Chapter Ten-Cecilia
The trip feels like a whirlwind.
No—like being swept up by a hurricane when really, it’s just a man who looks like he was born wearing an Armani suit.
Between the speed of Atlas’ decision, the frantic rush through the airport, the private jet with a pre-signed marriage license burning a hole in my handbag, and the silent, ever-watchful men around us, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.
By the time we land in Mykonos, my head is buzzing, and my limbs are made of lead. And there are three dozen text messages from family members waiting to be addressed on my cellphone.
The Mediterranean air is warm and salty, tinged with bougainvillea and something faintly herbal.
The car ride is short but disorienting, winding down narrow roads to what I can only describe as a ridiculously over-the-top seaside villa carved into the cliffs like a Bond villain’s vacation home.
The walls are whitewashed.
The windows are massive.
The sea is just there.
Cerulean.
Infinite.
The kind of view that feels fake until you smell it.
Atlas doesn’t hover, but he does lead me through the space, as if he can feel my exhaustion bleeding through my spine.
He opens a bedroom door—his, I can tell instantly by the masculine scent and the closet full of black suits and sleek, high-end shoes—and gives me a nod.
“Rest. I have to attend to some things.”
That’s all he says. Then he’s gone.
And I collapse onto the bed like I’ve been drugged, not just dragged into an international marriage scheme.
Hours later, I wake slowly, the light golden and warm across the stone floor.
For a moment, I forget where I am.
Then I hear soft rustling and blink at the young woman standing near the closet, carefully hanging my new clothes.
She looks barely twenty, with smooth olive skin, a ponytail wrapped high, and a shy smile.
“Hello,” I say, sitting up.
A stab of jealousy followed by guilt hits me, and I shake them both off as I stand.
She dips her chin and gestures toward the en-suite bathroom with a slight, deferential wave.
Right. Bathroom. Shower.
God, yes.
Inside, the bathroom looks like something out of a spa ad—natural stone, chrome, and luxurious towels soft enough to feel like silk and strong enough to count as body armor.
What really catches my attention, though, are the toiletries.
Feminine. Expensive. Clearly new.
There’s a hint of peony and fig in the air as I lather up and let the hot water chase the exhaustion from my body.
When I step back out, towel-draped and alert, the girl is still waiting—holding out a cup of rich Greek coffee and a flaky pastry on a porcelain plate.
“This is perfect. Thank you,” I murmur, surprised by how grateful I feel.
She nods, then points out the window, where sunlight sparkles off the sea.
“Hey, can I use the beach?”
“Miss?”
“The beach? To swim?”
“Of course, there is beach access just down the path, if you would like to swim. There will be an escort, of course.”
“Mr. Stavros?”
She shakes her head politely.
“He is working. He will return for dinner.”
Of course he will.
Marriage of convenience, my ass.
I sip the coffee and eat the pastry—it’s absurdly delicious. I check my phone, sending one text to tell all and sundry that I am perfectly fine and well.
I even send a proof of life picture, as Mom calls them, of me with my breakfast.
Once I finish eating, I start digging through the rest of my bags from my shopping spree with Mom, Aunt Destiny, Lucy, and Leanna.
Apparently, Atlas had all of it brought along. I suppose I should be annoyed by the possessive efficiency of that, but instead, I’m relieved.
One of Lucy’s picks—a gorgeous espresso-brown bikini—catches my eye.
I normally steer away from two-pieces with my curves, but Lucy insisted, and right now?
I’m so glad she did.
The top is sleek, the kind with thin straps and an easy hook. The bottoms are high-cut, Brazilian style, designed to show off legs and confidence in equal measure.
It’s scandalous.
And perfect.
I dress slowly, taking time to smooth sunscreen on every exposed inch of skin. My skin tone is naturally tan, but still. I don’t want to burn.
I grab a towel, sunglasses, and the second pastry the girl left for me—because one clearly wasn’t enough—and make my way out.
A group of men—bodyguards—wait for me by the door.
“Good morning. Beach?” I say.
They nod, one of them says something in Greek.
“Of course, Miss. This way,” another answers in English, I nod and off we go.
The beach is alive with color and salt-kissed sound.
Locals and tourists are scattered across the shore—some topless, some not.
No one bats an eyelash at my strange entourage. Three men in linen suits and dark sunglasses, keeping a respectful distance like well-trained shadows.
They don’t speak. They don’t smile. They just follow.
And I ignore them.
Because for the first time in 24 hours, I feel like myself again.
Feet in the sand.
Skin kissed by sun.
I bite my lip, glance around, and I let my coverup fall.
Curves and all. I’m not ashamed of my body or the art that adorns it. After all, it was all my choice.
I earned this body, this confidence, this moment.
I might be here as a pawn, but that was my decision.
I know who I am and why I’m here.
I just have to remember that when I’m toe to toe with a certain arrogant prince.
I’m no trifle, I’m the daughter of the Council. Lawyer. Fighter. A woman who danced like a Viper in the heart of the Den and made a prince lose his shit.
I thought we had something special. A connection. Something real.
But all he wants is his bloody deal.
Well, Atlas can keep his yacht and his warlord politics.
Right now?
I’m going for a swim.