Chapter thirteen
The Same Morning
Thespafillsanentire wing of the castle.
Underlit stone floors shimmer, walls are draped in tapestries of hushed forests. Tall, pointed-arch windows frame manicured rose gardens and morning light pools on the marble threshold of the reception area.
The gentle whisper of harp strings drifts from hidden speakers.
A flutter in my stomach reminds me why I’m late. It’s been a whirlwind since Zach and I flew here on his private jet. Nearly every minute has been spent tangled in raw urgency. My nipples pebble at the thought of how many times he’s made me come over the past forty-eight hours.
My heart swoons at the thought of a future together.
Our little secret until the wedding is over and we’re able to come clean with our best friends. It’ll be tough keeping this from Marisol.
“Skylar Morgan?” calls the receptionist with a perfect chignon, her practiced smile full of polite reproach.
My shoes squeak on polished stone as I approach. “Yes. Have they started without me?”
“No, they’re finishing tea in the lounge.” She beckons me down a carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings of falling water.
The lounge is a sanctuary of refined tranquility. Plush velvet armchairs in muted shades of pearl and blush are arranged in intimate clusters around low marble tables, their cool surfaces veined with delicate ribbons of gold. Crystal bowls overflow with freshly misted white roses, and sprigs of eucalyptus mingle subtly with the faintest hint of sandalwood.
Every detail in this castle speaks of understated luxury. From the gentle flicker of candlelight mirrored in the curved glass of antique lanterns to the soft weight of thick Persian rugs underfoot. It’s a private haven where time slows and the world’s noise is held at bay, leaving only comfort, beauty, and the gentle promise of renewal.
Marisol spots me the moment we step inside and lifts a dainty porcelain cup of chamomile. “There she is, Sky!”
From opposite ends of the sofa, Marisol and Julian’s twin daughters, Sera and Soleil launch themselves at me. Soleil’s cinnamon-scented curls brush my cheek; Sera squeezes me so snugly I practically taste her excitement.
“You’re late,” Soleil scolds, eyes shining.
Sera scoffs, “She’s always late.”
“I am not always late,” I protest, hugging my goddaughters tightly.
“You almost missed Mom’s birthday dinner last year,” Soleil reminds me.
I brush the hair from her eyes. “New York City traffic.”
“You flew here yesterday and this is the first time we’ve seen you,” Sera counters.
I laugh, stepping back to admire their long, coltish legs and sun-bronzed skin. In the year since I’ve seen them, they’ve bloomed from chubby-cheeked girls into poised young tweens.
Marisol approaches, pulling me into a quick hug. Lupe, Marisol’s mother, and Julian’s mom, Véronique sit side by side, their silver spoons tapping porcelain teacups. Between them, Marisol’s sister Miranda flips through a deck of nail-polish samples.
“Skylar,” Véronique’s French accent rolls off her tongue, “it’s been too long.”
“I know.” I set my bag down on one of the chairs.
Lupe gestures at a tower piled with gorgeous pastries. “Eat something before you waste away.”
“You don’t want to miss these,” Miranda holds up a chocolate croissant.
An attendant in crisp white arrives. “We’re ready to begin treatments.”
Like birds on a breeze, our group disperses into separate treatment rooms. Marisol and Miranda float down one corridor with Sera and Soleil. Lupe and Véronique follow another.
I change into a plush dove-gray robe and am led to a private suite filled with amber candles. For the next two hours I’m in a cocoon of bliss. Warm black sesame oil spreads along my spine as the therapist’s hands knead every buried knot into oblivion.Next, a rose-and-cucumber mask cools my cheeks as gentle fingertips trace patterns across my forehead to free my mind from all stress.
