CHAPTER 11

Lia's POV

The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming through the tall windows of my room, painting everything in soft gold. For just a moment—one brief, peaceful moment before my brain fully came online—I forgot where I was. Forgot about yesterday. Forgot about Rob and the flight attendant and the humiliation that had carved itself into my chest like something permanent.

Then I remembered all of it.

I lay there for a long minute, staring at the ornate ceiling, feeling the weight of it settle back over me like a heavy blanket I couldn't push off.

Eventually, I forced myself out of bed. I showered in that beautiful marble bathroom, letting the hot water run over me longer than necessary, like it could somehow wash away more than just the night's sleep. I dried off, pulled my hair back into something presentable, and stood in front of the closet trying to decide what to wear.

Everything I owned felt wrong here. Too cheap. Too plain.

I settled on a simple sundress—light blue, nothing special, but at least it was clean and didn't have any visible wear. I slipped on sandals, checked my reflection one more time, took a breath, and left the room.

The house was quiet as I made my way downstairs. My footsteps on the marble staircase seemed too loud in the stillness. I could hear distant sounds from somewhere deeper in the house—the quiet murmur of staff going about their morning work, the faint clink of dishes, the soft rush of water through pipes.

I followed the sounds and found my way back to the dining room from last night.

Rob was already there, standing near the windows with his phone in his hand, scrolling through something with that familiar expression of vague irritation that seemed to be his default setting. He was dressed casually—khaki shorts and a polo shirt—and he didn't look up when I walked in.

"Good morning," I said, my voice coming out quieter than I'd intended.

"Morning," he replied absently, still looking at his phone. His tone was flat, distracted, like I was background noise he was barely registering.

I stood there for a moment, waiting for something more. Waiting for him to look at me. To ask how I slept. To acknowledge, even in the smallest way, that yesterday had happened and that maybe we should talk about it.

He kept scrolling.

Something hot and painful twisted in my chest. I opened my mouth before I could stop myself.

"You can't even look at me," I said. Not angry. Not accusing. Just... tired. So incredibly tired. "Why?"

Rob's head snapped up. His eyes met mine for the first time that morning, and what I saw there wasn't guilt or shame or anything resembling remorse. It was annoyance. Pure, undiluted annoyance, like I'd just interrupted something important.

He let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind that made it very clear I was exhausting him.

"Can we not do this here?" he said, his voice low and tight with barely concealed irritation. He glanced toward the door like he was worried someone might overhear. "Seriously, Lia. Not now."

The dismissal landed like a slap.

I pressed my lips together and looked away, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind my eyes. My throat felt tight. I wanted to say more. Wanted to tell him that we were absolutely going to "do this," that we needed to talk about what happened on that plane, that I deserved better than being made to feel like I was the problem for having feelings.

But I didn't.

I just stood there and swallowed it all down like I'd been doing for months, holding my tongue because fighting with Rob never got me anywhere except more hurt and more confused about whose fault everything was.

I heard footsteps then. Light, quick footsteps approaching from the hallway, accompanied by the soft click of heels on marble.

"Hey, Robbie!"

The voice was bright and feminine and familiar in a way that made my stomach drop even though I'd never heard it before.

I turned toward the doorway.

A woman walked in—no, glided in—with the kind of effortless confidence that came from never having doubted her place in a room. She was beautiful in that specific, polished way that required money and time and professional help. Blonde hair that caught the light perfectly, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Flawless makeup that looked natural but definitely wasn't. A designer sundress that probably cost what I made in two months, fitted perfectly to her slim frame. Expensive sandals. Delicate gold jewelry at her wrists and throat.

She looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine. Like she belonged here, in this house, in this world, in a way I absolutely did not.

She was probably around our age—mid-twenties, maybe—but she carried herself with the ease of someone who had never worried about money or worked a job that made her feet ache or wondered if she was good enough.

My heart sank.

Rob's entire face changed when he saw her. It was like watching someone flip a switch. The bored, irritated expression disappeared completely, replaced by something warm and genuinely pleased. His eyes lit up. He actually smiled—a real smile, the kind I hadn't seen directed at me in longer than I could remember.

He set his phone down immediately and crossed the room to her.

"Celeste!" he said, pulling her into a hug that looked comfortable and familiar, like they'd done this a thousand times before. "I didn't hear you arrive."

She laughed—a light, pretty sound—and kissed his cheek as they pulled apart. Her hand lingered on his arm for a moment, casual and easy.

"I got in about an hour ago," she said, her voice carrying that same polished quality as everything else about her. "The drive from the marina was gorgeous. God, I forgot how beautiful it is here."

My stomach twisted.