Prologue – Escape into Haelia
You left the city at dusk, rain falling like a transparent net. Your phone buzzed endlessly—boss, clients, meaningless concerns. One click into airplane mode, and the city vanished from your pocket.
The boat arrived in silence. The island’s name was Haelia. The air was heavy with salt, grass, and late-season citrus. The port lights glowed just enough to let you drop your guard. You stepped off with only a single suitcase—finally free of the explanations, the masks, the endless grind.
People whispered that Haelia was a refuge for desire. You didn’t believe, nor did you argue. You only wanted to remember what it meant to be yourself.
The Bar Encounter
The bar by the shore was called Low Tide. The wooden floor was stained the color of seawater, and ice rattled in shakers like distant streetcars. You ordered a black rum and sat deep inside, hoping to observe unnoticed.
But she could not be unnoticed.
She entered in white gauze, its hemline irregular like it had been bitten by the tide. Bronzed skin shimmered under the lamps with faint golden light. The moment she stepped in, the low hum of the bar aligned itself with her presence. She didn’t need to speak—she simply gestured for champagne, a vintage she clearly knew. The sway of her golden earrings flashed like a subtle warning.
She sat two stools away, her posture calm, as though she knew what the night held. Her eyes brushed past you, yet pierced through the fatigue you had carried from the city.
“You don’t belong here,” she said, her French accent tinged with salt.
“Tonight I do,” you replied.
Her lips curved. The smile reached only her eyes. “Then let’s make sure this night deserves your escape.”
Her name was Alodia. Her words weren’t loud or flashy; they carried the quiet gravity of someone raised among the best things. She spoke casually of champagne vintages, equestrian lessons, and her love of Italian classical paintings. In her sentences, you glimpsed her childhood in Monaco, academies in Paris, and the gilded rooms of auction houses.
“Why are you here?” you asked.
“To run,” she answered softly, turning her glass. “I escaped a marriage, and I escaped the life of being stared at. Eventually, I learned to stare back at the world.”
She mentioned running “certain parties” on the island—no rules, no masks, for those who understood freedom. Her voice was velvet, edged with danger, like a hand hovering over a locked door.
You noticed her fingertips grazing the rim of your glass. She didn’t touch you, only lingered just close enough to send your pulse racing.
“Don’t waste your heartbeat on a bar counter,” she whispered. “Come with me.”
Motel – The Amber Room
The motel by the shore was dimly lit, a single amber lamp casting shadows on the curtain. She leaned against the doorframe, heel pressed lightly to the wood.
“Do you like control?” you asked.
“I like to see who dares give it up to me.” Her eyes flicked to the top button of your shirt. “Like now.”
Her knuckles grazed your throat, testing your swallow. Then her thumb lifted your chin, aligning your gaze with hers. Her scent wasn’t sweet—it was clean citrus and white musk, like marble touched by light.
She didn’t kiss you. Not yet. She paused, half an inch away, letting her breath and the taste of champagne fall onto your lips.
“Forget every schedule you left behind,” she murmured.
The gauze slid from her shoulders like a tide receding. Your palm pressed against the heat of her waist, the muscle tense, alive, as though breathing under your hand. She guided you higher. “Slower,” she said. She set the rhythm—you chose to follow.
The wall, the mirror, the edge of the bed became three stages where she commanded you to wait. Each moment stretched, each pause a knot in your chest.
When she finally kissed you, the taste was the bitter edge of champagne mixing with rum’s dark sweetness. She lengthened the space between lips, only to snap it shut again, pulling sound from the friction of fabric and skin. Her breath at your neck turned into a tide. She was a navigator, knowing when to let the sail fill, when to cut the wind.
The Climax Time With Alodia
Her rhythm built slowly, then surged. At first you kept pace, but soon she pulled you into currents where you could only surrender.
Her nails pressed crescents into your shoulders; her body trembled with restrained sound, spilling out in whispers that burned through the dark.
Breath tangled, faster, until it shredded the silence of the room. The amber light flickered across her collarbone, breaking and reforming with each movement.
Then it struck—she arched back suddenly, hair cutting the air, body shuddering like a vessel caught in a storm. The force dragged you with her, both of you crashing into a shared vortex.
In that instant, the world collapsed into the roar of surf. You both reached the peak together—hurled onto the crest of the storm, then falling in unison.
Only ragged breath remained, along with the sea’s endless rhythm outside, as though nature itself had closed the scene.
The Invitation Of A Secret Party
Later, in the hush of afterglow, she leaned against you, swirling champagne in her glass like sealing a ritual.
“On the fourth night,” she said, her gaze deep, “come to a party. The true Haelia only wakes then.”
“What party?”
“No questions.” Her finger brushed your lips. “That night, you’ll meet another version of yourself.”
Her eyes closed, the queen exiting her stage. Outside, the tide continued. Your heart slowly found its rhythm with the waves. And you realized—this island was already changing you.
”Crap! I forgot to ask! Hey…..” You forget to ask where the party would be…and Alodia is left already…
Alodia’s touch still lingers… but what awaits tomorrow may be even more unpredictable.
👉 [Continue to Day 2: The Billiard Room and Lena]
In the quiet of the billiard room, Lena’s innocence breaks into passion. A game of chance transforms into a night of vulnerability and fire.
