Chapter 4: The Devil Wears Memory
1130 Words
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The resort didn’t wake up the same after the gunshots.
Security was doubled. Tourists whispered about gang violence, some already booking flights home. But Isla? She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pack. She watched.
The chaos was convenient.
Smoke to cover her fire.
She sat by the pool that morning, sunglasses shielding her haunted gaze. Her fingers absently played with the rim of her glass, swirling the melting ice like it held secrets. The sunlight kissed her bare shoulders, but no warmth reached her eyes.
Dante was across the terrace.
Watching her.
Of course he was.
He approached slowly, warily now. Like he sensed the edge underneath her silk smile. His usual confidence was dialed down, his swagger hesitant, like he wasn’t sure what version of her he’d get this time.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him, only shrugged.
He took that as a yes and sat across from her. For a moment, neither spoke. Only the wind dared make a sound, rustling the palm trees like whispered warnings.
Then he broke the silence.
“You disappeared last night.”
“You noticed,” she replied coolly.
“I’m not blind. You were shaking.”
She laughed once, low and bitter. “Everyone was shaking, Dante. There were bullets flying.”
“Not like you. You looked… haunted.”
Her hand tightened around her glass, knuckles whitening.
“Maybe I am.”
He studied her, the furrow in his brows deepening. “What haunts you?”
She looked at him, and for a split second, let the mask slip.
“You do.”
His mouth parted, stunned.
But before he could ask more, she stood. Her robe fluttered in the wind like a warning. Her shadow fell across his lap like a curse.
“I’m going sailing,” she said.
“Alone?” His brows lifted.
She didn’t answer, just gave a pointed glance at his watch. “You’ve got secrets to hide. I’ve got waves to scream into.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
He hesitated. “You really hate me, don’t you?”
She turned halfway, her voice softer than a blade.
“I’m not sure what I feel yet. But I promise—when I figure it out, you’ll know.”
And then she left, her heels clicking like gunshots against the tile.
---
The sea was angry today.
Waves slammed against the yacht as Isla stood at the bow, dress clinging to her body, hair whipping like wildfire. The salt air bit into her skin, but she didn’t care.
Pain reminded her she was alive.
She opened the envelope again—the third one now. Delivered to her suite while she showered.
Inside wasn’t a photo this time.
It was a USB.
She plugged it into her phone, heart in her throat.
A video.
The same room. That same night.
But this time, it had sound.
Her voice. Crying. Pleading.
And his voice—Dante’s—laughing with the others. Joking. Calling her “sweetheart” like her pain was entertainment. His voice, soaked in alcohol and venom, echoing over the screen.
“You like that, don’t you?” he’d slurred.
The laughter. The jokes. The cruelty.
She dropped the phone like it burned.
Fell to her knees.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and silent. No sobs. Just a hollow ache in her chest that consumed everything.
This was what she needed—proof. But it broke something. Again.
The sea screamed with her.
She screamed back.
And the wind howled, like it carried the voice of every memory she tried to kill.
---
That night, she dressed in red.
Not the color of love. But war.
The dress hugged her like vengeance. Slit high, back low, neckline sinful. Her hair was a storm and her lips were blood.
She knew how to weaponize beauty. And tonight, she was going to bleed someone dry.
Dante waited at the bar.
Of course he did.
He stood when he saw her. His eyes ran over her body like a flame over gasoline. “You look like trouble.”
She smiled. “That’s because I am.”
He offered her a drink.
She took it.
Poison would’ve tasted the same.
They danced.
Slow. Twisting. A game of shadows and silk. His hands were gentle on her waist, but her mind screamed with the memory of them being cruel. She held her head high. Didn’t flinch when he touched her. Didn’t falter when he looked at her like she was something he might lose.
He didn’t deserve that fear.
“Why do I feel like I know you?” he asked softly.
She tilted her head. “Because I used to scream your name.”
He froze.
“What?”
She laughed, sharp and false. “In my dreams,” she lied. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He relaxed. But not completely.
Good.
Let him feel that edge.
Let him taste that fear she lived in.
---
Later, they walked the beach. Moonlight painted his features in silver, making him look almost innocent.
Almost.
“Where are you from, really?” he asked.
“Nowhere worth remembering.”
He chuckled softly. “You keep running from something?”
“Don’t we all?”
“Who hurt you?”
She looked at him. Her voice was calm, but her eyes screamed.
“You did.”
He stopped walking.
She smiled again, crueler this time.
“I’m kidding,” she added, voice light. “You’d remember if you did, wouldn’t you?”
He didn't answer.
Good.
Because silence was louder than denial.
---
Back in her suite, she found the mirror cleaned.
Replaced.
But a new message was left—this time on the window, written in steam:
“He remembers more than he says.”
Her blood iced over.
Her heartbeat stuttered.
She turned off the lights.
Darkness wrapped around her like an old friend.
She whispered into it, “Then I’ll make him confess.”
Even if it meant burning the world around him to ash.
---
Meanwhile, across the resort—Dante sat in his room.
Phone in hand.
The video playing.
Her face.
That night.
That pain.
His jaw clenched.
His voice—on the recording—laughing.
“I was drunk,” he whispered to himself. “I didn’t know…”
But he had known.
He’d buried it. Like everything else.
And it was surfacing now—memory by memory, like ghosts clawing their way out of his subconscious. Her scream. The bruises. The silence that followed.
He remembered.
Not all of it. But enough.
His hand trembled.
He deleted the video.
But ghosts didn’t die so easily.
They came back louder.
Hungrier.
--
- Writer
