“Yes.”
His fingers slide beneath the silk.
Lift.
Light returns all at once.
I blink hard against it.
The world sharpens slowly.
Tall glass doors.
Potted olive trees.
White stone.
Understated luxury so expensive it stops trying to prove anything.
And beyond the drive, the line of the coast and the old-money hush of a place I know too well.
I go still.
No.
No way.
I turn in a slow circle, taking it in, and my stomach drops somewhere around my knees.
The most expensive boutique hotel in Newport.
The one people whispered about.
The one with private courtyards and summer galas and enough polished discretion to hide every bad decision rich families ever made.
My mouth falls open.
“Don’t tell me…”
I look back at him.
His expression is steady.
Watchful.
Almost braced.
“Newport?”
He says nothing.
My heartbeat thunders.
“Royal Oaks?” I whisper.
Still nothing.
And then the final piece clicks into place so hard it almost physically hurts.
