I’m filled with neither warmth nor optimism. Never have been.
Our parents cast us early into the roles we were supposed to play. I was the math nerd golden boy who did everything right. Textbook-perfect grades. A Stanford acceptance. Later, my rocket-like trajectory in the tech world gave me a pass for not following in their academic footsteps. Sloane was the oops baby. A disappointment who refused to follow their path or their rules. Neither Mom nor Dad actually cared about being present or giving a shit about either of us beyond how we reflected on them.
Sloane and I grew up in a house that vacillated between bitter fighting and rowdy parties. When our archeologist parents weren’t traveling to dig sites—leaving us with sitters or, once I was old enough, making me the default guardian—they were either screaming at each other about whose research mattered more, or hosting department colleagues who stayed too late and drank too much.
I learned early that my job was to keep Sloane safe and to be the steady one. I played that role for years. Right up until she graduated high school and decided their academic path wasn’t for her. Things in her life went sideways as she partied more and paid attention to any sort of limits less.
Eventually, I tried to step in, positioning myself as the responsible older brother who’d always protected her. But Sloane knows me as well as I know her. She had no problem calling me out as a soulless shell of the brother she used to know. That fight marked the beginning of our estrangement.
I told myself writing checks was enough. I didn’t need to show up for a sister who thought I was more egotistical iceman than human (even if she wasn’t wrong). It took her cancer diagnosis to shatter that delusion, and I hate myself for it. I’ll never be grateful that my sister has had to endure leukemia, but I’m thankful it brought us back together and forced me to be more than just a bank account with a chip on my shoulder.
At 6 a.m., I give up on sleep entirely and go for a run. The morning sun is already climbing, turning the sky from pink to a brilliant tropical blue. August in Bora Bora means heat and humidity that build as the day goes on, but this early, there’s still a whisper of coolness in the breeze off the lagoon.
Following the resort’s private beach path that winds along the coastline, I push myself hard, trying to outpace the rage that’s been simmering since I saw Avah’s face last night. By the time I get back to the villa, I’ve sweated out about a gallon of water but not found a way to release the temper still coiled tight in my gut.
I expect Avah to be asleep. It’s barely past seven, and she went through hell last night. But as I round the corner to the pool, I see her sitting on one of the lounge chairs in those silk pajamas. Damon is standing over her with his hands clasped behind his back, and something protective surges through me, immediate and irrational. I react before thinking, crossing the distance in three long strides.
“Everything okay here?” My voice comes out rough.
They both turn to look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Damon’s expression doesn’t change. The dude could give lessons in composure to statues, but one eyebrow lifts a fraction ofan inch. “Ms. Harris was just ordering breakfast, sir. Shall I bring your usual selection?”
Right. Because nothing says unhinged billionaire like rushing to defend a woman from the resort staff while she’s ordering orange juice.
“Great,” I manage. “Thanks, Damon.”
He inclines his head and disappears back into the villa with the kind of discretion that money can, in fact, buy.
Avah is staring at me with those deep blue eyes, and in the morning light, I can see the liquid stitches covering her wound. Her golden skin and perfect bone structure, which would have tied me in knots when I was younger, show the bruising more clearly. Purple and yellow spread across her cheekbone, a constellation of violence that makes my hands curl into fists. No woman should be marked with violence, and it kills me to think about what else Avah has endured.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, because that sounds more normal than I want to introduce your ex’s face to a concrete wall.
“Okay.” She shifts on the lounge chair, tucking one leg underneath her. The sun catches her hair, which is nearly white gold at the ends and darker at the roots, just brushing her shoulders. There’s probably some fancy salon term for the style. “Thanks for letting me stay. And for checking in on me last night.”
“How do you know I did that?”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “I could feel you looming in the doorway. Sloane says you have a mother-hen vibe.”
I grimace. “Sloane doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“We both know she does.” Her voice is gentle, not mocking.
“I was just following doctor’s orders. Sorry if I bothered you.”
“You didn’t.” She looks down at her hands. “It was sweet of you to care whether I died in your villa. No one needs a scandal like that.”
I might not know Avah well, but I get that she uses sarcasm as a defense mechanism and humor as a shield. Maybe I should beannoyed, but mostly I’m relieved that she hasn’t lost her edge after what happened to her.
Her fingers are bare today. The faint tan line where her engagement ring used to rest is still visible, a remnant of a promise that turned out to be a lie.
“I’m going to need to change rooms or get a flight back to Colorado,” she says after a moment. “I don’t want to see Jon again. Not after—” She stops, jaw tight.
“He’s gone.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Checked out last night.”
