, and looked around. It smelled like salt and smoke. A few boats bobbed in the distance. There was a rusty gas station nearby, a sign that said “Nancy’s Motel – $35 a Night” hanging crooked from a post. It was the ugliest place she’d ever seen. But for the first time in months, she didn’t feel afraid. Jackson watched from the dock as the woman stepped out of the sleek, too-expensive car. She looked like someone who had made a wrong turn... or was about to ask for directions to the nearest Starbucks. Not many outsiders came to the Dungeon. Especially not ones who wore heels and silk blouses. He narrowed his eyes. He didn’t trust women who looked that put together. Too much perfume. Too many lies. His brother, Ben, nudged him. “New blood. Think she’s lost?” Jackson grunted. “She’ll be gone in three days.” Ben smirked. “Bet you ten bucks she stays longer.” “Not interested.” But Jackson’s eyes lingered anyway. There was something about her—something in the way she didn’t freak out, didn’t cry, didn’t curse the heavens. She just stood there, like someone waiting for the chaos to catch up. He knew that look. He wore it once. At Nancy’s Motel, Mia booked a room under a fake name—just in case. The room was tiny, with a creaky bed, a faded quilt, and a mini fridge that hummed louder than her thoughts. But when she opened the window and felt the ocean breeze brush her skin, something inside her exhaled. She hadn’t felt peace in a long, long time. That night, she fell asleep to the sound of waves instead of city noise. No texts from men asking for favors. No meetings. No expectations. Just stillness. Across the village, Jackson stood on the porch of his shack, mug of black coffee in hand. He told himself she didn’t matter. She was just another outsider with soft hands and expensive taste. But something told him... This time, things might be different.