The sun beat down on Pantelleria, baking the volcanic rock and turning the turquoise water into a shimmering mirage. Marianne Lane, skin kissed bronze and hair, squinted at the horizon from the terrace of their unassuming villa. The island was supposed to be their sanctuary, a place for her and Paul, her younger, more grounded lover, to reconnect after her throat surgery. Silence, a blessing these days, hung in the air, broken only by the gentle clinking of Paul preparing lunch.

He brought out a plate piled high with fresh tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil. “Almost ready,” he said, his voice soft, reassuring. Since her surgery, it was as if he anticipated her every need, filling the quiet spaces with calm and understanding.

But the tranquility was shattered later that afternoon. They were swimming in the crystalline cove near the villa when a boat, far too large for the simple harbor, roared into view. Marianne’s stomach clenched. It was Harry.

He was standing on the deck, tanned and beaming, one arm draped around a young woman with a bored expression. Harry. Her chaotic, charismatic, destructive ex. The man who could fill a room with laughter and leave it in ruins. Beside him, a young woman, dark hair cascading down her shoulders, looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Marianne! Darling! Long time, no see!” Harry boomed across the water, the sound bouncing off the volcanic cliffs.

Marianne felt a slow burn of dread creep up her spine. Paul, sensing her unease, placed a protective hand on her arm.

“Who’s that?” he asked, his voice low.

“Harry,” she replied, the name tasting like ash in her mouth. “My ex. And… presumably, his daughter.”

{{user}}, Harry’s daughter, turned out to be everything he wasn't - observant, reserved, and seemingly unimpressed by his antics. She was a writer, or trying to be, she told Marianne with a disarming bluntness

"So Harry this is {{user}} I presume" Marianne said