Chapter 4
Corin
Iwake to silence.
The bed beside me is empty.
Of course it is.
I sit up slowly and scan the room like I’m inventorying a portfolio I already know is underwater. Her dress is gone from the floor. In the main room outside, her shoes are missing from beside the door.
The only evidence she was here at all is a faint indent in the pillow and the scent of lemon peel and sunscreen still clinging to the sheets.
And the pen.
A single fucking black gel pen sitting on the nightstand like an apology she didn’t have the guts to write.
I pick it up and turn it between my fingers. It’s warm from where the morning sun has been hitting it through the window slats.
The hollowness in my chest is familiar.
I’ve felt this before.
Five years ago when she walked out of my life without looking back.
When she decided I was the villain in a story I couldn’t defend myself against without burning down half my investor network and violating confidentiality agreements that would have destroyed me.
I expected this.
One night.
No promises.
Those were her terms and I accepted them because what the hell else was I supposed to do? Beg her to stay? That’s not who I am.
Still.
Fuck.
I set the pen down and drag both hands through my hair. My head is pounding but not from the champagne. Rather, the whiplash of going from nothing to everything to nothing again.
Except it wasn’t everything.
It was just sex.
Good sex, yeah, but that doesn’t explain why I can’t stop replaying every damn second of it.
Why I keep thinking about the way she looked at me in the dark, like maybe she still saw something worth salvaging beneath all the mistakes I’ve made. Why I—
Christ, what’s wrong with me?
Forget about her.
I came to Eleuthera to escape. To put distance between myself and the foundation scandal that has been quietly building in Manhattan for the past three months. Xavier Laurent, my former board member and current nightmare, has been planting falsified documents to cover his own embezzlement.
The press hasn’t broken the story yet but they’re circling. My general counsel Liora has been running damage control while I’ve been here pretending to work on the legal clinic project.
Except the clinic isn’t pretend.
It’s real.
I’ve been funding Marisol de la Cruz’s community legal work for two years and this pilot program is the next phase. A way to scale her impact. A way to do something that matters instead of just bleeding money into crisis management.
But it’s also strategic, like everything I do in business.
If I can stabilize the foundation’s public profile with a high visibility community project then maybe I can buy enough time to expose Xavier before he buries me.
Not to mention, the foundation is great for optics.
Every billionaire wants to look like a dedicated philanthropist.
The woman I dismissed on the beach last night was a donor’s daughter making overtures all evening. Easy to send away the second I saw Amara’s face in the lantern light.
Seeing Amara fractured all my plans. Turned me into someone I don’t fucking recognize. Someone who makes decisions with his dick instead of his brain.
Now she’s gone and the urge to disappear into work is humming under my skin. It’s how I managed to forget about her before.
Or tried to, anyway.
Never quite worked, did it?
But I need to make it work this time.
Because whatever the hell last night was, it can’t happen again.
I stand and pull on yesterday’s linen pants.
Ysela appears in the doorway holding an espresso like she has a sixth sense for when I need caffeine and silence. She’s the only person on my staff who’s mastered the art of being present without being intrusive.
“Good morning Mr. Saelinger.” Her voice is professional. If she noticed the state of the bed or the fact that I’m alone she doesn’t show it.
“Morning.” I take the cup and down half of it in one sip. The burn grounds me.
She gestures toward the table near the window. “I’ve set out your tablet and the contracts for this morning’s meeting.”
“Thank you Ysela.”
She nods once and disappears as quietly as she arrived.
Meeting.
Because unlike normal people, of course I work New Year’s Day.
And expect everyone around me to work.
Helps that I pay my people very, very well.
I shower. Shave. Dress in a fresh linen shirt the color of sand and lightweight trousers that won’t betray how much I’m sweating. My reflection in the mirror looks like a man who got three hours of sleep and spent most of them reliving the feel of Amara Khan coming apart under his hands.
Fucking hell.
Stop thinking about it.
I pocket the pen before I leave.
I don’t know why.
I’m at the beachfront café at nine forty five. Fifteen minutes early. Thorne, my head of security, is already inside conducting his usual sweep. When he’s done, I enter.
The café is small. Open air. Positioned right on the sand with a view of the water that would be romantic if I weren’t here to conduct business.
A handful of tourists occupy corner tables. Couples mostly. Honeymooners probably. They look just as tired as I probably do. You know, that whole New Year’s Day hungover look.
I claim a table near the back with clear views of both entrances and pull out my tablet. Contracts for the legal clinic funding agreement. Partnership terms. Liability waivers. All the scaffolding required to turn good intentions into actionable reality.
I scan the first page without absorbing a single word.
Because my mind keeps wandering. Replaying last night. The way she kissed the scar above my eyebrow after—
Goddamn it.
This is exactly the kind of distraction I can’t afford right now. Not with Xavier circling and the foundation’s reputation hanging by a thread. Not when I need to be sharp, focused, strategic.
But instead I’m sitting here like some lovesick idiot pining after a woman who made it crystal clear she wants nothing to do with me.
Fuck her.
I certainly want to.
No I don’t!
I force my attention back to the contracts. This stuff... this is what I am good at.
Not relationship bullshit.
Marisol is ten minutes late which is unusual for her. She runs her legal aid program with the kind of militant efficiency that would make most corporate CEOs weep. If she says she’ll be somewhere at ten she usually means nine fifty eight.
Though I suppose I should cut her some slack. It is New Year’s Day, after all.
At ten oh five the door finally opens.
I glance up expecting Marisol’s no nonsense energy and salt and pepper hair.
Instead I see her.
Amara Khan.
Frozen in the doorway like she has just walked into a deposition she wasn’t prepared for.
Her eyes lock on mine.
And just like that, every rational thought in my head evaporates. Replaced by the kind of visceral reaction I haven’t felt since I was seventeen and too stupid to know better.
What the hell is it about her?
Why can’t I just file her away in the mental drawer labeled “mistakes” and move the fuck on?
She stays in the doorway. One hand gripping her canvas tote. The other braced against the doorframe like she’s considering turning around and walking straight back out.
Good. That makes two of us who wish she wasn’t here.
I get up, and stalk toward her before she can do just that. Not because I want her to stay. Because I need answers.
Need to understand why I can’t get her out of my goddamn head.
“You left.” The words come out quieter than I intended. Exposing more than I meant to.
“I had to,” she says finally.
Her answer pisses me off more than it should.
What the hell was I expecting, a fucking apology?
“I’m sorry, I should have gone to a different cafe,” she says. “Should’ve guessed you’d be using the resort’s as your own personal conference room.”
She turns to go.
She’s leaving.
Again.
And suddenly I’m even more furious.
At her, at myself, at this entire fucked-up situation.
My brain kicks into overdrive. The same strategist mode that has closed a thousand deals. The part of me that can spot an opportunity in a burning building and extract value before the roof caves in.
Wait.
Marisol.
The clinic.
Six weeks of community legal work.
Amara does contract law.
Corporate litigation.
She spent two years cleaning up foundation scandals after her mentor got burned.
This could actually work.
Not because I want her here.
Christ, the last thing I need is more complications.
But because this is strategic.
The foundation needs credibility, and her reputation is spotless.
She can review the predatory contracts threatening the islanders, and I can prove to her, and to myself, that I’m not the villain everyone thinks I am.
Six weeks. That’s all. Just long enough to show the world I’m trying to do the right thing. Then we go our separate ways and I can finally stop thinking about her.
It’s not personal.
It’s purely tactical.
The whole thing crystallizes in under three seconds.
“Wait. Stay.” I keep my voice steady and professional. Because this is business, not whatever messy thing happened last night. “Hear me out. I have a proposal...”
She looks at me and arches an eyebrow. “A proposal?”
A few tourists are watching us now. Probably wondering if we’re about to have the kind of public fight that makes good vacation stories.
I keep my voice conversational. The same tone I use when I’m trying to close a deal with a founder who’s two seconds from walking.
“I actually hoped I’d find you here.” The lie comes easily. It always does when there’s a deal on the line. “You always were a fan of morning coffee. Have a seat. It will only take a moment.”
Her jaw tightens. For a second I think she’s going to refuse.
Then she sighs and crosses the café with me. I sit, and she sits across from me.
Good. She’s here. That’s something.