Dawn Found Me Guilty

Morning arrived far too politely for something that should have come in carrying a fire extinguisher.

I woke before the sun was fully up, with pale light slipping through the gap in Rhysand’s suite curtains and falling over my skin like an accusation.

For a few seconds, I didn’t move.

There were gentle kinds of silence. Peaceful kinds of silence. And then there was the silence after you slept with your ex-fiancé’s older brother the night before your wedding, which had been canceled because your ex-fiancé had been caught naked with your ex-fiancé’s older brother’s girlfriend.

Complicated, assfuck.

Fuck.

I stared at the ceiling.

Then I turned my head.

Rhysand was still asleep beside me.

Even asleep, he managed to be irritatingly good at it.

His black hair was messy against the pillow, one arm stretched over the sheets, his shoulder bare, his breathing slow and deep. Asleep, his face looked younger. Calmer. Almost kind, if a person happened to be drunk on morning light and did not know the man properly.

But I knew enough.

I knew the second his blue eyes opened, every illusion would die on the spot.

He would look at me. I would look at him. Then the air would turn into something too thick to swallow. Maybe he would ask if I was okay. Maybe he would not ask anything at all. Worse, maybe he would act like last night had made sense.

It had not.

Last night had been tequila, anger, the dark ocean, and Rhysand Bernadi’s body knowing far too well how to make me forget the world came with consequences.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Huge mistake.

Because the moment everything went dark, my body remembered all of it.

His hands. His mouth. The way he held himself back right before I pulled him closer. The way my name left his mouth like he was angry at himself for wanting it. The way I, Maya de Cruz, a woman who had once spent twenty minutes arguing with a florist about the exact shade of ivory, had turned into someone who did not care if every aristocratic family in Hawaii burst into flames tomorrow along with the centerpieces.

Heat rose to my face.

“Brava, Maya,” I muttered almost soundlessly. “Spectacular. Truly a diplomatic project.”

I sat up slowly.

My body immediately filed an official complaint.

My thighs hurt. Apparently my body was holding up a sign that said: we were all present last night, and we have notes.

I winced. “Jesus, María, and every saint currently off duty.”

On the floor, my dress lay there like a witness to a crime. White, wrinkled, too beautiful for its fate. One shoulder strap was folded over. My cardigan was near the sofa. My shoes, somehow, were in two different locations, because I had also hosted a private treasure hunt.

I climbed out of bed carefully.

My knees nearly laughed at me.

I picked up my clothes one by one with the movements of a woman trying to leave a crime scene without waking the main suspect.

Rhysand shifted a little.

I froze.

The sheet moved at his waist. His breathing changed for a second, then settled again.

I held my breath like an amateur diamond thief.

He did not wake up.

Good.

Very good.

Because I was not ready to talk.

Not ready to be looked at.

Not ready to hear his low, calm voice asking why I was running, as if running was not the healthiest reaction in history after creating an international oil-family scandal that would probably become a Christmas legend for the next three generations.

I put on my dress with trembling hands. The zipper refused to cooperate. “Vamos,” I whispered to the zipper. “Don’t be a Bernadi.”

Finally, it went up.

I looked for my earrings. One was on the table by the door. The other had slipped under a chair. I picked them up, dropped them into my bag, then looked at my phone.

The screen was dead.

I turned it on.

And immediately regretted it.

Notifications flooded the screen like a national disaster with excellent Wi-Fi.

Mama: COME HOME NOW.

Mama: MAYA ISABEL DE CRUZ.

Xavier: Answer your phone or I start killing people alphabetically.

Papa: Mi amor, where are you?

Javier: Maya, I think Ricky is crying in the lobby. Not cute.

Saba: YOU ARE AN ICON BUT PLEASE DON’T DIE.

Unknown Number: We need to handle this privately.

Unknown Number: Maya, please answer.

Unknown Number: This can still be contained.

Contained.

I laughed.

Rich people loved that word. Contained. Managed. Resolved. As if humiliation could be placed in a velvet box, closed neatly, and stored in the family archive beside land contracts and photographs of ancestors who looked like they had never been happy.

I opened the flight app.

My hand stopped over the screen.

Where?

Not New York. Too much Ricky there. Too much Bernadi. Too many gardens where he had proposed to me with a diamond ring too large and a lie that turned out to have very long legs.

I needed somewhere far away.

Hot.

Beautiful.

Far enough from everyone who knew my middle name.

I typed: Bali.

There was an afternoon flight from Honolulu, with a long layover I did not care about, arriving tomorrow.

I stared at the ticket price.

Expensive.

I tapped buy.

Very expensive.

I tapped confirm.

Papa’s card would probably get a notification and add one tiny crease to his forehead, but honestly, after last night, our family deserved to pay for an escape with a tropical view.

The ticket landed in my email.

Honolulu to Denpasar.

This afternoon.

I exhaled.

Yes.

I was running.

Fuck the wedding.

Fuck Ricky.

Fuck the Bernadis.

They could all handle their elegant little mess without me. They can fuck off, neatly, in alphabetical order.

Behind me, Rhysand let out a small breath.

I turned.

He was still asleep, but his face was turned toward me now. Morning light touched his cheekbones, his mouth, the faint shadow along his jaw. There were thin scratch marks on his shoulder.

I stared at them longer than I should have.

Then my stomach twisted, not because I fully regretted it.

That was the most inconvenient part.

I did not regret it like some good woman in a morality novel.

I was panicking.

I was embarrassed.

I was angry.

I wanted to shower in boiling water and scrub the entire Bernadi family off my skin.

But regret? My body, that little traitor in couture, did not agree.

I closed my eyes. “Idiota,” I whispered. “Stupid.”

I grabbed my bag and shoes, then walked to the door without putting my heels on. The suite floor was cold beneath my feet. Every step felt too loud, even though the carpet swallowed the sound almost perfectly.

I opened the door.

Stepped out.

Closed it softly behind me.

The suite corridor was still quiet, smelling of expensive wood and white flowers. I walked quickly toward the elevator with my head slightly lowered, my hair falling over part of my face. If any staff saw me, they were smart enough not to say anything. Expensive resorts had one quality I truly appreciated: everyone was paid to pretend they were blind.

Inside the elevator, I finally put on my heels.

One at a time.

My face appeared in the reflective wall. My lipstick was almost gone. My hair was a mess. My dress was wrinkled. There was a faint red mark on my neck that made me press my hand to it immediately.

“Oh my God.”

I tilted my head.

It was not that obvious.

But obvious enough for Xavier.

Obvious enough for Mama.

Obvious enough to make Papa order a hitman with Catholic ethics.

I pulled a thin scarf from my bag and tied it around my neck with quick movements. The result was not perfect, but I looked like a woman making an intentional fashion choice, not a woman who had just slept with the wrong Bernadi heir.

The elevator doors opened.

My phone buzzed again.

Xavier: I know you’re alive because the family card was just used to buy a ticket to Bali.

Xavier: MAYA.

Xavier: Don’t tell me you’re running away.

Xavier: Actually, run away. But answer me first.

Xavier: I’m proud and furious. This is confusing.

I stared at the screen.

Then typed with a thumb that was still trembling a little.

Me: I’m alive. Don’t kill anyone before breakfast.

His reply came instantly.

Xavier: Too late. Emotionally, I already have.

I smiled.

In the lobby, the world had already started moving. Guests ate breakfast in sunglasses and fake fresh faces. Waiters carried coffee. A woman laughed near the reception desk. Everything was so normal I wanted to shake the marble table and ask whether no one realized I was supposed to be getting married today, but instead I was executing an international escape with sore thighs and dignity wearing sunglasses.

I walked through the lobby toward the exit.

Someone called my name.

I did not stop.

It was not a voice I recognized, so I did not turn around.

Outside, the Hawaiian sun was beginning to rise, too bright, too beautiful, outrageously rude. A resort car waited out front. I got into the back seat and gave the driver the address of my family’s villa. I still had to get my passport, my suitcase, and whatever was left of my pride, if any of it had survived the fire.

The driver asked, “Airport later, miss?”

I looked at the ocean through the window.

The waves glittered under the morning light, as if last night had never happened.

I gave a smile. “Yes,” I said. “This afternoon.”

“Vacation?”

I closed my eyes. “Something like that.”