Chapter 3 - Paradise Lost
Ten thousand miles away, on the small local island of Maafushi, the tropical heat was oppressive, thick with humidity and the salty tang of low tide.
Ethan sat on the edge of a sagging twin mattress in a twenty-dollar-a-night guesthouse room. The ceiling fan spun sluggishly overhead, creaking rhythmically with every revolution, doing little to move the stagnant, muggy air. Outside the narrow window, the roar of small diesel motorboats cut through the afternoon quiet.
Vanessa was sitting on her suitcase in the corner, her head buried in her hands. Her champagne satin dress from two nights ago was crumpled in a dirty ball at the bottom of her tote bag. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from hours of weeping and rage.
"This is an absolute nightmare, Ethan!" she sobbed, throwing her hands up. "Look at this place! There are bugs on the window sill! The bathroom doesn't even have hot water! You told me we were staying in an overwater bungalow with a private plunge pool and a personal chef!"
"I know what I told you, Vanessa!" Ethan snapped, rubbing his face aggressively. He looked exhausted, his hair unwashed, his linen shirt wrinkled and stained with sweat. "I had the villa booked! It was fully confirmed! Clare canceled it behind my back!"
"Then make her un-cancel it!" Vanessa screamed, standing up and taking a step toward him. "She’s your wife! You’re supposed to be the man in that relationship! How can you let her treat you like this? She froze your cards! My boyfriend kicked me out of our apartment three days ago because of you, Ethan! I gave up my entire life, my relationship, my comfort, to come here with you because you promised me you would take care of me!"
"I am taking care of you!" Ethan shouted back, his voice cracking under the pressure. "Who brought you to the airport? Who paid six hundred dollars out of his remaining liquid cash just to get us on the public ferry when the resort boat turned us away? I’m doing everything I can, Vanessa! But Clare has locked down the agency system. She’s locked down the joint accounts. My card was declined at the ferry desk!"
"Then call your bank!" Vanessa yelled. "Call your firm! Call anyone!"
"It’s three in the morning in New York, Vanessa!" Ethan roared, slamming his fist onto the small wooden nightstand, causing a plastic water bottle to tip over and spill onto the floor. "Do you think I can just call my managing partner at three in the morning and ask for an advance on my bonus because my wife locked me out of our honeymoon?"
Vanessa stared at him, her lips trembling, her posture suddenly rigid. "Don't you dare raise your voice at me, Ethan. You told me at the wedding that I would always come first. You swore to me that no matter what happened with Clare, no matter what title she had, you would protect me. Is this what protecting me looks like? Sitting in a third-rate motel on a public island with no air conditioning while your wife laughs at us from her penthouse in Manhattan?"
Ethan sank back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. The weight of his reality was crushing down on him like an anvil.
When he had stepped onto the plane in New York, he had felt an intoxicating sense of absolute control. He had convinced himself that Clare was predictable. She was the steady, reliable, hyper-organized partner who quietly absorbed emotional discomfort to keep the peace. He had believed that once he was safely ten thousand miles away, she would process her anger, realize that causing a public scene would damage her professional reputation, and eventually fall into line. He had genuinely expected that by the time they landed in Malé, she would have sent him an updated itinerary with a second room added to the reservation, accompanied by a long, emotional text message begging him to talk when he returned.
He had never imagined this. He had never imagined that the moment he stepped off the ledge, Clare would pull the safety net away and watch him drop.
His phone vibrated on the bed. It was a low-battery warning—four percent remaining.
He picked it up hastily, hoping against hope for a text from his bank or an automated email showing a restored reservation. Instead, his lock screen displayed three separate push notifications.
The first was from his bank: Notice: Your joint checking account ending in 4092 has been restricted pursuant to a court order issued by the New York County Supreme Court.
The second was an email from his firm’s HR department: Urgent: Meeting Requested with Managing Partner Arthur Pendelton upon your return. Mandatory Attendance.
The third was a direct message on Instagram. It was from Marcus, Vanessa’s ex-boyfriend.
Ethan opened the message with trembling fingers. The text read:
Thanks for taking her off my hands, man. She’s your problem now. Hope the honeymoon was worth your career.
"Ethan?" Vanessa’s voice was lower now, laced with a dangerous, cold realization. "What does that notification say? Who is messaging you?"
May you like
Ethan didn't answer. He stared at the glowing screen as the battery indicator dropped to one percent, flashed once, and then turned completely black.
The silence in the small, muggy room became absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, creaking turn of the ceiling fan overhead.
