At the way his caramel eyes drink me in like I’m the most beautiful thing in the room.
Like I’m the reason he brought me here.
Like I’m the treasure.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I admit softly.
But I’m not talking about the view.
I’m talking about him.
He smiles, slow and knowing, and reaches for my hand again, lacing our fingers together like it’s second nature.
I glance down and realize my ring—the one from our rushed yacht-side wedding ceremony—is glinting in the sunlight.
It’s a massive, antique pearl surrounded by diamond baguettes in an ornate setting that somehow feels less like a performance and more like a promise.
We step out of the car together, and the staff bows.
Literally bows.
“Your Highness,” one of them says to Atlas. “Your suite is ready. Welcome to Bodrum.”
Oh my God. They called him Your Highness. And now I might actually faint.
Atlas gives a nod but doesn’t drop my hand.
Doesn’t step away.
Doesn’t break the illusion—if that’s what it is.
And when I glance up at him, heart hammering, he leans down to brush his lips against my ear.
“Stay close,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re mine now. And I don’t like to share.”
The words should make me bristle.
Instead, they make me burn.
Because part of me—maybe the biggest part—is already his.
And no matter what comes next, I’m not sure I can survive pretending I don’t want more.
Chapter Twenty-Three-Atlas
The cocktails are a formality. A test.
This isn’t about drinks.
It’s about posturing.
Power.
Perception.
Every man here is watching. And not just the ones I came to see.
The Turkish sun is melting into the sea beyond the infinity pool, casting gold over the marble terrace, and Cecilia stands beside me like she was carved for this moment.
