It was permission.

Maya pressed one hand to the wet fabric and felt her knuckles tighten beneath the cloth. For one ugly second she imagined snatching Ashley’s champagne and pouring it slowly into Linda’s lap.

She imagined Ryan’s face if she finally stopped being the reasonable one.

Then she breathed through it. No scene. Not yet.

When the van rolled beneath the Seaside Cove entrance, the resort opened before them in bright, expensive layers — palm trees along the drive, white marble fountains throwing sunlight into the air, the villas stepping down toward the private beach in clean terraces of glass and stone.

Linda leaned forward. “Stop here.”