CHAPTER 6

When I finally got to my room, I stopped in the doorway and just stared.

It was beautiful. Really, genuinely beautiful. The room was spacious and airy, with high ceilings and large windows that looked out over the water. The last light of the evening was painting the Mediterranean in shades of orange and pink and gold, and for a moment I forgot how terrible the day had been and just stood there taking it in.

The bed was enormous, dressed in crisp white linen that looked like it had never been slept in. There were fresh flowers on the bedside table—white and pale pink, filling the room with a soft, sweet scent. A ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, pushing the warm island air around gently.

I noticed my suitcase was nowhere to be seen. Then I spotted my things—already unpacked, already neatly arranged in the dresser drawers and the wardrobe. Someone had done it for me while I was still downstairs. Every folded shirt, every pair of jeans, every simple, ordinary, cheap item of clothing I owned was now sitting inside this beautiful dresser in this beautiful room.

I didn't know whether to feel grateful or embarrassed.

I grabbed what I needed and went into the bathroom, which was somehow even more impressive than the bedroom. Marble everywhere. A shower with multiple heads. Thick, fluffy towels folded on a heated rack. Little glass bottles of expensive-smelling products lined up along the shelf.

I turned the shower on as hot as it would go and stood under it for a long time.

The heat worked its way into my tense shoulders, my tight neck, the stiffness that had settled into every muscle from hours of holding myself together. I let the water wash over me and tried not to think about anything. Not Rob. Not the flight attendant. Not that horrible moment on the plane. Not Victor's blue eyes or the warmth of his handshake or the current that had traveled up my arm when our palms touched.

Not that. Definitely not that.

I dried off, pulled on comfortable clothes, and sat on the edge of that enormous bed telling myself I would rest for just a few minutes before getting ready for dinner.

I was asleep within seconds.

The knock at my door pulled me out of a deep, dreamless sleep.

I sat up slowly, confused for a moment about where I was. The room was dim now, the sky outside the window a deep, darkening blue. Evening had arrived while I was unconscious.

"Miss?" A soft voice came through the door. "Miss, I'm sorry to disturb you."

I crossed the room and opened the door. The maid from earlier stood in the hallway, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression apologetic.

"I'm sorry to wake you," she said with a small smile. "But it is almost time for dinner. Mr. Marchetti keeps the table at eight sharp."

I blinked at her, then looked past her toward the window. Dark outside. Almost eight.

"Thank you," I said quickly, already stepping back into the room. "Thank you so much."

She nodded and disappeared quietly down the hallway.

I spun around and looked at the dresser. Seven thirty. I had exactly half an hour.

I moved fast, pulling open drawers and pushing clothes aside, trying to find something—anything—appropriate for dinner in a mansion on a private island in Italy. The options were not encouraging. I hadn't packed for this. I'd packed for a casual trip, because Rob had told me almost nothing about what this visit would actually involve. I had jeans. I had simple tops. I had one dress.

I pulled out the dress.

It was nothing special. A soft, dusty blue wrap dress, knee length, with a small floral print. I'd bought it on sale over a year ago. It was pretty enough, I thought, in an ordinary, everyday kind of way. I put it on quickly and turned to the mirror.

It would have to do.

I brushed my hair out, running my fingers through it until the tangles from the helicopter gave up and the waves fell the way they were supposed to. I looked at my face in the mirror and winced. My eyes were still puffy from crying, dark shadows sitting underneath them like bruises.

I opened my small makeup bag and did what I could. Concealer patted carefully under my eyes, blended until the worst of it was hidden. A little mascara to make my eyes look less sad and empty. A sweep of soft pink lip gloss.

Better. Not great, but better.

I took one last look at myself, took a breath, and left the room.

The hallway was wide and quiet, lit by soft wall lights that cast a warm glow over the dark wood paneling and the artwork hanging between each door. My footsteps were quiet on the thick carpet runner as I made my way toward the staircase.

I was halfway down the hallway when I stopped.

There was a painting on the wall that I hadn't noticed on the way up. Or maybe I had noticed it, but hadn't really looked. Now I looked.

It stopped me completely.

It was a large canvas, taller than me, in a heavy dark frame. The painting showed a woman standing at the very edge of a cliff, her back to the viewer, her hair and the fabric of her dress both caught in the wind and streaming out behind her. Below the cliff was the sea—dark and deep and endless, the waves crashing white against the rocks far below. The sky above her was dramatic, full of heavy clouds lit from within by some unseen light.

She was alone. Completely alone up there on that edge. And yet she didn't look frightened. She looked like she was exactly where she wanted to be. Like she was free.

I leaned closer, drawn in, studying the brushwork. The way the water moved. The way the wind seemed to actually exist within the paint. Whoever had created this hadn't just been technically skilled—they had felt something when they painted it. That feeling was still in it, still alive somehow, all these years later.

"Beautiful, isn't it."

The voice came from directly behind me.