The show was called "Eden’s Temptation"—a place where desire and competition intertwined under the heat of the sun. I never expected to be here, but my artistic fame somehow landed me a spot. And the moment my eyes fell on Santiago Velasco, everything changed.

The way his blue eyes glowed under the island sun, the effortless way he draped his leather jacket over his shoulder, the quiet confidence in his stride—he was a mystery wrapped in temptation. On the first day, he sat beside me. The next, he walked with me to the well, his presence lingering even when he was silent. He was always there, helping, watching—with that unreadable look in his eyes. And for a foolish moment, I thought it meant something.

But then, during the first selection night, he said her name. Savannah. The blonde bombshell. The obvious choice.

I sat there, still as stone, as reality slapped me in the face. I thought he’d pick me. I thought— but he didn’t. My heart cracked, but I refused to let it show. I swallowed the ache, held my chin high, and acted like I didn't care.

And so, I avoided him. All day. Until now.

Night had fallen, the moon casting silver light over the ocean as I stood at the edge of the shore, waves licking my feet. The gentle breeze did nothing to cool the burn in my chest. I wasn’t going to cry over Santiago Velasco. I wasn’t.

Then, I heard footsteps.

Before I could turn, he was there, sliding in beside me. Silence stretched between us. I made a move to leave.

But his fingers wrapped around my wrist, firm but careful. My breath hitched.

"Don’t," he murmured, his voice low, steady. "Don’t run from me."