I watch Elena disappear down the hallway to her room, my mind replaying the day we've just shared. The coastal drive, the art gallery, that small café with its lively music. Elena dancing, her face alight with joy.
All of it feels like memories from someone else's life, someone who knows how to appreciate simple pleasures, who isn't constantly calculating risks and returns.
Yet here I am, standing in this beautiful villa, feeling more like myself than I have in years. All because I finally told the truth instead of hiding behind corporate armor.
I head to my own room to shower and change for dinner. The hot water washes away the salt and sand of the day, but the memory of Elena's words remains:
"I like the glimpses I get of the man behind the walls." Not the CEO, not the billionaire, but the man. When was the last time someone saw me that way? When was the last time I let them?
By the time I emerge onto the terrace for dinner, the sky has deepened to a velvety black scattered with stars. Candles flicker on the table, and the private chef has outdone himself with an array of local specialties—grilled lobster, coconut rice, tropical vegetables in some kind of spiced sauce. Elena is already seated, wearing a simple white dress that makes her sun-kissed skin glow in the candlelight.
"Hungry?" I ask, taking my seat across from her.
"Starving," she admits. "All that sea air and dancing works up an appetite."
"The dancing was all you," I remind her. "I maintained my dignity on the sidelines."
She laughs. "Your dignity is always intact, Michael. That's part of your brand."
"My brand?" I raise an eyebrow, pouring us both glasses of the chilled white wine the chef recommended.
"Absolutely. Impeccably dressed, always composed, slightly intimidating Michael Morrison." She takes a sip of her wine. "Though I notice the island is affecting even that. I don't think I've ever seen you in linen pants before."
"Do they meet with your approval?" I ask, surprising myself with the flirtation in my tone.
Her cheeks color slightly. "They're... a good look for you. More relaxed."
"I feel more relaxed," I admit. "Though don't tell anyone back at the office. It would ruin my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me," she promises, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glass.
The chef appears with our first course, momentarily breaking the tension that seems to build whenever we hold eye contact too long. We begin eating, the food as delicious as it looks. The conversation flows easily now, none of the awkwardness from this morning. Elena tells me about her family, her academic parents who still don't quite understand why their brilliant daughter chose to be "just an assistant" instead of pursuing a PhD.
"They mean well," she says with a shrug. "They just can't comprehend that I might enjoy what I do."
"And do you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Enjoy being my assistant?"
“I enjoy the challenge. The pace. The feeling that I'm contributing to something significant." She smiles. "Even if my main contribution some days is making sure you eat lunch."
"You do far more than that," I tell her seriously. "The company wouldn't function half as well without you."
Her eyebrows rise in surprise at the compliment. "Thank you. That means a lot."
We're halfway through the main course when my phone rings. I freeze, then look guiltily at Elena.
"You have another phone?" she asks, clearly pissed.
"Emergency line," I admit. "Only my brothers have the number."
She frowns but nods toward my pocket. "Then you should answer it. It might be important."
I pull out the phone and check the display.
"It's David," I say. I haven't spoken to my quarterback brother in weeks. "I should take this."
"Of course," Elena says, setting down her fork.
I press answer. "David? What's wrong?"
