1. Aoife
Aoife
The Maldives wasn’t a lifelong dream or a bucket list destination. It was just next .
After weeks of shivering through the cold streets of Prague and Helsinki, I craved warmth. Sunlight. Something that didn’t feel like a punishment for stepping outside. And so, here I am, soaking in paradise.
From the deck of my villa, the turquoise water stretches endlessly, shimmering under the afternoon sun. The private infinity pool glistens, a perfect mirror of the sea. Every detail is designed to soothe, to make me forget the chaos of the world outside this tiny pocket of perfection.
And for a few moments, it works.
Traveling is what I do—what my father lets me do. He calls it freedom, a way to see the world, to live a life untouched by the darker corners of his empire. But I know better. It’s a distraction. A gilded cage designed to keep me out of trouble, out of his business, and above all, safe.
That’s why he funds it all without question, from the penthouse suites in Paris to the remote retreats in the Himalayas. “Go anywhere, Aoife,” he told me. “You can do anything except take part in the Quigley Syndicate.”
Da believes I’m too fragile for his world, too good for it. But what he doesn’t see is how this life, this constant moving, learning, and adapting, is preparing me for the day I’ll step into his world, whether he wants me to or not.
While he thinks I’m sipping champagne and collecting pretty postcards, I’ve been training.
Shooting in Moscow, sparring in Bangkok, grappling in Amsterdam.
Every skill I’ve picked up is a weapon he doesn’t know I’m forging.
One day, I’ll walk into his office and prove to him that I’m not a delicate little girl.
I’m every bit as strong and capable as my twin brother, Ruairi.
But today isn’t about planning my next move. Today’s about relaxing. I lean back in my lounge chair, the warm sun on my skin, and let the soft crash of the waves dull the edges of my thoughts.
The resort’s beach party starts at sunset, and I’ve already decided I’ll go. It’ll be an easy way to pass the evening, maybe even fun if the cocktails are strong enough.
By the time I make my way to the beach, the sun is dipping low, painting the horizon in fiery hues of gold and orange.
The resort staff have gone all out. Tiki torches line the sandy paths, the soft hum of music drifts through the air, and the bar is already swarmed with guests holding elaborate, colorful drinks.
I tug my sheer cover-up tighter around my white bikini as the breeze picks up. The soft sand is cool against my bare feet. It’s the perfect evening. Quiet enough to think, lively enough to get lost in the crowd.
With my Tequila Sunrise in hand, I start toward the quieter edge of the gathering. I barely take three steps before a solid wall of muscle slams into me.
My drink flies out of my hand, bright orange liquid splashing all over me and the sand. My purse slips from my shoulder and spills onto the ground, its contents scattering like confetti.
“Jesus,” I curse. “A dhiabhal .”
“I’m so sorry.” The voice is smooth—controlled.
I look up to see the man responsible. He’s tall, dressed in an expensive suit that immediately stands out against the laid-back crowd. A cell phone is in his hand.
His blue eyes, vivid and piercing, hold mine with an intensity that’s both unsettling and magnetic. They’re framed by impossibly thick lashes that seem to shift with the light. They aren’t just striking. They’re assessing, as if he’s stripping away every layer I thought I could hide behind.
His jawline is sharp, framed by the shadow of a day-old beard that gives him a dangerous edge, softened only by the faint curve of his lips like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
My gaze shifts, taking in the way the fabric fits him perfectly, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering down to a lean waist. His athletic build speaks of someone used to relying on precision over brute force.
Beneath the crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough at the collar, I catch the faintest glimpse of tattoos—dark ink teasing at his skin, disappearing beneath the pristine fabric. It’s a stark contrast, this blend of refinement and rebellion, and I can’t help but wonder how far the tattoos extend.
The suit sleeves are smooth and flawless, ending just above strong hands that look like they’d be equally skilled at delivering pain or pleasure. I shiver at the thought before I can stop myself.
This man isn’t just attractive. He’s devastating. The kind of handsome that’s effortless and entirely lethal.
He tilts his head slightly, and I realize I’ve been caught. Heat blooms in my cheeks, but he says nothing. Instead, he crouches down, scooping up my spilled belongings and brushing sand off them.
“My fault,” he says as he straightens, handing me a lipstick tube. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“You think?” I snap, wiping the sticky drink off my arm. My cover-up clings uncomfortably to my skin, the fabric soaked.
“I’ll replace the drink,” he says, his tone calm and unbothered, as if it’s already a done deal. “And anything else I ruined.”
“You can start with my outfit,” I mutter, glancing down at the mess he’s made.
He chuckles softly, the sound deep and rich, and holds out his hand. “Eamon.”
I hesitate. There’s something about him, something deliberate in the way he holds himself. He doesn’t look like someone who should be at a beach party in the Maldives.
“Eve,” I reply, using the name I’ve been going by since I left Ireland.
He glances at the orange drink now soaking into the sand. “Let me get you another drink, Eve, ” he says, his name clashing oddly with the lack of an accent. His voice is smooth, low, and unhurried like he has all the time in the world. “It’s the least I can do.”
A shiver of heat travels down my spine, and I hate how much I enjoy the way his perusal seems to claim parts of me without even touching them. My pulse quickens, a mix of discomfort and thrill, and I find myself holding my breath, caught between the urge to hide and the desire to let him look.
“You’re far from home.” The intensity of his eyes makes me feel exposed. Instinctively, I want to cross my arms. Still, something about the way his gaze lingers, deliberate and undeniably appreciative, keeps me rooted in place.
“So are you,” I reply, my voice steady, though I can feel the tension crackling between us.
His smile is faint, more a suggestion than an expression, but his sapphire eyes never leave mine, holding me in place. “Am I?” he asks, his tone teasing, challenging, like he’s waiting for me to catch up to some game I didn’t know we were playing.
The words hang between us, making me wonder what else he sees when he looks at me. What secrets he’s already piecing together.
He steps closer, the scent of his cologne mingling with the salt air. It’s warm and inviting, with hints of amber and sandalwood wrapped in a subtle spice that’s intoxicating and undeniably male. It suits him—confident and rich, with a complexity that promises more than meets the eye.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him. His voice drops just enough to make the invitation feel intimate, almost dangerous. “Let’s fix this mess.”
And for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I follow him. Maybe it’s the way his fingers brush my elbow, barely there but electric or the way his gaze lingers like he’s imagining things he has no right to.
I fall into step beside him, my pulse quickening, every nerve in my body on high alert. Whatever this is, whoever he is, I know I should walk away.
But I don’t.