Slept with one Twin...and Fell for the Other

Chapter 9

Bellamy POV

“You just vomited on Giorgio Armani,” Tristan muttered as we stepped off the boat and onto the dock.

I winced. “I said I was sorry.”

He gave me a side-eye that could kill. “Are you feeling alright?” he asked, brushing off invisible specks from his now-damaged luxury loafers. He had been silent the entire boat ride, just wiping his shoes with an old shirt the boatman handed him like he was dealing with a biohazard. This was the first thing he’d said in over twenty minutes.

“I think so,” I murmured, grabbing my bag. “I haven’t been feeling that great lately. I think it’s just… everything. Everything going on in my life.”

He paused, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “What’s going on in your life?”

The question caught me off guard. I stopped walking for a moment, staring at the sand beneath my feet.

It was a simple question, but it hit me like a brick.

What’s going on in your life?

I had answered that question once before. The night in the bar. I’d spilled everything—my marriage, the abuse, the running. I hadn’t held back.

So if Tristan was asking me this now…

That meant it wasn’t him. He wasn’t the stranger from the bar.

I blinked and looked away. My chest felt tight. There was only one answer left.

Max.

Max was the one I slept with. Max was the man I kissed. Max was the one I thought about when I woke up in that motel room.

I bit my lip and shrugged, keeping my face neutral. “Just personal things,” I said quietly. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Tristan let out a soft snort, clearly unimpressed. “Okay. Whatever you say. Grab your bag. Let’s go.”

We walked in silence toward the large wooden arch ahead. In big, bold gold letters, the sign read: Eden Resort.

Despite everything—the dizziness, the shoes, the awkward silence—I stopped for a second to take it all in. Eden wasn’t what I expected.

It was… hauntingly beautiful. Quiet. The kind of place you’d see on a travel poster in a doctor’s office, promising serenity and escape. Tall palm trees lined the pathways. The air smelled like sea salt and hibiscus. Wooden bungalows stood on stilts over crystal blue water, connected by long docks that swayed with the wind.

But it was empty. Abandoned. A luxury ghost town.

We made our way up the wooden path as seagulls flew overhead, and then Tristan led me into the resort’s main lobby.

It was dimly lit, and the air was thick with dust, but I could still see the bones of what once was: white stone floors, high ceilings with bamboo beams, wide-open spaces filled with sunlight.

“Alright,” Tristan said, adjusting his pace so we walked side by side. “Let me give you the tour.”

We moved through the resort slowly. He showed me the old spa building first—overgrown vines crawling up the sides, broken windows, massage beds still inside like they were waiting for people who never came.

“This used to be one of our top features,” he said. “My mom helped design it. It was supposed to feel like a forest temple.”

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, taking notes on my phone.

He nodded and led me to the pool next. It was drained now, cracked tiles at the bottom, but you could still tell it had once been a masterpiece. Waterfalls. Hidden alcoves. Swim-up bar.

Then we went to the overwater bungalows.

“This was supposed to be the premium experience,” Tristan said, stepping carefully along the wooden bridge that connected each room. “Private decks. Glass floors. Views of the ocean. Honeymoon central.”

I glanced around and could see it all in my mind. Champagne flutes. Sunset photos. Couples laughing in silk robes. It was dreamy. Almost too dreamy.

We kept walking, and I kept jotting down everything. The ideas were already forming in my head—how to bring it back to life, how to make it something people would kill to stay at.

But then… my head started to spin again. No, no, no, I thought, gripping the edge of my phone. Not now.

My feet slowed, my vision blurred. I blinked, trying to focus.

“Are you okay?” Tristan asked, stopping a few steps ahead. “You look—”

“Oh god,” I whispered.

I turned quickly, trying to find something—anything—to hold onto.

But there was nothing.

I stumbled, dropped my phone, and then—just like that—I vomited again.

Right. On. Tristan.

His shirt. His pants. The clean, crisp button-down that probably cost more than my rent.

Silence.

I didn’t even lift my head. I stood there, frozen, completely horrified.

Tristan looked down slowly, wiping a splatter from his arm.

“Jesus Christ, Bellamy,” he said, voice dry and laced with sarcasm. “Do I look like a human trash bin to you? Should I lie down so you can aim better next time?”

I wanted to die.

“I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t know— I didn’t mean to—”

He held up a hand, stopping me. “Nope. Don’t talk. Just… don’t.”