Chapter 1: Return to Paradise

Taken Care Of

It was already daytime when the Emirates A380 cut through the air over the Indian Ocean. Guinevere Martin hadn’t slept for hours. She was slumped in first-class, legs stretched out, wearing the tiniest denim cut-offs and a thin white tank top that kept riding up. Every time she breathed, the bottom of her tits spilled out a little.

At forty she still turned heads. Long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, face that had aged better than most. She hated how people still said she looked better now than at twenty-two.

She scrolled through her iPad, going back twenty years. God, 2006. That turquoise bikini shot - walking out of the water, hair dripping. She looked fucking incredible back then. Untouchable.

Now? At forty, still blonde, body still tight from two months of brutal training - six days a week, no excuses. Her face hadn’t aged half as badly as she’d thought it would, just good genes, good skincare and discipline. But her phone barely rang anymore. The girls in castings were half her age. Her follower count had plateaued and she was tired. The money was still flowing, though. Smart investments over twenty years had kept her comfortable.

Then the email came out of nowhere.

GUINEVERE OWNED - Twelve shoots over six months. Half a million dollars each, plus another twenty-five to forty million on top from the limited-edition art sales.

The contract was one hundred and sixty-seven pages of legalese. She read it three times, skimming the fine print. The deposit cleared without a single problem, and she was on a plane back to the Maldives. The place that still felt like home even though it had been twenty years now.

Owned. She didn’t like the sound of it. She hated it in fact - how small it made her feel. Like the old Guinevere, who used to own the whole world, had just been turned into some very expensive object.

The flight attendant stopped by. ‘Ms. Martin? Descent into Malé in about thirty minutes.’ She fixed her makeup, changed into the white linen dress that always made her look photogenic, and she tried not to think too much about what was awaiting her over the next months.

Malé International Airport The warm, humid air hit her the second she stepped off the jet bridge, reminding her of fond and crazy times spent under the tropics years back.

She cleared immigration fast - visa already sorted. But at baggage claim, only one of her two suitcases came around on the belt. She waited and watched the belt go around twice but nothing showed up.

Then a young airline guy approached her. ‘Ms. Martin? Sorry about your other suitcase. The connection in Dubai didn’t make it. We’re tracking it now. It should be on the next flight. We’ll have it delivered straight to your resort, free of charge, of course.’ Guinevere frowned. Half her shit - clothes, underwear, toiletries - was in that bag. ‘How long do you think ‘should be’ is?’ ‘A few hours, typically,’ he said, already typing on his phone. ‘We’ll call ahead so it’s not a problem for you.’ She pushed the cart with the one bag through customs into arrivals, feeling small and annoyed. Bags get delayed. It happens.

At arrivals a man and a woman stood holding a sign: GUINEVERE MARTIN – OWNED.

She felt a gross little twist hit her stomach. She hated it. It made her feel small, like a world-famous supermodel had just been reduced to expensive luggage.

The man was in his late forties, fit, gray hair cut close, khaki pants and black polo. Ex-military vibe. The woman - early fifties, white linen suit, silver bob, sunglasses pushed up on her head. Both smiled warmly.

‘Ms. Martin!’ the woman said. ‘Diane Chen, Project Director. This is Marcus Webb - he handles logistics.’ Guinevere shook their hands. ‘Thank you. Excited to be here. After like twenty years.’ She hesitated. ‘Small hiccup - one of my bags didn’t make it. They say it’ll be here before dinner.’ Diane’s smile didn’t change. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that one bit. We’ll have Marcus follow up. You’re in excellent hands.’ She glanced at Marcus, already tapping his phone. ‘You should have it at the resort before dinner. Please, just relax and enjoy the crossing.’ They stepped out into the blazing sun. A black SUV waited, windows tinted dark. Marcus took the remaining bag. Diane held the door for her.

Inside the SUV, it was cool and quiet. Diane sat beside her. Cold towels and chilled Perrier waited on the side table.

‘Help yourself,’ Diane said. ‘Fifteen minutes to the dock. We’ll go over the schedule once we’re there.’ Guinevere pressed the towel to her face and neck, relieved but still pissed about the missing bag. It contained her normal clothes, her underwear, most of her shoes, her toiletries. Now she was flying around in just the linen dress and whatever the hell the project had left her.

All she had left was one large rolling suitcase and her regular handbag. The suitcase barely had any clothes in it - mostly her laptop, some documents, a couple of magazines, a small bag with basic makeup and jewelry, and a pair of black high heels. Everything she could actually wear was gone. Or rather, delayed. And the longer it took, the smaller she felt.

‘Don’t stress,’ Diane said again, catching her expression. ‘We’ll take care of everything.’ Diane pointed things out as they drove - new buildings, a bigger marina, more tourists. But the turquoise water and palm trees still looked exactly like she remembered - straight out of a postcard.

‘You remember Velassaru?’ ‘Of course,’ Guinevere said. ‘That’s where we’re headed?’ ‘Yes. Same resort, same beach, same pier you walked out of the water on. The collector wants it recreated exactly.’ Something lifted in her chest despite the nagging worry. This was going to work. Ten million dollars over six months. Proof that forty wasn’t the end of anything.

The Crossing The speedboat was sleek and quiet. Guinevere sat in the shade while Marcus drove. Diane went through papers on her tablet.

‘So,’ she said over the engine noise, ‘what’s the timeline? When do we shoot?’ ‘Tomorrow morning. Golden hour, same as the original. We’ll do fittings and a briefing this afternoon once you’re settled.’ ‘Fittings?’ ‘All twelve wardrobes are with us. Every location has its own outfit, plus extras. You’re in incredible shape, but we still need measurements.’ Guinevere nodded. It made sense.

‘Extra pieces?’ Diane smiled. ‘You’ll see. High-end. This collector doesn’t hold back.’ Twenty minutes later Velassaru came into view - white sand, bungalows over the water, the same pier stretching out. Her heart raced. This was it.

Velassaru Resort - The Suite The suite was stunning. Overwater bungalow, glass panels in the floor so you could see fish swimming under you. Big white bed. An outdoor shower. The private deck had steps going right down into the lagoon.

‘Gorgeous,’ Guinevere said, wandering around, touching things, staring at the endless blue.

‘Only the best for you, Ms. Martin,’ Diane said. ‘It’s 3:15 now. Go freshen up, rest a bit. Back here at 4:30 for the fitting and briefing?’ ‘Perfect.’ She peeled off her travel clothes and stepped into the outdoor shower. The water felt perfect. She washed off the whole last twelve hours. When she stepped out, she grabbed the big white towel and wrapped it around herself. No clothes to put on yet. So, she just sat on the bed in the towel, waiting.