So he’s heard the news. I just sold the movie rights to my biography for eight figures. I donated half the proceeds to a fund earmarked for the newly released islanders, so he’ll be able to afford some swanky accommodations of his own soon, but I’ll be damned if I’m the one to tell him that.

“Maybe I felt like slumming it,” I reply—a little too lightly.

He gives me a look. “That’s not why you brought me here.”

“No.” I hesitate. The words I want to say to him have lived in my head for so long that now they feel stuck there, rusted shut like an old door. “I’m sorry,” I manage at last. “For what I did to Braedan.”

His expression goes blank, impossible to read. He doesn’t say anything.

I swallow and keep going. “And … I’m sorry for the other stuff too, for everything I did to you—for trying to shoot you in the knee, for—”

He cuts me off. “That’s not why you brought me here either. You could’ve apologized to me in a letter.” His voice is sharp now.

I fumble for words. “They wouldn’t let me send you any letters” is all I can come up with.

Something in his expression eases. “Of course not,” he says. He’s quiet for a second, then seems to realize how tense I am—staring at the sea, waiting for him to forgive me or hate me or something. He raises an eyebrow and says: “Well, go on then. Finish your apology.” He leans back, threads his fingers together behind his head, and waits.

I roll my eyes but finally manage to relax. He doesn’t hate me. “I’m sorry I was an ass.”

“Which time?”

“Just … you know, in general. I’m sorry for my general assery.” I cross my arms. “I did save your life too, you know. Twice, if you want to get technical.”

He drops his hands and turns to look at me in full, suddenly serious. “I know. I thought you died for it.”

I press my lips together, my gaze flicking to the north, to the spot where the last bits of Mirage evaporated to ether after he transported me to safety. “I almost did.”

“No, I mean … until today, I thought you were dead. They cut us off from everything after we landed. No news from the outside, just debriefing after debriefing. I found out you were alive when that chopper you chartered flew in to pick me up from the detention center about an hour ago.”

My gaze snaps to him. He stares back. His eyes are the only thing that look exactly the same as before—they’re a sharp, demanding blue. “They let you believe I was dead?” I ask, hardly able to get the words out past my anger. “For three months?”