Chapter 3

The next few days were a masterclass in deception. I played the part of the smitten, helpless woman to perfection. I would look at Jason with what I hoped passed for adoration, thanking him for every small piece of fruit, for every cup of fresh water.

"You're amazing, Jax," I'd say, forcing a dreamy sigh. "I feel so safe with you."

Each word was ash in my mouth.

He seemed to buy it. He would give me that slow, rugged smile that had once made my stomach flutter. Now, it just made my skin crawl. He was an actor, and I had to be a better one.

One afternoon, he came back from the jungle holding a single, perfect white orchid. It was beautiful and impossibly delicate to have survived in this wilderness.

"This made me think of you," he said, tucking it gently behind my ear. "Beauty and strength, all in one."

The gesture was so calculated, so perfectly aligned with the romantic hero he was pretending to be, that a fresh wave of rage washed over me. This flower wasn't a gift, it was a prop in his sick play. I wanted to crush it in my fist, but instead, I smiled.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, touching the soft petals. "Thank you."

I needed to test him, to see how far his deception went. That evening, as we sat by the fire, I let my voice tremble with manufactured fear.

"Jax," I began, looking out at the dark, crashing waves. "I'm scared. What if no one ever comes for us? What if we're stuck here forever?"

I watched his face closely in the flickering firelight.

"We have each other," he said, his voice a low, comforting rumble. He reached out and took my hand. "We can survive. We can build a life here, just the two of us."

His words were meant to be a comfort, a romantic promise. But I heard the truth hidden beneath them: You are never leaving this island. It was a confirmation of my prison sentence. My hope for a quick rescue via my doctored weather report was my only way out.

"But my family," I pushed, "my work... I can't just disappear."

A flicker of something hard crossed his eyes before he masked it. "Sometimes, the life we think we want isn't the one we're meant to have. Maybe this is a new beginning for you, Chloe."

A new beginning as his prisoner, until he decided it was time for my end.

My leg was a constant source of agony, a burning fire that never ceased. Jason was diligent in his "care," changing the dressing daily with a poultice of crushed leaves and herbs he said would help it heal.

"This is an old island remedy," he explained, applying the thick green paste to the swollen skin around my break. "It will reduce the swelling and fight off any infection."

But after he started applying it, the pain got worse. The skin around the wound became red, inflamed, and impossibly tender. At first, I thought it was a natural part of the healing process, but now, knowing who he was, I knew better.

One afternoon, while he was away, I scraped off a small amount of the green paste from my leg. I hobbled to the edge of the jungle and found a plant with a similar-looking leaf. I crushed it and smelled it. It was bland, earthy. Then, I smelled the paste from my leg. It had the same earthy smell, but with another, sharper, acrid scent underneath. A scent I vaguely recognized from a botany class as something toxic, an irritant.

He wasn't healing me. He was poisoning me. He was making sure the injury became so infected, so severe, that it would either cripple me permanently or kill me slowly through sepsis. It was a clean, untraceable method. The island would get the blame.

That night, my resolve hardened into something cold and sharp. The game had changed. He wasn't just my captor, he was my would-be murderer.

When he handed me my nightly cup of herbal tea, which he said would help me sleep, I felt a familiar dread. He always insisted I drink it in front of him. He wanted me unconscious. He wanted me docile and unaware so he could make his nightly report to Brittany without interruption.

"You look exhausted, Chloe," he said, his voice laced with false sympathy. "Drink this. It will help you rest."

I took the warm wooden cup, my hand shaking slightly. I couldn't let him drug me tonight. Not when my plan was so close to fruition.

"You know," I said, forcing a small laugh, "I think I'm too keyed up to sleep. The pain is... really bad tonight." I looked at him, my eyes wide with fake desperation. "Could you tell me a story? About your life before... this?"

It was a gamble. A disruption of his routine.

He hesitated, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before it was replaced by his patient, kind mask. "There's not much to tell."

"Please," I begged, putting every ounce of my acting skill into the plea. "It would mean so much to me. It would help me forget the pain."

He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed. "Alright, Chloe. Alright."

He started talking, weaving a vague, unbelievable story about being a disillusioned corporate worker who had dropped out of society. It was a pathetic, flimsy narrative, but I clung to every word, pretending to be captivated.

As he spoke, I held the cup near my lips, but I didn't drink. When he was lost in his own lies, I tilted the cup ever so slightly, letting the drugged tea trickle down the side, soaking into the sandy ground beside me. I brought the empty cup to my lips, making a show of taking the last sip.

"Thank you, Jax," I whispered, letting my eyelids droop. "That... helped."

I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and forced my breathing to become slow and even, mimicking deep sleep.

He watched me for a full five minutes, his silence a heavy weight in the air. Finally, believing I was unconscious, he stood up and walked away, heading in the direction of his hidden bunker.

I waited, my body tense, my mind racing. The phantom hurricane I had created was my only ticket out of here. And I had a feeling it was about to make landfall.