The yacht is ready.
The ring burns a hole in my pocket.
But the house is quiet.
Too quiet.
I walk to my bedroom where I left her hours ago—and she isn’t here.
My stomach drops.
I move through the sun-drenched rooms like a storm front rolling in, tracking down the day maid I left to look after her.
The young woman practically jumps when she sees me.
I’m already firing off questions in rapid-fire Greek before I register how harsh I sound.
“Where is she? Did she leave the villa? When? With whom? Who cleared it?”
The girl wrings her hands, eyes downcast. She looks ready to cry.
Damn it.
I stop.
Draw in a breath.
Get control of the monster clawing its way up my spine.
“I apologize,” I say, quieter now. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
She nods, still nervous, still avoiding my eyes, and finally answers.
“She asked to go to the beach. T-two hours ago.”
The fucking beach.
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth grind.
That’s it. I’m done pretending I’m calm.
My woman. My soon-to-be wife. On one of the most famous beaches in the Cyclades—semi-nude, crowded, exposed—for two fucking hours.
And no one thought to tell me?
I shove open the door and stalk out, every step pounding with purpose down the white stone path that leads to the private beach cove.
I’ve walked it a thousand times in my life.
Hell, I’ve entertained women here.
But the idea of Cecilia—my woman—being gawked at, photographed, talked about?
It makes me fucking feral.
My heart pounds. My stomach twists.
The ugly green monster on my shoulder is snarling his fury.
