When I reached the resort that evening, the ocean was almost black beneath a deep violet sky. A launch carried arriving guests from the main island to Morrow Cay, where lanterns illuminated the wooden pier and palm leaves shivered in the warm wind. I sat alone at the rear of the boat, holding a paper cup of water, and watched the coastline become a trail of scattered lights. The trip had been designed for two people, but the ocean did not look insulted that only one had arrived.
Amara Cole met me at the landing with a small smile and no unnecessary questions. She was the guest-relations manager, efficient and composed, and she confirmed my name before asking whether I wished to proceed directly to the villa. I thanked her for handling the changes so quickly. She told me that the room was ready and that the welcome dinner could be delivered privately if I preferred not to eat in the restaurant.
"There's one additional matter," she said as we walked along a path lined with sea grape trees. "A gentleman claiming to be your spouse contacted reception earlier, asking why his name was removed. I told him we could not alter the reservation or disclose your room information without authorization from the booking holder. He was unhappy, but we haven't given him access."
I stopped walking for a moment. I had expected the confrontation, but hearing that it had actually happened made my heart pound. "Has he checked in somewhere else?" I asked before catching myself. It was none of my business, and Amara had no reason to know. She simply said that he had been provided with the public list of other accommodations on the main island, the same list offered to any traveler seeking a room.
"Thank you," I said. "I don't want anyone inconvenienced because they work here. Please refer any further request from him to me in writing, and don't let him make this your problem."
Amara's expression softened. "That's a kind thing to say on a difficult day," she answered. "We're accustomed to handling complicated travel arrangements. You're entitled to the privacy of your reservation."
The Ocean Lantern Villa was exactly as it had appeared in the photographs, which somehow made it worse. The front doors opened onto a sitting room with cream linen furniture, books about island history and an enormous window that framed the sea. Beyond the sliding doors lay a terrace, a narrow plunge pool and a path leading toward white sand. Someone had placed two champagne glasses beside an ice bucket before the guest list was revised, and there was a folded card addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Hart" on the table.
I stood there for a long time. It was the first thing that had defeated me that day: not Julian's message, not Sofia's dress, not the awkward conversation at the airport, but two clean glasses waiting for two people who no longer existed in the way I had imagined them. I could still see the younger version of myself who had chosen this room, happy and hopeful, measuring the terrace in her mind and wondering whether the sunrise would be visible from the bed.