Chapter 1: The Girl in Red
1107 Words
The island hadn’t changed.
Same salty air. Same golden sun painting the waves. Same fake smiles stretched across the faces of the rich and damned. Eden Shore Resort still glowed like a paradise dipped in sin. Only now, she wasn’t just another nameless girl blending into the background.
Now, she wore red.
Scarlet. Bold. Dangerous. Like blood on white sheets.
Her heels clicked against the marble floors as she walked through the lobby, hips swaying like a warning. Heads turned. Men stared. Women whispered. But no one knew. Not yet.
Not that the girl who disappeared two years ago was back. Not that Isla Rayne was alive beneath the lashes, the curves, the lips painted the color of vengeance. Not that she came back to bury the past—and everyone in it.
"Reina De Lune," she said at the front desk, voice smooth, eyes hard. "Oceanview suite."
The concierge smiled too wide. Tapped a few keys. Handed her a card like she was another guest.
She took it with a soft, icy smile. "Room 309."
Her throat tightened, but her smile didn’t budge.
Of course it was 309.
She could still hear it—the laughter, the taunts, the tearing of fabric.
But she didn’t flinch.
"Enjoy your stay, Miss De Lune."
"I plan to," she said, and turned without another word.
---
The elevator doors closed behind her. She didn’t look at her reflection in the gold-trimmed mirror. She didn’t need to.
She knew what she looked like now.
A woman forged in fire. Rebuilt from bone and blood. Not the girl who cried until her throat bled into her pillow.
Room 309.
Her hand hesitated just once before sliding the card.
Click.
She stepped inside.
It was the same. Too damn familiar. The oceanview window. The ivory curtains. The dark wood floors.
The bed.
Her eyes stayed on it. Her breath slowed.
It was there. That night.
The night she died.
The night Isla Rayne was buried under bruises and silence and betrayal.
She crossed the room, each step heavy with memory. She stood at the edge of the bed, stared down at it like it was a grave.
"You should’ve killed me," she whispered.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: "He's here. Dante Creed. Suite 502."
She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.
Only whispered, "Perfect."
---
Dante Creed.
The golden heir. The charming devil with hands soaked in secrets and sin. The man who had once laughed with her, then locked the door behind him and let the wolves in.
She remembered every second. Every sound. Every piece of her that broke.
And now he was back on this island, breathing the same air, sleeping in silk sheets while she still woke up screaming.
But that was about to change.
He would remember her.
Soon.
---
The gala that night was glittering and grotesque. Music echoed off crystal chandeliers, dresses shimmered, and old money danced with new devils.
She walked in like a curse.
Every head turned. Every breath hitched.
She was no longer invisible.
She was unforgettable.
The girl in red.
Dante Creed saw her. Of course he did.
She watched the color drain from his face. He didn’t know why, but something about her made him sweat in that tailored suit.
She held his gaze across the room.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
She looked away first, like he was nothing. Like he didn’t matter.
But he followed.
"You look like sin in heels," he said when he reached her side. "New to the island?"
She didn’t look at him at first. She sipped her drink. Then turned slowly.
"Don’t you recognize me?"
His brow furrowed. He laughed softly. "Should I?"
Her eyes darkened. "Not yet."
She walked away.
Left him frozen.
That old storm was starting to brew in his chest. A feeling he couldn’t place.
---
In her room again, she stared out at the ocean. Poured herself another drink. Her hands were steadier now. Her heart colder.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: "He’s asking about you already. We got his attention. Next move is yours."
She stared at the screen, then slowly typed:
Reina: "Let him come to me. Let him trust me. Then I’ll burn him from the inside out."
She locked the phone. Walked to the mirror.
Slipped off the red dress.
Stared at her bare skin. The old scar on her thigh. The one she never let heal properly.
She dragged a fingertip over it. Her eyes cold.
"You took everything," she whispered.
---
Her sleep didn’t come easy.
Memories came in shards—shadows in the corners, fingers on her skin, screaming into silence.
She woke gasping, drenched in sweat, clutching the pillow like it could protect her.
But she didn’t cry.
She hadn’t cried in a long time.
Instead, she reached for her phone and typed another message.
Reina: "He’ll fall. But I want to be the one to watch it happen. To hear him beg. To see him break like I did."
The reply came fast.
Unknown Number: "Then get close. Seduce him. Make him want you. He’ll never see it coming."
---
By morning, she was a storm in silk.
She walked the resort like she owned it. Stares followed. She didn’t care.
By the pool, Dante saw her again.
This time, he approached with less charm, more curiosity.
"You haunt this place," he said, lowering his sunglasses. "Or maybe it’s just me seeing things."
She turned to him, skin glowing, lips parted slightly.
"Maybe you should stop looking, then."
He laughed. Nervous this time.
"I can’t."
She offered the faintest smile. "Good."
And walked away again.
Hook. Line. Sinking.
---
That night, a knock at her door.
She was expecting it.
She opened it slowly. He stood there, eyes darker than before, a drink in his hand, fake casual.
"Thought I’d bring the party to you."
She tilted her head. Stepped aside. "Come in."
He walked into the room like he owned it.
Like he hadn’t destroyed a girl in this very space.
Like she wasn’t standing behind him, imagining a thousand ways to ruin him.
He turned.
"So, Reina. What brings a woman like you here alone?"
She took the drink, sipped slowly.
"Revenge," she whispered.
He laughed.
She didn’t.
Silence stretched.
Then he blinked. Like he heard something he wasn’t meant to.
And just as she stepped closer, eyes gleaming with something unreadable—
The lights flickered.
A sound outside.
Then—
A loud, sharp knock.
Dante turned.
Isla’s eyes never left the door.
She whispered, "You should go."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because what’s coming for you... isn’t wearing heels."
---
- Writer
