Chapter 6 – The Stranger’s Comfort

Chapter 6 – The Stranger’s Comfort

(Darius’s Point of View)

The sea had always been my refuge. Even before the world called me by a last name heavy with expectations, before the resort became more of a business than a home, I found peace in the constant rhythm of the waves.

Today, though, the ocean brought no peace only echoes of a night I couldn’t forget.

The morning sun reflected off the tide, glittering like fractured glass. My hands rested on the railing of the boardwalk that stretched from the resort into the sand, the wood still damp from last night’s rain. I tried to focus on the distant horizon, but my thoughts refused to obey.

Her face kept coming back.

Her voice.

The way she’d whispered a name that wasn’t mine and the way I hadn’t stopped her.

Althea.

I didn’t know it that night. I hadn’t realized who she was until the morning after, when I’d seen her walking across the garden with Damian. The sight had hit me like a blade to the chest. My brother’s wife. The woman he’d kept secret from everyone except the family.

And I without knowing had become the man who stole what was meant to be untouched.

I had told myself to stay away. To bury it. To pretend the night had been a mistake born of confusion and alcohol. But every time I caught a glimpse of her the quiet way she carried herself, the grief behind her calm eyes it felt like the guilt twisted deeper into my ribs.

I’d watched her from a distance the entire day, standing beside Damian during the company’s activities, keeping her composure while Samantha hovered like a shadow. She never looked my way. Not once. But her silence said everything she remembered. And maybe, she didn’t want to.

By late afternoon, the retreat had ended. Guests packed their things, executives said their polite goodbyes, and Damian disappeared into yet another private meeting with Samantha. I thought she might leave soon after. But when I walked down toward the beach, I saw her.

Alone.

The sun was sinking, a muted gold washing the sea in its fading light. She stood at the edge of the shore, her shoes discarded beside her, her toes sinking into the wet sand as the waves curled over them. The wind tugged at her hair, scattering it across her face.

She didn’t notice me at first. Or maybe she did, and chose not to react.

I hesitated. Every part of me screamed that this was dangerous that nothing good could come from standing near her again. But guilt has its own gravity. So does longing. And between the two, I found myself walking toward her before I could stop it.

The sand shifted under my shoes as I approached. “You’ll catch a cold standing there,” I said quietly.

She didn’t turn around. “Then at least I’ll have an excuse to stay in bed tomorrow.”

There was a small tremor in her voice, almost invisible, but I heard it.

I stopped a few feet behind her. The sea breeze carried her scent soft, faintly floral. Familiar. “The retreat’s officially over,” I said. “Most of the staff are heading back tonight. Shouldn’t you be with them?”

“I needed air.” She bent to pick up a small seashell from the sand, rolling it between her fingers. “Air doesn’t ask questions.”

“I might,” I said before I could help myself.

That made her turn. Slowly.

Her eyes met mine calm, guarded, and yet filled with something fragile beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“Neither should you.”

For a moment, we simply stared at each other, the ocean whispering between us.

Finally, she sighed and looked back at the water. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Whatever it is you think you owe me.”

“I owe you nothing,” I said softly. “But I do owe the truth to myself, at least.”

She went still, her fingers tightening around the shell. “The truth?”

“That night…” I began, my voice breaking against the wind. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t know.”

Her shoulders tensed. “I know.”

I blinked. “You......know?”

She nodded once. “I figured it out after. The way you spoke. The way you touched me. You weren’t Damian.”

Hearing her say it aloud sent something sharp through me. Shame. Regret. And something darker that I didn’t dare name.

“I should’ve stopped it,” I said. “I should’ve—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, turning toward me again. “You think I didn’t blame myself too? I thought it was him. I wanted it to be him. But when I realized…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I didn’t know what to feel anymore.”

The waves crept closer, foaming around our feet.

I studied her face the exhaustion in her expression, the way her lips trembled slightly as if she’d held too much inside for too long. She looked like someone who’d forgotten what it meant to be touched with kindness.

“Althea,” I said quietly. “You shouldn’t carry this alone.”

She laughed softly, bitterly. “That’s what wives do, Darius. We carry things alone. Secrets. Guilt. Disappointments.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and before I could think better of it, I stepped closer. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Her gaze met mine again, searching. “And what would you know about that?”

“More than you think,” I said. “I know what it’s like to live under someone else’s shadow. To keep quiet while your heart suffocates.”

She frowned. “You and Damian… you’re twins. You have everything. Money. Status. Power. What could possibly suffocate you?”

“Being compared to him,” I said simply. “Every decision I make, every success I earn it’s always ‘but Damian would’ve done it differently.’ I became the other Navarro. The one who doesn’t fit the mold.”

She was silent, her expression softening as the weight of my words sank in.

“I built this resort because I wanted something that was mine,” I continued, my voice low. “A place that wasn’t about him, or the company, or our father’s expectations. And yet, even here, he shows up and brings his chaos with him.”

Althea’s eyes flickered with understanding. “You sound like someone who’s been running for a long time.”

“Maybe I have,” I said. “But running doesn’t make you free. It just makes you tired.”

We stood there for a long while, the sound of the sea filling the silence. The last edge of sunlight slipped below the horizon, leaving only the cool, silver glow of dusk.

“I envy you,” she said suddenly.

“Me?”

“You built something for yourself. I can’t even claim my marriage.”

Her words caught me off guard. “You mean—”

“No one knows about us,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “Not the employees, not the investors. Damian says it’s better this way. To protect the company’s image.” She laughed quietly, without humor. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s the company he’s protecting, or himself.”

The admission sliced through me. The idea of her being hidden reduced to a secret filled me with an anger I didn’t expect.

“You deserve more than that,” I said.

She smiled faintly. “Deserve doesn’t mean anything when love isn’t equal.”

“Then maybe it’s not love.”

Her eyes lifted to mine, startled. The wind carried the scent of salt and rain between us.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she whispered. “People might start believing you.”

“Maybe I already do.”

Her breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still the waves slowed, the wind faded, and all I could see was her.

The guilt that had weighed on me since that night shifted into something else something dangerous and undeniable.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I don’t want anything,” I lied. “Except maybe… for you to stop looking at me like I’m your mistake.”

Her eyes glistened under the fading light. “Aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But that doesn’t change what I felt.”

The air between us thickened, charged with everything we couldn’t say. I took another step forward, close enough to see the faint tear trail she hadn’t wiped away.

“I think,” she whispered, “we’re both drowning in something we can’t escape.”

I nodded slowly. “Then maybe… we can stop pretending to swim.”

For a moment, we stood there on the edge of the tide, two broken pieces of the same quiet tragedy. I wanted to reach out to touch her, to tell her she wasn’t alone but I didn’t.

Because I knew if I did, there would be no turning back.

She looked away first, toward the sea again. “You should go,” she said softly. “If Damian sees you with me…”

I swallowed hard. “He won’t.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know him.”

“I know him better than anyone,” I said bitterly. “That’s the problem.”

Her lips curved into the faintest, saddest smile. “Then you know I’m right.”

She started to walk away, but halfway across the sand, she stopped and turned back. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For not pretending I’m fine.”

The words lingered long after she left.

I stayed by the shore until the moon rose high above the water, its reflection rippling like silver fire. The sound of the waves became the only thing that made sense anymore.

In that quiet, I made myself a promise one I wasn’t sure I could keep.

To stay away from her.

To protect her from the truth.

And most of all… to protect her from me.

But as the wind carried her name across the sea, I already knew that promise was as fragile as the tide.