LOGINElara’s message arrived when Monet wasn’t looking for it.Her phone was face down on the bedside table, the room dim except for the spill of lamplight and the distant hush of waves beyond the balcony doors. Monet had just finished showering, her hair still damp, wrapped in one of the villa’s oversized robes, when the screen lit up.One notification. Unknown contact. For a moment, she didn’t move.Some instincts lived deeper than thought.When she finally turned the phone over, her pulse had already begun to quicken.Elara:I hope this isn’t strange. But I couldn't stay away, I need to speak with you. Monet sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.She told herself she could ignore it. That silence was a boundary too. That wanting peace didn’t make her cowardly.But curiosity wasn’t what pulled her fingers to the screen. Recognition was.Monet:It’s not strange. I’ve been thinking too but I did tell you I don't want to unpack anything now. Three dots appeared almost instantly. The
Morning arrived softly, filtered through gauze curtains and sea light that turned the walls pale gold.Monet woke first.Not with a jolt. Not with the old instinctive panic that used to drag her back into herself. Just awareness—slow, gradual, like surf easing toward shore. She lay still for a moment, listening.Richard was asleep beside her, turned slightly away, one arm bent beneath his pillow, the other resting loosely between them. He looked younger like this. Unburdened. Or perhaps merely unguarded.She studied his face in the quiet, the familiar planes of it, the faint crease between his brows that never fully left him, the far too sensuous lips she'd frown to love kissing. Loving him felt less like falling and more like standing in something steady. Like placing her weight somewhere and discovering it would hold.That steadiness was what made the rest harder.She slipped out of bed carefully, dressing without noise, moving onto the balcony with a mug of coffee she barely ta
The night settled slowly, as if the island itself were reluctant to disturb them.Monet remained where she was, tucked against Richard’s side, her cheek resting near his collarbone, listening to the steady proof of him—his breathing, his warmth, the subtle rise and fall beneath her ear. The ocean below the balcony murmured in long, patient rhythms, waves folding into one another without urgency, without demand.It occurred to her then that she wasn’t bracing. No clenched jaw. No counting exits. No silent rehearsals for pain. Just stillness.That realization frightened her more than the questions ever had.Richard didn’t move. He had learned, over the months, the exact weight of stillness Monet needed when her thoughts turned inward. Too much closeness felt like pressure. Too much distance felt like retreat. So he stayed exactly where he was present without insistence, available without expectation.Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, more reflex than intention. T
Richard didn’t answer right away, he tensed but didn't say anything. That, more than anything, told Monet he was taking her seriously.He shifted slightly, angling his body toward hers, one arm resting along the back of the chair, not trapping her, just close enough that she could feel his warmth if she chose to lean in again.“That makes sense,” he said finally.She turned to look at him. “It does doesn't it?”“Yes,” he said quietly. “Because both instincts are about the same thing.”“Which is?”“Self-preservation.” The word landed gently, but it struck deep.Richard reached for her hand, threading their fingers together slowly, as if giving her time to pull away if she needed to. She didn’t.“When you were a child,” he continued, “you learned that knowing the truth didn’t always come with safety. Sometimes it came with loss. So part of you learned to survive by letting go before things could be taken from you.”Monet’s throat tightened. “And the other part?” she asked.“The part th
The call came just as the sun was dipping low over the water. A big grin automatically covered her lips as Monet balanced the tablet against a stack of books on the balcony table, the breeze lifting her hair as the screen flickered to life. For a heartbeat, she saw only Florence’s ceiling—then laughter burst through the speakers. “Mommy!” Carter’s face filled the screen, far too close, his nose pressed almost flat against the camera. “You’re squishing it,” Meredith scolded from somewhere off-screen., her tone an exact replica of Richard's. “Grandma Florence said, ’ Don’t break it.” “I’m not breaking it,” Carter argued. “I’m just looking.” Monet laughed despite herself, the sound light, almost normal. “I can see you just fine, sweetheart. Back up a little.” Florence appeared then, composed as ever, silver hair perfectly set, eyes already scanning Monet in a way that felt far too knowing. “There,” Florence said calmly, guiding Carter back with one hand and positioning the t
Richard had known something was wrong before he even closed the laptop.The numbers on the screen still glowed—projections, approvals, signatures—but his attention had slipped hours ago. It wasn’t work fatigue. It was instinct. The kind sharpened by years of responsibility, of grief, of learning to read rooms and silences better than words.Monet hadn’t messaged him all afternoon. Not once.That alone meant nothing. She was on vacation. She was supposed to be wandering, buying linen dresses she didn’t need, tasting fruit that tasted brighter here than anywhere else in the world.And yet. He closed the laptop anyway.The girl’s name sat open in another tab.Elara M—No last name listed on the event roster. No corporate affiliation. No reason for her presence at a private reception other than association.Richard leaned back, jaw tight.He hadn’t meant to look her up. He'd waited to ask about her but figured it would raise too much dust. It had started innocently. Recognition pricking a







