His mouth almost moves—approval, tempered. “You’re asking to give him the illusion of a safe space to run his mouth,” he says. “And wire it.”
“Yes. Aunties present. Nan present. Don Marco. The kind of audience he respects. A prayer on the front end so he relaxes into lying. Then the question. Then the lie.” I breathe out. “And then we put the proof on the table so the room hears the difference between his mouth and the facts.”
“You still want to spare your father.”
“I want him to change his mind with proof, not choose sides with grief and anger.” I look at the water. “If he chooses his brother, fine. I’ll know. But I want to give him the honest chance to hear it from the man he’s defending.”
Cayce studies me for a long few seconds, the way he does when he’s checking a structure for load-bearing beams. “Allright,” he says finally. “We’ll plan it when we’re home. No names, no calls while we’re here. We don’t bring it into our bed.”
“Deal,” I say, and the relief is physical—shoulders dropping, breath deepening, a knot I didn’t realize I was clenching letting go.
He reaches over, draws a circle with one finger on my knee. “You want another swim,” he asks, “or another umbrella drink.”
“Both,” I say. “In that order.”
We swim. The water is silk, the bottom a pale bowl that makes our shadows look like something from a story. He keeps close without hovering, his hand easy on my waist sometimes, like the ocean is a street and he’s walking me across. We float, we laugh at nothing, we kiss once and I taste sunscreen and rum and him.
Back under the umbrella, he lies on his back, forearm over his eyes, those long lines turned to rest. I read the same page three times and don’t care. The afternoon leans toward gold. The sound of waves and the faint chatter from couples a hundred yards down trickle together into something that makes you believe your bones can actually loosen.
“Empire,” he says suddenly, arm still over his eyes.
“What about it.”
“We’re building one.”
“If you say so.” I’m not an empress, but I’ll sit at Cayce’s throne.
“On this beach,” he says, as if drawing a map only we can see. “It’s just thought right now. But it’s ours.”
I smile into my book. “It is.”
He turns his head, lifts his sunglasses. “You’re not going to let me go to war every time I’m tempted.”
“No,” I say.
“You’re going to make me be clever.”
“Yes,” I say. “And when clever fails, I’ll pass you the match so you can burn your enemies to ash.”
He laughs, soft. “That’s marriage.”
“That’s us,” I correct.
We wander back to the villa when the sun learns how to set. It sits tucked behind hedges like a secret: low, white, coral stone floors that kiss our bare feet, the whole front open to the sea. Security is there, somewhere, like shadows with good manners. Our plunge pool is rinsed with orange light. The kitchen smells like lime and char and the idea of dinner.
He leans down and kisses the hollow under my ear as we pass the bedroom. “Shower,” he suggests. “Then food.”
“Dictator of my heart,” I say.
“Say it louder,” he says, already in the bathroom turning on twin showers like he invented water.
I duck into the bedroom first to grab a fresh dress, leave my phone on the nightstand, and pause in the doorway just to look at the sea one more second. The wind lifts the sheer curtains; the room lifts with it.
“Five minutes,” I call.
“Four,” he calls back.
I’m still smiling when the power snaps.
