The first week on the island passed like a fever dream.Days bled into each other: sun, salt, sex, sleep.Czar woke me with his mouth between my legs more mornings than not.He cooked barefoot, fed me mango from his fingers, carried me into the ocean when the heat got too heavy.No phones. No news. No Lagos.Just us, the guards who pretended to be invisible, and the baby growing quietly between us.But paradise always has cracks if you look hard enough.It started with the nightmares.I’d wake gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, convinced I was back in the cellar he’d once locked me in.He’d pull me against his chest, rock me like a child, whisper promises in Russian until I stopped shaking.“You’re safe,” he’d say.I never believed him.Then came the boat.Every dawn, a sleek white yacht appeared on the horizon, dropped anchor for exactly thirty minutes, then vanished.Supplies, the chef said. Nothing more.But on the eighth morning, I saw something else.A man on the deck. Tall.
Last Updated : 2025-11-24 Read more