The early morning light filtered through gauzy curtains as soft as mist, casting pale gold across the expanse of the suite. Birds called faintly in the distance, the rhythmic crash of waves murmured against the shore, and the gentle hush of wind brushing through palms played like background music composed just for this island.
Ariana Blake stirred.
For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then she sat up slowly, blinking sleep from her eyes as her gaze settled on the silk-draped canopy above her head and the tall pillow wall still standing between her and the other side of the bed. A faint, masculine scent lingered in the air—sandalwood, fresh linen, something uniquely Leo. It wasn't overpowering, but it was unmistakably present.
She turned.
Leo wasn't in bed.
The space where he'd slept was rumpled but cool. A quick glance around the room confirmed he wasn't in the closet, wasn't in the bathroom, and hadn't left any note.
Ariana sighed and stretched, rolling her neck as she slid out of bed. Her cotton tank top clung softly to her skin, and her pajama shorts had ridden up one thigh in the night. She tugged them down absently as she padded barefoot to the French doors leading to the balcony.
The sea beyond was glowing with the light of early morning—endless, shimmering, and impossibly blue. Sunlight spilled across the terrace floor in wide golden beams. The breeze smelled like salt and citrus, and in the distance, the island's private beach curved out of sight, white sand laced with shells.
A movement caught her eye.
There, down the hill by a lap pool flanked with palm trees and carved stone statues, Leo was swimming laps.
Ariana stilled.
He sliced through the water like he belonged to it—graceful, powerful. Every stroke was clean and efficient. His back muscles flexed under the water, lean and sculpted, his skin bronzed by the Caribbean sun. He wore black swim trunks that clung low on his hips, and when he paused at the edge to rest, droplets slid down his spine, disappearing beneath the waistband.
She swallowed.
Hard.
Her body's reaction was quick and irritating—because she wasn't here for that. She wasn't here to fall for a brooding billionaire with commitment issues and a haunted past.
Except, she was falling. And she didn't know how to stop.
---
An hour later, the scent of espresso drifted through the suite as Ariana stood in front of the walk-in closet mirror, adjusting the straps of her navy wrap sundress. The linen fabric hugged her curves in the right places, and the slit up one leg made her feel confident, even powerful. Her red hair was twisted into a low bun, a few curls framing her face. Gold hoop earrings and a delicate chain necklace completed the look.
When she stepped out into the shared living space of the suite, Leo was already dressed and scrolling through his tablet. He wore charcoal trousers and a pale blue button-down rolled to the elbows, no tie, no jacket. Clean. Effortless. The kind of attractive that made other men fade into the background.
He looked up at her.
Then did a double take.
"You clean up well," he said.
Ariana raised an eyebrow. "That's your version of a compliment?"
He smirked. "You look stunning. There, better?"
She rolled her eyes, but heat crept up her neck.
He handed her a to-go mug of coffee, already sweetened just the way she liked it—two sugars, a splash of almond milk.
"How did you—?" she started.
"I pay attention," he replied simply.
Her fingers tightened around the cup. She hated how easily her heart reacted to things like that.
A thoughtful pause stretched between them.
"I'll be in meetings until mid-afternoon," he said. "There's a terrace garden you might like, just behind the main hall. No press. No investors. Peaceful."
"Trying to get rid of me?" she asked lightly.
Leo studied her. "Trying to protect you."
Her throat tightened. She hated how those words made her stomach flip.
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed on the table. He answered with a clipped greeting and walked off into another room, already deep in business-mode.
She watched him disappear, then sank slowly into the plush sofa.
And wondered—when had the act stopped feeling like an act?
---
The terrace garden was indeed peaceful. Ariana wandered among rows of flowering shrubs and manicured hedges, eventually settling in a corner shaded by a frangipani tree. The island sun filtered through the waxy petals overhead, dappling her legs with warmth.
She took out her sketchpad.
Something in her fingers itched to create lately—more than usual. The new sights, the new emotions, the strange rollercoaster that was this fake engagement—everything stirred a storm inside her, and the only way to quiet it was to draw.
She let her pencil move freely—lines, angles, curves.
The design that emerged was a dress. A dramatic one. Flowing, asymmetrical, midnight blue with intricate beadwork across the shoulders. Power and softness combined. Something a woman could wear to command attention—like the woman she was learning to become.
She was so absorbed that she didn't hear the footsteps until he was right beside her.
Leo.
He looked at the sketchpad over her shoulder. "That's beautiful," he said softly.
She jumped slightly. "Jesus. You sneak up like a shadow."
He smiled. "I walk quietly."
"You haunt," she said, tucking her pencil away. "Don't pretend it's the same."
He crouched beside her, one knee on the stone tiles, his gray eyes not leaving hers.
"Can I ask something?"
Her heart quickened. "Depends."
"Why do you always look surprised when I compliment you?"
She hesitated.
Then shrugged. "Maybe because I've been with men who used compliments like weapons. To control. To sweet-talk. Then twist."
Leo's jaw tightened, and she could see his temper flare, even though it wasn't aimed at her.
"That's not me," he said.
"I know," she replied. "That's the problem."
He frowned. "Why is that a problem?"
She stood, brushing off her skirt. "Because if you were the monster I expected, this would be easier."
She didn't wait for his response.
She walked away, needing space, needing breath, needing distance from the way his eyes softened and his walls cracked, from the way her own heart leaned toward him even when she didn't want it to.
---
That night, they had dinner alone on the balcony.
Just the two of them, seated across a small table as waves crashed in the darkness below. Lanterns flickered beside crystal glasses. Silver clinked against porcelain. The air smelled of rosemary and grilled seafood and ripe mango slices.
Ariana picked at her salad, aware of Leo watching her.
"You're quiet tonight," he said.
She sipped her wine. "Island air makes me reflective."
"Regrets?"
She tilted her head. "You first."
He was silent.
Then: "I regret not trusting people sooner."
She stared. "That was… honest."
He met her gaze across the candlelight. "You make it hard to lie."
She swallowed. "Leo—"
"You don't have to say anything," he cut in. "I just want you to know… I never expected this."
"This?" she echoed.
"This… you. The way you challenge me. Surprise me. Disarm me."
Ariana's pulse was a drumbeat in her ears.
She set down her fork. "This is getting dangerous."
"I know," he said.
"Because we had rules."
"I remember."
"No touching. No real feelings."
He stood slowly and walked around the table.
She rose to meet him, heart in her throat, breath shallow.
He stopped inches away.
"I'm not touching you," he said, voice low.
"But you want to," she whispered.
"God, yes."
Her breath hitched.
"I should go," she murmured, backing away toward the suite doors.
He didn't stop her.
But his eyes stayed locked to hers.
And her knees were barely steady as she escaped into the night.
---
Later, in the darkness of the shared suite, the pillow wall still stood.
But it might as well have been air.
Because Ariana couldn't sleep.
Because every part of her body ached with the tension between them.
Because pretending was no longer protecting her heart—it was putting it in danger.
She lay awake, listening to the sound of his breathing on the other side.
And wondered if he was doing the same.
---