Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
The Same Morning
The spa fills an entire 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.
When it ends, I drift to the manicure lounge where more velvet chairs are arranged across from each other in front of arched windows.
At each station a steaming foot bath awaits dotted with rose petals.
Marble tables display glossy bottles of polish in the same pale-rose shade and one glittering with translucent sparkles.
Sera and Soleil race to the sunlit chairs nearest the glass.
“I love the sparkles.” Soleil holds up the bottle.
“What would a princess wedding be without sparkles?” Marisol surveys them and smiles. “We’ll all get them so we match.”
I manage to stifle my groan. I’m not a glitter girl, but I’ll take one for the team.
Technicians in latex gloves trim our cuticles and shape nails at the same time our foot baths bubble.
Miranda leans back. “Princess wedding achieved?”
Marisol closes her eyes, face softening. “Finally.”
Lupe laughs. “You’ve been planning this since childhood.”
“That can’t be true.” Sera’s eyes widen.
“Oh, there’s a scrapbook,” Miranda teases.
Marisol groans. “Miranda, is nothing sacred?”
We all drift into chatter about wedding dresses and heel heights.
Eventually, Miranda instigates gossip hour. “What’s going on with Irving?”
Marisol snorts. “What’s not going on with him?”
“C’mon. He broke up with Hudson, they’d been together for nearly a decade,” Miranda says casually.
Lupe nods. “Good.”
Véronique tilts her head. “Hudson was the tall one, right?”
“Yes.” Marisol rolls her eyes. “Good riddance. He gave Irving an ultimatum. Move to London or break up.”
“Irving’s a big deal in Silicon Valley,” I add softly. “Hudson was always trying to marginalize his accomplishments.”
“Exactly,” Marisol sighs. “He tried a power play and Irving finally had enough.”
“Never works,” Lupe declares.
Soleil wrinkles her nose “He was annoying.”
“He was, and now he’s gone.” Marisol agrees.
“So… Let’s talk about Zach.” Miranda turns her gaze on me. I grip the armrest, willing indifference onto my face as I inadvertently replay how he made me come twice before I left this morning. “You probably know more about Zach than any of us.”
Marisol catches my eye. “Zachary Bennett, the man who cannot be tamed.”
Véronique tuts. “Is he still at it?”
“He’ll be a bachelor forever.” Marisol tilts her head. “If he’s not careful.”
“Why?” Sera asks.
“He can’t seem to hold onto anything that matters,” Marisol says flatly.
A technician dips her brush into pale‐pink lacquer and sweeps it across my thumbnail smooth as silk. My pulse hammers.
Miranda adjusts to look at her sister. “He actually was involved with someone last year, though, wasn’t he? I thought it was serious.”
Marisol nods. “I never met her, her name was Lila, I think. Sky, do you have any intel?”
Suddenly, the lights are far too bright.
The technician lifts my hand and turns it gently under the light, examining the shape of my nails before dipping the brush back into a bottle of polish for the second coat.
I watch the motion without really seeing it, the smooth stroke of color across my nail suddenly the only thing holding my focus.
Lila?
The name echoes in my mind like a dropped glass.
I blink once, then again, forcing my shoulders to settle back into the cushioned chair as if nothing inside me has shifted.
Because everything absolutely has.
Even before recent events, Zach and I have talked about everything happening in our lives for years. Flights across time zones. Business transactions. Our dating foibles. Hopes. Dreams. Stories about childhood or whatever book one of us was reading.
Everything.
Or at least I believed it was everything.
My voice seems distant when it finally comes out. “He never mentioned anyone named Lila to me.”
The words land casual enough no one notices I’m about to throw up my breakfast.
“So?” Véronique tilts her head slightly from the chair beside Lupe. “What happened, Marisol?”
Marisol lifts one shoulder as the technician begins painting her nails. “He let it fade. Told Julian he was too busy for a relationship.”
“Work as an excuse.” Lupe’s eyebrow rises slowly.
Marisol nods, the corner of her mouth turning down. “Always work.”
I stare down at my hands as the polish dries. Why didn’t he tell me?
Why didn’t she?
Two hours ago I woke wrapped in his arms and he told me this wasn’t a fling. He promised things dangerously close to forever.
My chest seizes.
Did he use the same lines on her?
Soleil swings her legs in the pedicure chair and wrinkles her nose. “Uncle Zach is ridiculous.”
“Yeah. If you love someone,” Sera nods with complete certainty, “you keep them.”
The simplicity resonates more deeply than anything the adults have said.
Tears burn under my eyes. I want to believe in Zach.
Choosing me.
Choosing us.
Yet suddenly a shadow sits in the story I thought I knew.
A relationship he never mentioned with a woman with whose name I’ve never heard.
For the first time since waking beside him, a quiet doubt takes hold.
How much of Zach’s life do I truly know?
And how much have I only assumed he was telling me?