Chapter Twenty-Two-Cecilia
Something’s changed.
I don’t know if I’m imagining it.
If maybe I’m letting last night rewrite the lines in my head.
But it feels real.
In the way he looks at me.
In the way his hand hasn’t left mine since we disembarked from the yacht.
In the way he presses a kiss to my temple as we step into the black car waiting for us at the dock, like he can’t help himself.
Atlas is quiet as we drive through the winding coastal roads, one arm slung possessively across my lap, his fingers tracing slow circles into my bare thigh.
I’m wearing a long, flowy bronze colored jumpsuit with a strapless bodice that shows off my curves while minimizing my stomach.
I love it because it has wide leg pants with slits on either side that go all the way to my hips.
It’s sexy and revealing when I want it to be—or if a strong wind blows, which I’m betting against.
It’s the kind of outfit that gives a curvy girl like me confidence.
I should be tense. We’re headed toward danger—toward a man he says could kill us both if this alliance doesn’t go through.
But I’m not scared.
Not of that.
What terrifies me is how good this feels.
How easy it is to let myself lean into his touch.
To rest my head on his shoulder and breathe in the scent of him—spice and leather and something uniquely Atlas.
I’ve never had this before.
Attentiveness.
Affection.
Possessiveness that doesn’t feel like a cage, but like protection.
And maybe it’s all for show. For the staff. For whatever eyes are watching us even now.
But whether or not it’s real, I’ve decided.
I’m going to enjoy it.
For however long I have this—him—I am going to enjoy it.
When the car finally pulls up to the gates of the exclusive resort, I’m stunned into silence.
The sun gleams off white stone columns and glass, a mix of ancient grandeur and modern opulence.
Palm trees sway lazily in the ocean breeze, and the air smells like salt and citrus and money.
“What do you think?” Atlas asks, his voice low and warm beside me.
I should be looking at the resort, at the unbelievable luxury surrounding us.
But I’m looking at him.
At the way his caramel eyes drink me in like I’m the most beautiful thing in the room.
Like I’m the reason he brought me here.
Like I’m the treasure.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I admit softly.
But I’m not talking about the view.
I’m talking about him.
He smiles, slow and knowing, and reaches for my hand again, lacing our fingers together like it’s second nature.
I glance down and realize my ring—the one from our rushed yacht-side wedding ceremony—is glinting in the sunlight.
It’s a massive, antique pearl surrounded by diamond baguettes in an ornate setting that somehow feels less like a performance and more like a promise.
We step out of the car together, and the staff bows.
Literally bows.
“Your Highness,” one of them says to Atlas. “Your suite is ready. Welcome to Bodrum.”
Oh my God. They called him Your Highness. And now I might actually faint.
Atlas gives a nod but doesn’t drop my hand.
Doesn’t step away.
Doesn’t break the illusion—if that’s what it is.
And when I glance up at him, heart hammering, he leans down to brush his lips against my ear.
“Stay close,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re mine now. And I don’t like to share.”
The words should make me bristle.
Instead, they make me burn.
Because part of me—maybe the biggest part—is already his.
And no matter what comes next, I’m not sure I can survive pretending I don’t want more.