part 12 : operation jealousy

They came for her.

Damien and Dominic—two forces that never agreed on anything—united now by one blinding need: her. Not to talk. Not to beg. To get her back. Whatever it took.

No warnings. No texts. No dramatics.

They just came.

Straight to Santorini.

The island sun was dipping low, casting honeyed shadows across the whitewashed buildings. A breeze rolled off the sea, warm and lazy, but there was nothing soft about the men stalking up the stone path to her villa. Their suits were wrinkled from the private flight. Their eyes, sharp. Their hands, twitching.

Dominic walked like war. Damien walked like sin.

And both wore the weight of three sleepless nights.

When they reached the door, they didn't knock. They didn't need to.

Because it opened.

And there she was.

Fiona.

Her skin was kissed golden by the Grecian sun. Her robe was silk and far too thin, whispering over her curves like it knew every inch of her. Her hair was tied up messily, a few strands curling down her neck, clinging to her like a secret. Barefoot. Barefaced. Untouchable.

She didn't notice them at first. She was laughing.

Not with them.

With him.

Her childhood best friend—the one they'd both wanted to break in half for years. He stood behind her on the balcony, one arm thrown lazily across her shoulders like he owned her. In his other hand: a strawberry, lifted gently toward her lips. He hadn't even bothered with a shirt. Just swim trunks, a smirk, and enough smugness to make Damien's fingers twitch.

He didn't flinch at their arrival. Didn't panic. Didn't blink.

"Oh hey," he said casually, as if they were expected. "They're here."

Fiona's laughter softened. She turned, slowly, deliberately, her gaze cool and unbothered. She looked at them like they were nothing more than a memory trying to come back to life.

Her eyes found Damien first—his chest rising and falling like a caged storm, jaw tight enough to crack.

Then Dominic—nostrils flared, fists clenched, heart pounding so loudly he could barely hear the waves crashing behind him.

She tilted her head.

And smirked.

"Perfect."

Without a flinch, she plucked the strawberry from her best friend's fingers, bit into it slowly, and chewed like she was savoring victory. Then, with a twist of her robe and a sway of her hips, she turned and walked back inside.

The door stayed open.

An invitation.

A dare.

A line drawn in blood and silk.

Damien took one step forward.

Dominic grabbed his arm, eyes locked on hers, still visible through the glass. "She's playing us."

"She is us," Damien snapped. "We taught her this."

Inside, Fiona leaned against the kitchen counter, back arched just slightly as she reached for a glass of wine. Her laugh rang out again, echoing like a knife between their ribs.

She didn't look back.

She didn't need to.

She knew they'd come.

But she also knew something else now.

She didn't have to choose.

Not yet.

Not until they bled a little more.

And oh, she'd make them bleed.