Revenge matters less than the woman sitting beside me.
Cecilia Batiste isn’t some simpering piece to a puzzle.
She isn’t a means to an end. She is the end.
And if I have to lie to protect her—about me, about how this started—then I will.
Because I’ve stolen empires with my bare hands.
Now I’m stealing a bride.
And the world can go straight to hell before I ever give her back.
Chapter Ten-Cecilia
The trip feels like a whirlwind.
No—like being swept up by a hurricane when really, it’s just a man who looks like he was born wearing an Armani suit.
Between the speed of Atlas’ decision, the frantic rush through the airport, the private jet with a pre-signed marriage license burning a hole in my handbag, and the silent, ever-watchful men around us, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.
By the time we land in Mykonos, my head is buzzing, and my limbs are made of lead. And there are three dozen text messages from family members waiting to be addressed on my cellphone.
The Mediterranean air is warm and salty, tinged with bougainvillea and something faintly herbal.
The car ride is short but disorienting, winding down narrow roads to what I can only describe as a ridiculously over-the-top seaside villa carved into the cliffs like a Bond villain’s vacation home.
The walls are whitewashed.
The windows are massive.
The sea is just there.
Cerulean.
Infinite.
The kind of view that feels fake until you smell it.
Atlas doesn’t hover, but he does lead me through the space, as if he can feel my exhaustion bleeding through my spine.
He opens a bedroom door—his, I can tell instantly by the masculine scent and the closet full of black suits and sleek, high-end shoes—and gives me a nod.
“Rest. I have to attend to some things.”
That’s all he says. Then he’s gone.
And I collapse onto the bed like I’ve been drugged, not just dragged into an international marriage scheme.
Hours later, I wake slowly, the light golden and warm across the stone floor.
For a moment, I forget where I am.
Then I hear soft rustling and blink at the young woman standing near the closet, carefully hanging my new clothes.
She looks barely twenty, with smooth olive skin, a ponytail wrapped high, and a shy smile.
“Hello,” I say, sitting up.
