Chapter 2
"It's probably from when you touched the sheets."
Nadia said it quickly — too quickly — as she gently took my hand and examined my nails. "You were in shock. You probably reached for him before we got here."
Had I? I couldn't remember.
I couldn't remember anything.
The last clear image in my mind was dancing with Ryan during our first dance. Ed Sheeran playing. His hand warm on my lower back. His smile — that devastating, dimpled smile that made me fall in love with him five years ago.
After that? Nothing. Just black.
"I need air," I gasped, pulling away from Nadia and stumbling out of the honeymoon suite.
The villa was enormous — Ryan had spared no expense. Five bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic. It was supposed to be paradise.
Now it felt like a prison.
I made it to the living room before my legs gave out, and I crumpled onto the white leather sofa. The remnants of last night's reception were everywhere — champagne flutes on the coffee table, a half-eaten slice of wedding cake, rose petals scattered across the floor.
My bridesmaids followed me down, each wearing the same shell-shocked expression.
Harper sat beside me, pulling me into her arms. She still smelled like the jasmine perfume she'd worn yesterday. "We'll figure this out. We'll get through this."
"How?" I whispered. "Ryan is dead. My husband is dead, and I don't remember anything."
"Maybe that's a good thing," Mara said carefully. She was leaning against the fireplace mantel, arms crossed, studying me with those analytical eyes. "If you can't remember, it means someone drugged you. Someone got you out of the way so they could—"
She didn't finish.
"Who?" Grace asked. "Who else was here? Everyone left on the boat."
"Did they?" Harper's voice was barely audible. "Did we actually see everyone leave?"
We all went silent.
The truth was, by the end of the reception, most of us had been well past drunk. Zoe had made sure the champagne flowed endlessly, and the cocktails were dangerously strong.
Could someone have stayed behind? Hidden on the island?
Before anyone could answer, a loud banging erupted from the front door.
All five of us jumped.
The banging came again — three hard, deliberate knocks.
Grace grabbed the fireplace poker and approached the door. She peered through the peephole, then turned to us with a bewildered expression.
"It's a man. In a Coast Guard uniform."
She unlocked the door, and a gust of salt-air wind blasted in, bringing rain and a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair plastered to his forehead.
"Sorry to barge in," he said, slightly out of breath. "My patrol boat got caught in the storm. I had to anchor on your dock before the waves smashed it to pieces."
He shook water off his jacket, then stopped, registering the scene — five women, mascara-streaked faces, one of them in a bloodstained wedding dress.
His expression shifted from apologetic to alert in a heartbeat.
"Is someone hurt?"
Nobody spoke. The silence was suffocating.
I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but Harper cut in first.
"There's been an accident. My friend's husband... he's dead."
The man's jaw tightened. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an ID badge.
"Commander Ethan Cole, Coast Guard Investigative Service." His eyes swept over each of us. "Show me the body."
Nadia said it quickly — too quickly — as she gently took my hand and examined my nails. "You were in shock. You probably reached for him before we got here."
Had I? I couldn't remember.
I couldn't remember anything.
The last clear image in my mind was dancing with Ryan during our first dance. Ed Sheeran playing. His hand warm on my lower back. His smile — that devastating, dimpled smile that made me fall in love with him five years ago.
After that? Nothing. Just black.
"I need air," I gasped, pulling away from Nadia and stumbling out of the honeymoon suite.
The villa was enormous — Ryan had spared no expense. Five bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic. It was supposed to be paradise.
Now it felt like a prison.
I made it to the living room before my legs gave out, and I crumpled onto the white leather sofa. The remnants of last night's reception were everywhere — champagne flutes on the coffee table, a half-eaten slice of wedding cake, rose petals scattered across the floor.
My bridesmaids followed me down, each wearing the same shell-shocked expression.
Harper sat beside me, pulling me into her arms. She still smelled like the jasmine perfume she'd worn yesterday. "We'll figure this out. We'll get through this."
"How?" I whispered. "Ryan is dead. My husband is dead, and I don't remember anything."
"Maybe that's a good thing," Mara said carefully. She was leaning against the fireplace mantel, arms crossed, studying me with those analytical eyes. "If you can't remember, it means someone drugged you. Someone got you out of the way so they could—"
She didn't finish.
"Who?" Grace asked. "Who else was here? Everyone left on the boat."
"Did they?" Harper's voice was barely audible. "Did we actually see everyone leave?"
We all went silent.
The truth was, by the end of the reception, most of us had been well past drunk. Zoe had made sure the champagne flowed endlessly, and the cocktails were dangerously strong.
Could someone have stayed behind? Hidden on the island?
Before anyone could answer, a loud banging erupted from the front door.
All five of us jumped.
The banging came again — three hard, deliberate knocks.
Grace grabbed the fireplace poker and approached the door. She peered through the peephole, then turned to us with a bewildered expression.
"It's a man. In a Coast Guard uniform."
She unlocked the door, and a gust of salt-air wind blasted in, bringing rain and a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair plastered to his forehead.
"Sorry to barge in," he said, slightly out of breath. "My patrol boat got caught in the storm. I had to anchor on your dock before the waves smashed it to pieces."
He shook water off his jacket, then stopped, registering the scene — five women, mascara-streaked faces, one of them in a bloodstained wedding dress.
His expression shifted from apologetic to alert in a heartbeat.
"Is someone hurt?"
Nobody spoke. The silence was suffocating.
I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but Harper cut in first.
"There's been an accident. My friend's husband... he's dead."
The man's jaw tightened. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an ID badge.
"Commander Ethan Cole, Coast Guard Investigative Service." His eyes swept over each of us. "Show me the body."