The scent of tropical blooms and frying plantains drifted through the open breezeway the next morning. Stiles picked at her papaya, the memory of Derek’s hungry eyes, Scott’s whispered threats, and Peter’s silent command turning the lush breakfast spread to ash in her mouth.

A young woman in crisp linen approached, smiling politely. "Ms. Stiles? Your gentlemen request your presence in the Pearl Suite. For your... massage session." Her cheeks flushed slightly. "Now would be ideal."