Seabreeze Isle didn't appear on most maps.
That was the first thing Lydia noticed when she searched for it the next morning. Public records showed a scatter of unnamed landmasses off the Ravenport coast, but Seabreeze was either mislabeled or deliberately erased. Satellite images blurred unnaturally at its edges, as if someone had smeared a thumb across the lens.
Ownership records led to a shell company.
Which led, inevitably, back to Victor Hale.
Lydia sat at her kitchen table, untouched toast growing cold, rain tapping against the window like impatient fingers. Elena's voice echoed in her head.
They make you feel chosen.
At Lumina, Seabreeze Isle was spoken of with reverence—exclusive retreats, donor summits, "creative incubators." A paradise for the powerful.
But every article about it lacked detail.
No photos of guests. No interviews. No stories from staff.
That absence screamed louder than any accusation.
The ferry terminal smelled of diesel and wet rope. Lydia stood at the edge of the dock, hood pulled low, watching workers load crates onto a small private vessel marked SB-07. No company logo. No destination listed.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
She had told Mark she was sick. She had ignored three internal emails. And she had followed a name scribbled at the bottom of an old expense report—Captain Morris Vale.
Vale emerged from the cabin, weathered and sharp-eyed. He spotted Lydia immediately.
"You're not press," he said flatly.
"No," she replied. "I'm curious."
He studied her for a long moment, then spat into the water. "Curiosity drowns people."
"So does silence."
That earned a humorless laugh.
"You don't want that island," he said. "Nobody does. They just think they do."
"Have people gone missing there?" Lydia asked.
Vale's jaw tightened. "People disappear everywhere."
He turned away.
The engine roared to life.
Lydia didn't get on the boat—but she memorized everything.
The route. The timing. The tide.
And the way Vale crossed himself before casting off.
Back at Lumina, the building felt tighter, like it had shrunk overnight.
Lydia noticed cameras she hadn't before. Not new—just suddenly obvious. She passed the archives hallway and felt a pressure behind her eyes, a low buzzing that didn't belong to any machine.
She wasn't alone.
In the women's restroom, she found Sera Blake washing her hands.
Sera had once been a rising producer. Now she worked in compliance—a professional demotion disguised as trust.
"You're chasing something dangerous," Sera said without looking up.
Lydia's heart skipped. "What?"
Sera turned off the faucet. "Don't insult me by pretending."
They locked eyes in the mirror.
"Havenwood wasn't the beginning," Sera continued quietly. "It was the refinement."
"Refinement of what?"
"Control."
Sera dried her hands slowly. "Seabreeze was where they tested how far people could be pushed before they broke."
Lydia's throat tightened. "Why tell me this?"
"Because you still think you can leave," Sera said. "And I need you to remember that feeling."
She slipped a folded piece of paper into Lydia's pocket as she passed.
That night, Lydia unfolded it.
Coordinates.
And a date.
Seabreeze Isle rose from the water like a secret refusing to stay buried.
Lydia stood at the bow of a rented fishing boat, salt spray stinging her face as the island grew closer. Dense greenery swallowed the shoreline, broken only by a private dock and a path carved too neatly through the trees.
The air changed as they approached.
Heavier. Still.
Even the waves quieted.
"Never been here before," the fisherman muttered. "Don't plan on coming back."
He refused to dock.
Lydia jumped the last few feet, boots hitting wet wood. The boat was already pulling away before she could thank him.
She was alone.
The path into the forest swallowed sound. Birds were absent. The wind barely stirred the leaves. Each step felt intrusive, like walking through someone else's dream.
The main lodge emerged suddenly—glass, stone, and steel blended into the landscape with unsettling elegance. Security cameras followed her movement silently.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of citrus and something metallic beneath it.
The lobby walls were lined with photographs.
Not events.
Not people smiling.
Landscapes.
Every image showed the same island from different angles. Sunrise. Sunset. Storms. Calm seas.
Obsessive documentation.
Lydia moved deeper, her footsteps echoing too loudly.
A hallway branched left.
Another right.
She chose left.
The rooms there were small. Sparse. Beds neatly made, no personal belongings. No signs of guests ever truly staying.
Then she found the room with the mirror.
It covered an entire wall.
Opposite it sat a single chair.
The carpet beneath was darker, worn down in a circular pattern.
Lydia's breath caught.
This wasn't a guest room.
This was a stage.
Her reflection stared back at her—pale, tense, afraid. For a moment, she thought she saw another figure behind her in the glass.
She spun.
Nothing.
A sound echoed from above.
Footsteps.
Someone was on the island.
Lydia's pulse roared as she backed into the hallway, heart hammering. She hid behind a door just as voices drifted down the stairs.
Men. Calm. Conversational.
"…arriving tomorrow."
"…records already secured."
"And the girl?"
A pause.
"She's being difficult."
Lydia clamped a hand over her mouth.
The footsteps faded.
She waited until her legs shook.
In the far wing, she found a locked door.
It wasn't meant to be opened.
The handle was scarred. The lock recently replaced.
But someone had scratched words into the wood—faint, frantic, overlapping.
HELP MEPLEASEI DID EVERYTHING RIGHT
And beneath them, barely visible:
ELENA
Lydia staggered back.
The truth slammed into her like a wave.
This wasn't just about secrets.
This was about ownership.
Power that didn't just silence—it kept.
Her phone vibrated.
No signal.
But a notification appeared anyway.
Victor Hale: Miss Chen, curiosity is a dangerous companion.
The lights went out.
In the darkness, something breathed.
Not close.
Not far.
Waiting.