The car was a sealed capsule of glass and leather: tinted, soundproof, designed so that the world outside could neither see nor hear. In that private dark, a scream would be swallowed as if it had never been born.
"Are you tired of yelling and making a scene?" Ryan asked, his voice too calm for the situation.
Lola glanced around the interior with a professional's quick appraisal — the door handle, the lock, the gap between the seat and the window. If he wanted to harm her, the quietness of the vehicle would promise him privacy. She counted seconds in the way her chest tightened; she kept her jaw steady enough not to betray panic.
"Ryan, let me out of this car or I'll burn it down," she said low, careful to keep trembling out of her voice.
He leaned back, propping his chin on one finger as if watching a performance. "Go on," he said, amused. "Want petrol? Lighter? Or shall I speed things up?"
Lola pressed herself as far as she could until her back met the door. He smiled, then inched closer, a predator's casualness in his movements. "I like you," he said, impossibly earnest. "I forgive you for smashing my head at the party."
She turned her face away. There was a narrow corridor of silence between them; she would not allow him the small theatre of a kiss. He reached, sliding his hand under her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I want to keep you as my woman—"
Lola slapped the hand away. "Get lost, you moron."
His impatience flared. "Why are you playing hard to get?" he demanded.
Her laugh was short, bitter. "Does metal change from iron to plastic? I hate you. I would rather die than be with a womaniser like you."
He raised his brows. "Really?"
"Yes." The one-word answer landed with the weight of everything she would not explain.
"Okay. Let's see about that." He grabbed her face to kiss her. Instinct moved her hand up; she struck him again, and when he retaliated, she bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He hissed, surprised, checking the wound. Blood darkened his fingers. For the first time he seemed genuinely off-balance. "Throw her out," he barked to one of the men in the front; the voice on the other end of the radio obeyed.
The door opened like a trapdoor and the world slammed into her — wind, night, the smell of salt. Men's hands pushed. Lola hauled herself out, knees shaking. She ran without a backward glance and the car's engine swallowed her shout.
— — —
A voice asked a question that felt like an anchor. "What is a beautiful woman doing all by herself on the beach at this hour?"
She peeled off her headphones. The man standing there was unexpected: young, his accent not wholly local. He had caramel skin, a ponytail that kept his dark hair neatly back, and the kind of jaw that cut silhouettes. Tattoos braided the forearms the wind exposed. He wore a quiet cologne that smelled faintly of citrus and cedar.
She studied him, then looked away. "How long have you been staring?" she asked.
He sat down beside her without waiting for permission, the sand whispering under his weight. He looked out to the sea, not at her. Up close, he was more interesting than the blurred photo she'd first imagined: twenty-something, confident in a casual way. Too young, she thought—old enough to be his mother.
"You're going to sink me into the sand if you don't stop staring," he said, making a joke of it. His accent curled around the words; foreign but musical.
"What is a prep student doing out here?" she teased.
He snorted. "I just finished my master's weeks ago. I don't think I look like a prep student."
She shrugged. "Honestly, you kind of do."
He extended a hand. "Sebastian. Sebastian Lolek Jasio Jakub."
Her breath hitched as she realised who he was. She couldn't hide the surprise. "Oh. Sebastian Lolek Jasio Jakub. The captain of—" She halted. "Isn't that a mouthful?"
He frowned. "Please tell me you are not a paparazzi. I hate tabloids."
"I'm not," she said, laughing despite herself. "Lola."
He took her hand, firm, and she felt a steady warmth that had nothing to do with sunlight. "Nice to meet you, Lola. So what brings a gorgeous queen to the sea alone?"
She hugged her knees. "I come to clear my head."
He tossed a pebble into the water; it landed with a small splash. "You sound like there's a lot going on."
"To be precise, there is." She didn't elaborate.
"Let me guess." He tilted his head with the theatrical patience of someone who enjoyed games. "Boyfriend?"
She almost laughed. "No. I haven't dated in a long time. I'm taking a break from everything."
He shrugged. "Life feels fake sometimes. Secrets, scandal, everyone hiding in the corners." He watched the horizon. "It's okay to take a break because...People pretend they understand you, but they don't."
"Are you a victim of circumstances?" she asked, curious despite herself.
He didn't answer with a story, only with the kind of look that promised there were histories he'd not tell for now. "Maybe. Not now."
"People try to live your life for you when they see you," he said. "They don't see the scars. The insults. The things people put on you and then walk away."
She wrapped her arms around herself against the breeze. "I'm a victim of mockery too. People think they can assess your worth with a glance. They don't know what's inside."
He offered a dry smile. "What is it about men? Don't throw yourselves at us. We're ungrateful." There was humor in his tone, but also weariness. "I'm twenty-two. I still want to live."
"And settling down?" she asked.
He scowled. "Disgusting." He sounded offended on principle. "Why bury yourself early?"
"So I'll assume you're a womaniser," she said, half-chiding, half-teasing.
He grinned. "Maybe. We're entitled to our habits." The ease in his reply made Lola relax a fraction.
They traded small confessions — high-school crushes, a ridiculous story about being caught in a chemistry lab — the kind of disarming glimpses strangers give each other when the ocean is there to witness and no one is required to stay. He told a careless, boyish anecdote; she gave him a dry retort. It felt almost ordinary. It felt safe.
He glanced at his watch. "I have to pick my mother up from the spa," he said, rising. "Nice talking to you, Lola."
She stood as well, the sky shifting toward late afternoon. A car's engine screamed, then rolled up the promenade — not the polite rumble of an evening drive but the familiar, predatory drawl of the man she'd run from that afternoon.
"Hello, Lola. Care for a ride?" Ryan's voice slid from the rolled-down window.
"Go to hell, Ryan," she spat without hesitating, forcing her steps to keep moving.
He pulled his Audi aside and hopped out. "Hey, wait—"
She slapped him hard enough that he doubled, then laughed—hollow, brittle—when he touched his cheek.
"Is it that bad to talk to you?" he said, bewildered. "Or did I commit such a big crime that you have to act violent all the time?"
"You did the crime," she said. "You used me. You're a playboy. I thought you might be different."
"And I did said I'm sorry. I admit that was my offense but it's all in the past now, Lola," he said. "I don't know why it's so hard for you to see me as a different guy entirely."
She shook her head and began to walk away. "I'm done with men like you. And let this be the first and the last time you'll ever stop me on the way."
He watched her walk away. No chase. Then, he pulled out his phone. "Your friend played hard to get," he said into the line. "She slapped me for the hundredth time. Pearl—send me her full details. Address. I need to fix this and put an end to this rubbish."
At the far edge of the beach, Sebastian watched from where he'd paused. Lied about leaving earlier but something had him to stay back. He held his phone, thumb hovering over a number. For a moment he simply watched Lola move away from the car, small and resolute against the dipped sun. Then he followed, long legs eating up the distance, like someone unwilling to let a moment end badly.