The island remembered him.
That was what he told himself as he drove along the coastal road, the ocean flashing sharp blue through breaks in the trees. Réunion Island had a way of pretending nothing ever changed—same salt-heavy air, same volcanic spine cutting the horizon, same people who believed history stayed where it belonged.
He liked that.
It made it easier to believe that Lara had never really left.
He parked near the café she used to frequent, the one where the chairs scraped loudly against stone and the owners never bothered replacing chipped cups. He hadn't been there in years, but his presence still felt earned. Familiar. Claimed.
Inside, he ordered coffee and waited.
He was patient when it suited him.
When the server returned, he smiled—soft, almost charming. The kind of smile that made people underestimate what came next.
"You used to see a woman here," he said casually. "Dark hair. Quiet. Always sat near the window."
The server frowned, searching memory. "A lot of women sit near the window."
He chuckled, as if amused. "She's from here. Payet. Lara Payet."
The name landed heavier than he expected.
The server stiffened.
"Oh," she said. "Her."
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the cup.
"You know her," he said gently. Not a question.
"She left," the woman replied, eyes darting toward the counter as if for backup. "Long time ago."
He leaned back, relaxed. "People say a lot of things."
"She doesn't want to be found," the server said, sharper now.
That finally annoyed him.
He set the cup down carefully. Too carefully.
"Everyone wants to be found," he said. "They just want to control how."
The server didn't respond.
He stood, leaving money on the table—more than necessary. A reminder. A message.
Outside, the sun burned hot and unyielding. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through old photos. Screenshots. Messages he'd never deleted. Proof, in his mind, of something unfinished.
Five years didn't disappear because one woman decided she was done.
That wasn't how it worked.
By midday, he had asked the questions that mattered.
Not directly.
Never directly.
He spoke to people who spoke to other people. Framed concern as nostalgia. Curiosity as care.
"She never said goodbye properly," he told one acquaintance. "I worry."
"She seemed lost," he told another. "I was hoping she'd found stability."
Each version painted him as the reasonable one.
Each answer gave him more shape of the outline she'd left behind.
Australia.
Sydney.
The word tasted wrong in his mouth.
Too far. Too final.
He stopped at his aunt's house that afternoon, the one with family ties that stretched inconveniently far. The one who believed blood outweighed boundaries.
"She's there?" the aunt asked, incredulous. "All that way?"
"She didn't tell anyone," he said, shaking his head. "That's what worries me."
The lie slid out smoothly.
His aunt clicked her tongue. "Girls these days. Running from nothing."
He smiled faintly.
"She's not running," he said. "She's hiding."
That was when the idea sharpened.
Not sudden. Not impulsive.
A decision.
If Lara believed distance meant safety, she needed to be reminded how fragile that illusion was.
He wasn't angry.
That was the most dangerous part.
Anger burned out.
What he felt endured.
That night, he sat alone, lights low, maps open on his laptop. He didn't rush. He researched flights, visas, family connections that could be leveraged. Old favors. New excuses.
Australia wasn't unreachable.
It just required patience.
And intent.
He opened a blank document and began to type—not a plan exactly, but a structure. A framework. Something to organize the noise in his head into something cleaner.
Teach her a lesson.
Not violence, he told himself.
Just correction.
Just clarity.
She had embarrassed him by leaving without permission. By acting as though five years could be erased with silence. By pretending she could exist without him knowing where she was.
That kind of behavior had consequences.
He leaned back, fingers steepled, eyes half-closed.
He would start small.
Let her know she wasn't invisible.
Let her understand that running only delayed the inevitable conversation.
He would make her listen.
...
Sydney woke under a brittle sky.
The storm had moved on, leaving behind air that felt thin and sharp, like a warning that hadn't finished forming yet. Lara Payet stood at her kitchen counter, staring at her phone without touching it.
She hadn't slept.
Not because of nightmares.
Because of anticipation.
She'd replayed the knock at her door over and over, dissecting it. The restraint. The timing. The confidence.
He hadn't forced entry.
He hadn't raised his voice.
He hadn't needed to.
That was what chilled her most.
She showered, dressed, moved through the morning with deliberate slowness. Every action chosen, every habit examined. She wasn't panicking.
She was recalibrating.
At Thalia's, Jaden noticed immediately.
Not the fear.
The precision.
The way she scanned the room once and then stopped. The way she positioned herself with her back to a wall without making it obvious. The way her smile came later than usual—but when it did, it was controlled.
"You okay?" he asked, quietly.
She met his eyes. Held them.
"Something changed," she said.
He didn't ask how.
"Do you want to leave?" he offered.
She shook her head. "No. I want to stay normal as long as I can."
He nodded.
No pity.
No pressure.
Just acceptance.
Still, he watched more closely than before.
That afternoon, Lara received a message she hadn't expected.
Not from an unknown number.
From Réunion.
A mutual contact she hadn't spoken to in years.
He's asking about you.
Her fingers went cold.
He says he's worried. Says you disappeared.
Lara closed her eyes.
There it was.
Confirmation.
Not paranoia.
Not coincidence.
She typed carefully.
Please don't tell him anything.
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
I won't, the reply came. But be careful.
She deleted the conversation and exhaled slowly.
The calm-before-the-storm wasn't calm anymore.
It was calculated.
That night, she didn't sit alone.
She walked. Let the city noise wrap around her. Let lights and people and movement remind her that she wasn't isolated, even if someone wanted her to feel that way.
She didn't know yet what he was planning.
But she knew this:
He believed he still had a say.
And she was done pretending that belief couldn't become dangerous.
Somewhere across the ocean, a man was preparing to reclaim what he thought was his.
In Sydney, Lara Payet lifted her chin and kept walking.
She would not shrink.
She would not vanish quietly.
And if the past intended to follow her into the present—
It would learn, finally, that she was no longer the woman it had left behind.