The White Sand Widow: Paradise is the Best Place to Bury a Secret

The waves in Phuket are loud, but they weren't loud enough to drown out the sound of the gunshot from three years ago.

In this photo, I look like every billionaire’s dream—a trophy in a white bikini, basking in the golden hour of a private island. The camera captured the glow on my skin, but it missed the coldness in my marrow. To the world, I am Maya Vance, the socialite fiancé of shipping tycoon Julian Thorne.

But "Maya Vance" died in a car accident in the Swiss Alps four years ago.

My real name is Elena. And the man who is currently holding the camera—the man who thinks he bought my soul with emeralds and first-class tickets—is the man who ordered the hit on my father.

Julian likes to say that the white of my bikini represents my "purity." He doesn’t realize it’s actually the color of a funeral shroud. Every time he touches my waist, I feel the phantom weight of the blade hidden in my silk wrap. Every time he kisses my forehead, I count the seconds until I can see him gasp for air as the poison I’ve been micro-dosing into his vintage Bordeaux finally takes hold.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. I prefer it served under a 90-degree sun, with the smell of salt spray and the sound of a crashing tide.

This morning, Julian told me he transferred the final block of his offshore shares into my name "as a wedding gift." He thinks he's securing our future. He doesn't know he just signed his own death warrant.

Tonight, there will be a tragic "drowning accident." The grieving, beautiful widow will cry for the cameras. The police will find no foul play—just a powerful man who had too much to drink and a current that was too strong.

I’ll keep the white bikini. It will be a reminder that in paradise, the most dangerous predators don't have teeth; they have a smile and a perfect tan.

Enjoy the view, Julian. It’s the last thing you’ll ever see.