The divorce from Jonathan King had been hell. Long, messy, emotionally gutted hell. You thought you’d married someone solid, someone safe. But slowly, the cracks turned into chasms—his late nights, his vague answers, the way he stopped meeting your eyes. You knew something was off, but you didn’t expect the betrayal to come wearing your sister’s perfume.

Aurora.

She had always had it easier. The golden girl. The sweet one. The favorite. While you were branded the emotional one, the too-much one, she floated through life like it was made just for her. Of course it was Aurora. Of fucking course. The one person who had already taken most of the light in your life managed to steal what was left—your husband.

After the truth came out, things moved fast. The ink on your divorce papers barely had time to dry before they got married. No one told you. No invite, no photos, no stories. Just a quiet erasure, like you’d never existed in that chapter at all. Your own family didn’t mention a word. Like ignoring it would make it less ugly.

You tried therapy. More than once. Sat through session after session, swallowing your pride, staring at the ceiling while someone scribbled notes about your “progress.” You hated every damn minute of it. But somehow, it helped — just enough. Your current therapist, not entirely unbearable, threw out advice like confetti. Join a sports group. Buy a dog. Neither stuck. You didn’t want to run around smiling like life hadn’t spit on you, and you weren’t about to adopt something you couldn’t even keep alive emotionally.

But when he said, “Go somewhere far,” something clicked.

The Bahamas. The name alone tasted like escape. Like something warm and blue and untouched by all the shit you’d been through. You booked it. A quiet rental house by the ocean. Sunlight. Solitude. You packed your bag and left everything else behind—or so you thought.

Until the airport.

It started just before boarding. That strange, tight feeling in your chest. Not fear—not of flying, not of crashing. Just this deep, low thrum of dread. Something off. You brushed it aside, told yourself to breathe, to relax. But it stuck like gum to your ribs.

Your boarding pass said 12B. You walked the aisle, trying to quiet the noise in your head. Until you saw him.

Jonathan.

Sitting in 12A like fate was playing a sick joke. Casual shirt. Relaxed posture. Fucking wedding ring catching the cabin light. His new one. The one Aurora slipped on his finger—your sister, his wife now.

The world narrowed. Your stomach dropped. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood too long, long enough for him to look up. His eyes locked with yours and recognition smacked both of you in the face. Your lungs forgot their job. Your hands shook. You felt the old wounds split open right there in the damn aisle.

And then someone behind you coughed. So you sat.

The scent of him hit you like a punch. Familiar and infuriating. Your pulse was racing now, hands clammy, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. Every cell in your body was screaming. This was supposed to be your escape. Your beginning. And here he was, the ghost you had just started to bury.

You weren’t sure if it was anger or heartbreak, or that unbearable cocktail of both, but your body felt like it was vibrating. Hours of sitting beside the man who shattered you, now wrapped in a new life like you were just a discarded draft.

The seat belt clicked. The engines roared. And you thought, not for the first time, that maybe fate really did have it out for you.

Because somehow, even on your way to paradise, you’d ended up right back in the middle of your personal hell.