Page 1 of Butterfly
One
Tua Island, Atlantic Ocean
Alex
YEARS AGO, WHEN I was struggling to find a job as an actor, I couldn't have imagined that one day I would be sitting next to Academy Award-winning Emily Lawrence and wishing I could tell her to shut the hell up.
The catastrophic tropical storm that ravaged the island last night left me sore and shell-shocked. Images of the gale blowing away roofs, like tin can lids being pulled off, are carved into my brain. At least my hands aren’t shaking anymore. Still, exhaustion is riding me hard, and Emily isn’t helping. Sitting next to me on one of the stuffed seats in the airport first-class lounge, she glances at the screen of her phone, annoyance drawing her brows close.
“I can’t believe it,” she mutters, tilting her head right and left. “Half of my luggage is lost. I’m going to send a formal complaint to the hotel about the poor way they treated me. Do they have any idea how much those clothes cost? Unique Prada pieces soaked and ruined.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale the humid air that not even the air con can dry. I wouldn’t call myself a nice guy. The other night, I lost my temper and shouted at my mum after she called me for the twelfth time to make sure I was fine. But Emily has the uncanny ability to make me want to punch a wall or smash something.
“We’re lucky to be alive, Em,” I grit out.
She waves a dismissive hand. “Yes, of course. I was afraid the windows in my room would be ripped open by the wind.”
I was scared for the occupants of the wooden house that the water was dragging down the street below the hotel.
In front of me, the screens show images of last night’s storm. Storm isn’t the right word to describe the hell of water, gusts of wind, and thunder that shook the island. The gale was a living creature that destroyed everything in its path. It arrived without warning, although that’s not what the locals say. They blame the government for its lack of organisation and a tragedy that should have been avoided. But the blame game can’t cover up the fact that twenty people are dead, and hundreds are without a home. Schools and shops have been dragged away by the deluge, and half of the roads are flooded. The hotel where Emily and I were staying for the past few weeks suffered minor damage. Water inundated the basement, garages, and first floor. Yes, watching bits of broken chairs, pieces of furniture, and clothes floating in the murky water filling the reception area scared the hell out of me, but that was before I saw the devastation outside. I couldn’t care less if Emily’s precious luggage got lost in the chaos. Mine got lost, too. Sod it. My fresh T-shirt and jeans are a stark contrast to the messy hair and uniforms of the police officers and airport attendants who are trying to make order out of the chaos around us.
“This bloody humidity is making my hair all frizzy.” She pulls her long chestnut hair into a ponytail, exposing her high cheekbones and big eyes.
I lean back on the stuffed chair, ignoring my phone buzzing again. Lack of sleep, fear, and a pervading sense of horror don’t mix well with the life of a sodding celebrity. Too many people want to reach out to me, but the last thing I want is to talk to journalists and producers or make a statement about how I feel. Sod that, too.
Bright sunlight streams through the clouds, shining over the wet streets littered with tree branches and rubble. The wind literally ripped off roofs, uprooted trees, and rolled cars down streams of water, leaving only ruins in its wake. Even part of the airport was damaged, and a side completely collapsed.
My phone buzzes again. Screw it. My life as a star can go to hell for now. The moment the thought slips out of my brain, I regret it. The success and fame of the past years have filled my life with opportunities. Success and fame that are the result of teamwork. I’m an actor thanks to all those people who believed in me when I was no one. But my family knows I’m safe. That’s all that matters now. The authorities are evacuating the tourists from the island, and sorrow is crushing my chest too hard. I don’t want to deal with social media posts.
Still, the damn phone buzzes again.
“For God’s sake, Alex.” Emily puts down her phone. “Answer the phone or turn it off. It keeps ringing.”
She has a point, although I don’t like her commanding tone. But I don’t get to tell her because she stands up and, bag in hand, storms off towards the toilets. I blow out a breath. Only a few hours. Then she’ll take her flight to Paris, and I the one to London, and it’ll be peaceful and quiet. I pick up my phone. Vance has left no less than three voicemails and five texts.
I call him back, fighting a headache. “Van—”
“What the hell, Alex? I’ve been trying to contact you for hours.” Even through the phone and shaking with undisguised anger, his voice comes strong and commanding.
“I sent you a text and an email hours ago.”
“I didn’t receive them. I was about to call your mother, but I didn’t want to bother her in case she had no news as well.” His sharp exhale fills the silence. “I was worried. The news said people died. How are you?”
I rub the tension out of my neck. “Tired. Not a scratch. Other people weren’t so lucky.”
There’s a moment’s pause where the sound of his fingers typing on a keyboard thunders. It must be two in the morning in London, but my manager is up and about, always working. Or plotting. It depends on the point of view. “Listen, I get you’re tired, but we can turn this, er…unfortunate situation into something—”
“No!” I clench my jaw as an attendant in a blue uniform walks over to me. “Vance, just don’t.”
“This natural disaster is being splattered on the front page of every damn newspaper, anyway.” His raspy tone is followed by a smoker’s cough. “There’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of that. A storm on the very last day of your shooting? The news has already done the tour of the world. You can’t ignore it.”
The pounding in my head is increasing. “I don’t want to talk about my experience on the island.”
A new moment of silence stretches. He hisses out a breath. I can smell the nicotine even through the phone. “We can organise a fundraiser for the survivors.”
I close my fist hard enough to press my fingernails into my palm. What did I say about my temper? “Not everything I do must become a PR campaign. I’ll make a donation, but anonymously. No fuss, no media, no publicity.”
“Emily’s manager has already started. She’s the ambassador of that damn animal association, and that skyrocketed her popularity faster than a kitten video on TikTok.” There’s the sound of documents being shuffled. “Her picture is everywhere. The fabulous star ofPaladins of Shadows, that’s being shot on Tua Island, has gone through—”