No past betrayals.
No scars.
Just two people who had survived destruction and somehow built something fragile in its place.
“I’ll be back by next Sunday,” he said quietly, his voice carrying over the soft rhythm of the waves below us. “Eight days. Maximum.”
I leaned into him, resting my head against his shoulder, letting his warmth steady me.
“I know.”
He had already explained it earlier — several times, actually.
Greece was no longer something he could manage from afar.
Athens demanded him.
The compound required his direct oversight.
Four major matters waited for his return:
The restructuring of the eastern shipping routes after a rival family had attempted a quiet takeover.
The renewal of ancient blood-oaths with the old Cretan clans — alliances built on loyalty and history, not contracts.
A full audit of the offshore accounts that funded nearly half his empire, something that required his signature and personal verification.
And finally — the quiet elimination of a traitor who had been feeding selective intelligence to Interpol for years.
That last one wasn’t handled lightly.
It couldn’t be delegated.
It required precision.
And closure.
For eight years he had delayed returning permanently to Greece.
Eight years that were originally meant to last one month.
They stretched because of me.
Because I wasn’t ready to leave California.
Because he refused to leave without me.
His thumb traced slow, unconscious circles along the back of my hand.
“I can’t believe I’ll wake up for seven full days without you beside me,” he murmured. “I’ve gotten too used to your warmth. Too used to hearing Daphne’s small footsteps in the hallway in the mornings.”
My chest tightened.
“It’s only a week,” I reminded him softly. “We survived longer separations.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But then I was losing you.”
His words hung between us.
