Chapter 262. Sabatine Lets Go

It happened on the second morning, by the water. The sea was a placid sheet of hammered silver under the rising sun, the cove holding its breath in the hush before the day’s heat. Anton was on the terrace with coffee, watching as Sabatine, already in her swimsuit, padded down the stone steps to the small wooden jetty that jutted into the cove.

She moved with a feline grace, but he was used to that. It was her stillness at the end of the jetty that caught him. She stood for a long moment, looking not at the horizon, but down into the clear, shallow water, her reflection a perfect, serious twin. He could see the familiar line of her spine, the set of her shoulders that spoke of a perpetual, low-grade vigilance.

Then, she raised her arms above her head in a slow, deliberate stretch, a dancer’s preparatory move. And she dove.

It wasn’t a tactical entry—no streamlined, splash-minimising slice. It was a pure, childlike, almost clumsy arc, her body folding and then uncurling into the water with a loud, satisfying . A spray of diamonds caught the sunlight.

Anton froze, the porcelain cup halfway to his lips.

She surfaced a few metres out, shaking the water from her hair. And then she laughed.

It was a sound he had never heard before. Not the soft chuckle of amusement, not the sharp bark of triumph after a solved problem, not the breathless laugh she’d sometimes allowed in his arms. This was unfettered. It was a full-throated, joyous peal that rang across the quiet water, bouncing off the cliffs, a sound so free it seemed to startle the gulls into flight. She threw her head back, the sun glinting on the water streaming down her face, and laughed at the sky, at the sea, at the sheer, stupid delight of being alive, of being here, of being free.

Anton’s breath caught. He felt a sudden, fierce prickling behind his eyes. He set the cup down, his hand not quite steady.

This was it. The miracle he hadn’t dared to pray for. Sabatine was letting go.

He watched, transfixed, as she swam. Not with purpose, but with play. She floated on her back, arms outspread, staring up at the vast, cloudless blue. She dived down to pluck a smooth, white stone from the sandy bottom, emerging to toss it in a lazy arc before it plunked back into the depths. She did a silly, splashy handstand, her feet waving in the air before she toppled over with another burst of that glorious, unselfconscious laughter.

The shadows were gone. The fear, the constant, background hum of threat-assessment that had been her second heartbeat since he’d known her, had been switched off. Here, under the Italian sun, with the world held at bay by cliffs and sea, the armour had finally, fully fallen away. What remained was the woman underneath—not the soldier, not the guardian, not the survivor, but Sabatine. Playful, present, utterly at peace.

She swam back to the jetty and hauled herself up, water streaming from her in rivulets. She saw him watching and grinned, a wide, uncomplicated smile that lit her whole face. She didn’t cover herself, didn’t slip back into a more guarded posture. She just stood there, dripping and radiant, and waved.

He couldn’t move. He was witnessing a resurrection.

She padded up the steps, the stone warm under her bare feet. She stopped before him, shaking her hair like a dog, spraying him with cool droplets.

“The water’s perfect,” she said, still breathless from laughter. “You should come in.”

He reached out,not to pull her to him, but to gently touch her cheek, as if confirming she was real. Her skin was cool and slick from the sea, her eyes the clear, vibrant green of the water in the cove. “You’re happy,” he said, the words a soft revelation.

Her smile softened, understanding dawning in her eyes. She covered his hand with her own, pressing it against her cheek. “I am,” she said simply. “I think… I think I forgot what this felt like. To just be. No scanning. No planning. Just… being.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, his voice thick.

A faint blush coloured her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “It’s because of you. This.” She gestured vaguely at the villa, the sea, the sky. “You built this. Not just the villa. The space. Safety. The trust. You built a world where I can…” She searched for the word. “…float.”

He pulled her then, water and all, into his lap on the wide lounge chair. She came willingly, curling against him, her damp head fitting perfectly under his chin. He held her, feeling the steady, calm beat of her heart against his chest, so different from the frantic rhythm it had often held.

“I didn’t build it,” he murmured into her hair, which smelled of salt and sunshine. “We did. Together. But seeing you like this… Sabe, it’s everything. It’s the only victory that ever mattered.”

They sat in silence for a long time, wrapped in each other and the growing warmth of the day. The old Sabatine would have been up and dressed in five minutes, scanning the perimeter, checking her secure phone. This Sabatine dozed lightly in his arms, lulled by the rhythm of the waves and his heartbeat.

Later, they took the boat—a small, puttering RIB that came with the villa—around the headland to a deserted stretch of beach. She taught him to skip stones, her instruction full of mock-seriousness and then that laugh when he plopped pathetically into the water. They built a ludicrous, lopsided sandcastle, and she defended it from imaginary invaders with a stick-sword, her theatrics making him laugh until his sides ached.

As the sun began its descent, painting the world in gold, they sat on the sand, her back against his chest, his arms around her waist. The ring was still in the bedside drawer. The formal question had been asked and answered. But this, this day of unleashed joy, felt like a deeper, more sacred vow.

“I feel like I’ve met you for the first time,” he said, his lips against her temple.

She leaned her head back against his shoulder.“I feel like I’ve met myself,” she confessed quietly. “The person I might have been if the world hadn’t been so loud for so long.”

“She’s magnificent,” he said.

She turned in his arms,her eyes serious now, though the peace remained. “Don’t let me forget her. When we go back. When the noise comes. Promise me you’ll remind me that she’s here.”

He kissed her, a promise sealed in salt and sunlight. “Every day,” he vowed. “I’ll be your mirror. I’ll show you her, whenever you need to see.”

That night, under the same impossible blanket of stars, they lay on a blanket on the terrace. Sabatine pointed out constellations, not with a spy’s precision for navigation, but with a poet’s wonder at the stories. Her voice was soft, her body loose and pliant beside him.

Anton watched her, this woman who laughed like freedom and loved with a ferocity that had rebuilt his soul. The shadows were banished, not by force, but by a light so strong they had simply ceased to exist. She had let go, and in doing so, had given him the most profound gift he could ever receive: the sight of her, truly, completely, and joyfully, free.

It was, he knew, just a moment. London and its encrypted ghosts awaited. But the miracle had happened. The Sabatine who could laugh at the sky was real. And she was his. No—he corrected himself with a surge of humility and awe—he was hers. And in her newfound freedom, he had found his own.

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