Chapter 1

Elena Pov

Grief has a sound

For me, it’s the steady hum of a plane engine slicing through clouds soft but sharp enough to drown out everything else.

I press my forehead to the cold window and stare down at the Atlantic. It stretches like a silver ribbon beneath us.

This is about peace, I tell myself. Not running. Not hiding. Just breathing.

But even I, don’t believe that.

Nora booked the trip without asking. Typical.

“You need to remember what it feels like to be alive,” she’d said, handing me the ticket like a prescription.

She doesn’t get it.

Feeling alive terrifies me more than feeling nothing at all.

When the plane finally touches down in Santorini, sunlight pours into the cabin, warm and blinding. It hits my skin like something holy and cruel.

The island is stunning too stunning. White cliffs stacked like bone, blue domes gleaming under the sun, laughter floating in a language I don’t understand. 

It’s all too much for someone who still feels like a ghost.

At the resort, I don’t even unpack. I toss my bag on the bed and leave the room, straight to the bar.

The bartender looks up, smiling when I took a sit. “Welcome. What can I get you?”

“Something strong,” I say.

He nods and pours amber liquid into a glass.

The bartender gives me a soft smile as he slides the drink across the counter to me. 

The glass sweats against my palm as i pick it up, the air smells like salt, citrus, and something warm. 

Like every summer I never got to live.

I take a sip.

That’s when I see him.

He’s across the bar, half-hidden in shadow, watching the ocean like it’s a secret only he understands.

There’s an intensity to him calm on the surface, but burning underneath.

He's tall, dress in a suit even in this heat

The kind of man who doesn’t need attention to own a room.

Then he turns.

And our eyes meet.

It’s only a second maybe two but it hits me like static. Something unspoken, sharp and real.

He doesn’t smile and neither do I.

There’s something in his stillness, in the way he doesn’t look away, that tells me he’s not just passing through. He’s here for a reason.

And maybe, just like me, he’s here to forget.

Only when I finish my drink does he make his move, slow, deliberate steps until he’s standing beside me at the bar.

“Vacationing alone?” he asks. His voice is smooth, low, threaded with something that doesn’t belong to small talk.

I glance at him, then back at my empty glass. “Apparently. My friend booked the trip, said I needed a change of perspective.”

“And has it helped?”

“Not yet.”

He studies me, quiet. His eyes feel sharp, like he’s already figured me out.

“You don’t seem like someone who runs” he says finally.

“ That because I'm not running,” I say. “I’m resting.”

His mouth curves slightly, almost a smile but not quite. “Resting looks a lot like running when you’re doing it alone.”

Something twists in my chest, irritation, curiosity, maybe both. “And what about you?” I ask. “Are you here to rest or run?”

“Neither” he says, his gaze stays locked on mine. “I’m here to forget.”

His words linger between us, soft but heavy.

“Do you come here often?” I ask, mostly to keep him talking.

He shakes his head. “No. But I might start.”

The way he says it, low, a little thoughtful makes it feel like I’m the reason. 

My pulse skips, and I hate that it does.

He holds out a hand. “Julian.”

“Elena,” I say, slipping mine into his.

His grip is warm, steady and when he lets go, I feel it’s too soon.

We talk, not like strangers.

More like two people searching for the same quiet place inside their heads.

“I’m in business,” he says. No details, no follow-up like he doesn’t want to talk about himself, and strangely, I don’t mind.

“I used to work in marketing,” I offer.

His brow lifts. “Used to?”

I shrug, taking a sip of my second drink. “Let’s just say I took a break. New job starts soon.”

The job I barely crawled my way into after everything fell apart.

After he tore through my life like a storm I never saw coming.

I don’t tell Julian any of that.

Not about Ethan.

Not about walking in on him with someone else.

Not about how I stayed, stupid and shaking, begging for an explanation he never deserved.

Not about how that version of me, hopeful, loyal, soft was the one that died.

Some truths are too raw for first conversations.

“Regret,” Julian says slowly, “is just memory with sharp edges.”

I exhale a humorless laugh. “I have enough of those to bleed out on.”

He doesn’t look away. “Then you came to the right place. Islands are good for bleeding quietly.”

His words are gentle, but his eyes, his eyes have seen too much to still believe in softness.

When the bartender clears our glasses, Julian glances toward the terrace. 

Laughter and music drift up from below a party spilling onto the beach

He looks back at me. “Join me?”

I hesitate.

“It’s a small crowd” he adds. “You might even remember how to smile.”

“I don’t think I forgot,” I say. “I just don’t use it much.”

His smile is small, crooked maybe . “Then consider this practice.

I should say no. I should finish my drink, walk away, and keep pretending I’m not falling apart.

Instead, I hear myself say, “One drink.”

He nods, that small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “One drink,” he repeated 

But the look in his eyes says he’s already thinking about the next.

He turns toward the terrace.

And I follow.

The party hums around me , low lights, laughter, bodies swaying like the night belongs to them.

Julian stands beside me with a drink in hand, sleeves rolled, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

“You don’t seem like the party type,” he says.

“I’m not,” I answer. “My friend forced me here.”

He smiles, barely. “Then I should thank her.”

“What about you?” I ask. “You don’t strike me as the type who shows up just to drink with strangers.”

“I don’t,” he says. “But you looked like you needed someone to keep you from leaving.”

He’s right. 

I almost had.

“Why would you care if I left?”

He lifts his glass. “Maybe I’m just curious what you’re running from.”

I take a slow sip and look out at the water.

He tilts his head toward the dance floor. “Come on.”

I shake my head. “I don’t dance.”

He offers his hand anyway. “You don’t need to, just move.”

I hesitate before I take it.

His hand is warm as he pull me to the dance floor

He pulls me closer, his hand at my small back and my fingers curl around his wrist, we move barely dancing.

The noise around us fades until it’s only him. His scent, his breath, the faint brush

of his fingers against my back.

When the song ends, he doesn’t let go.

Elena” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.

I look up as he leans in, close enough that I feel his breath against my cheek.

“Come with me,” he says.

And before I can think of all the reasons I shouldn’t, I do.