Wrong Roads.

The book opens with Ricardo's hand around MK's wrist in a car. The death threat is quiet, almost conversational. She counts to one hundred. She gets out and walks home in the Cabo sun.

Everything that comes next is the story of how she got there.

MK is twenty-one years old when she boards a flight to Cabo San Lucas for a commission-only timeshare sales job she barely understands in a country she has never been to. She arrives reckless and magnetic and thrillingly alive. The salesroom at Resort Groupe is its own world — morning meetings, tour mechanics, a floor where the warnings about Marco arrive as background noise. She hears them the way she hears all warnings. She doesn't.

When MK's night with Marco ends with his girlfriend walking through the door, she does the only thing she knows: she goes straight to Birdie. Birdie laughs. She already moved MK to the sixth floor last night. The sixth floor is younger, wilder, better money. Ricardo is there.

Ricardo has been circling the edges of MK's life for weeks — handsome, married, with the kind of quiet that makes a room pay attention. He is running from something she won't understand until much too late. The red flags come fast. MK runs toward them.

It takes her mentor Bee, a clear sky, and the kind of honesty a good acid trip forces out: when someone tells you they're going to kill you, you have to believe them. MK flies home. Ricardo follows. He buys her a ticket back to Cabo. She tells him she will meet him at the airport. She goes to a different gate instead — to India, to the yoga teacher training she has been deferring since the trouble started, the practice that held her together through every wrong room she walked into.

Two gates. She chooses.

This is women's commercial fiction in the tradition of Emma Cline's The Girls and Colleen Hoover's It Ends With Us — a coming-of-age story structured like a horror movie, where the reader is fifty pages ahead of the protagonist the entire time.