CHAPTER TWO
MILA
Luke and I left the gala on Mom’s heels without stopping to say anything to his family. One moment perfume and champagne pressed in from every direction, the next the night swallowed us whole. And I definitely preferred that.
Luke didn’t loosen his grip on my hand. We dropped Mom off at home as she and I had been picked up by one of Dunn Industries’ drivers. I didn’t ask where we were going when he pulled away from the curb.
The town quieted the closer we drove to the coast. November in Blackwood didn’t strip the trees bare, but the air carried a cooler edge after sunset, eucalyptus bending in the coastal wind, palms rattling softly overhead. The heater hummed beneath the dash, but the chill in me had nothing to do with temperature.
Something had shifted.
Something had begun.
Luke parked near the public beach access and cut the engine. For a second neither of us moved. The world ticked by in silence. My pulse still carried the rhythm of the confrontation with Elise and the revelation of our discussion on the balcony.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, though the motion felt fragile. “I will be.”
He came around to my side, opened the door, and the night rushed in—salt, wind, and air chilly enough to wake the dead.
We kicked off our shoes in unspoken agreement, and our bare feet met the cold sand. The shock traveled up my spine, clean and grounding. The moon hung low and luminous, scattering silver across the water. Stars crowded the sky, unbothered by corporate wars and fabricated documents.
The tide rolled in, waves crashing just short of where we walked, foam dissolving into the darkened shore.
Luke laced our fingers together again. We didn’t talk at first as our steps fell into rhythm. The sand shifted beneath us, grains slipping between my toes. The air carried a cool edge against my lungs, salt-heavy and reassuring. The ocean moved in endless repetition—advance, retreat, advance again.
Nothing about tonight felt repetitive. Everything felt irreversible.
The risks in our plan pressed heavier here by the ocean.
I squeezed his hand. “This doesn’t get to be the thing that breaks us,” I said quietly.
His response wasn’t immediate. “It won’t,” he said, drawing the words out. “Breaking would mean one of us stops fighting.”
He brushed his lips against my temple.
“And I haven’t even started.”
The boardwalk came into view, and despite the late hour, music drifted faintly from an open bar, patio heaters glowing at the far end. Halfway down, the old boardwalk studio wasn’t there anymore. A temporary banner hung crooked above the door:Coming Soon—Coastal Kitchen.
I slowed. Luke’s thumb brushed over my knuckles. He followed my gaze without asking.
The studio had once felt permanent. Bright canvases propped against windows. Music drifting through open doors.Paint on my hands and the certainty that I could create something that belonged only to me.
Now paper covered half the front window. Life shifted without warning.
“You miss it,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
The admission lingered between us, simple and honest.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save it.”
“I know.” I leaned into his side. “It’s okay. It was out of your control.”
The wind pushed my hair across my face. I tucked it behind my ear, staring at the darkened windows from where we stood. If we were closer, I would’ve seen my reflection staring back—Luke’s tux jacket swallowing the silver dress beneath it, mascara smudged faintly beneath my eyes.
