18. Final Goodbyes #3
Nikolai stirred, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes as the airbrakes rattled softly under the wing. He blinked against the bright morning light filling the cabin, looking out the window as the green coastline rose up to meet us.
“Are we here?” his voice was thick with sleep.
“We’re on final approach,” I said, closing the tablet I had been using to review our villa’s security perimeter.
He straightened up in his seat, wincing slightly as he stretched his lower back, before peering out at the turquoise water surrounding the airfield. “Already?”
“You slept for eleven hours.”
He blinked, surprised. “I was tired.”
“I noticed. You didn’t move once after we cleared Russian airspace.”
The cabin door opened ten minutes later, and the heavy, tropical heat hit us the moment we stepped onto the top of the airstairs. Stepping out was like walking into a warm wall. The air tasted of salt and wet earth, completely clearing out the stale, freezing drafts we’d lived with in Moscow.
Nikolai stopped at the top of the stairs, taking a slow, deep breath. He looked out over the palm trees bordering the runway, a small, unforced smile touching his face.
“Okay,” he murmured.
I paused on the step below him, looking up. “What?”
“I think I’m going to like it here.”
“We haven’t even cleared customs or reached the estate.”
“I don’t need to,” he said, his smile widening slightly as he began his slow descent down the stairs. “It doesn’t smell like snow. That’s enough.”
I took his carry-on bag from his hand before he could argue, slinging it over my shoulder. He gave me a look but let it go, focusing instead on navigating the stairs without pulling at his side.
A dark sedan was waiting directly on the tarmac.
Lev’s local contacts had handled the arrival arrangements with absolute efficiency; there were no queues, no secondary checks, and no waiting.
Within five minutes of touching down, our passports were stamped, the luggage was secured in the trunk, and we were gliding out of the private airfield onto the main coastal road.
The drive was quiet. Nikolai kept his face turned toward the passenger window the entire time, his fingers resting lightly against the glass as he watched the scenery shift from dusty roads and small open-air markets to dense palm groves and cliffside vistas.
Every few miles, he’d point out something—a carved stone temple, a group of motorbikes navigating a tight bend, the sun glinting off the ocean far below us.
By the time the car turned down the private gravel drive leading to the villa, the sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of orange and violet.
The estate sat on a low cliff overlooking a quiet cove. It was secluded, surrounded by high stone walls and thick vegetation, completely hidden from the main road.
The driver unloaded the bags and withdrew immediately, leaving the keys on the entryway table.
Nikolai didn’t look at the master bedroom, the kitchen, or the open-plan living space. He walked straight through the sliding glass doors toward the wide wooden terrace that projected out over the water.
I followed him out, stopping a pace behind his left shoulder.
The silence here was entirely different from the quiet of the Moscow penthouse. It wasn’t the stifling, tense quiet of a fortress under siege; it was just the rhythm of the tide crashing against the rocks below and the warm wind rustling through the palm fronds overhead.
No bodyguards posted at the entrance gates. No domestic staff waiting for instructions in the hall. No phones ringing in the background. No one calling my name to approve a press release.
Just the ocean stretched out to the horizon.
Nikolai rested his hands on the smooth wooden railing, leaning forward slightly as he looked out at the water.
“We’re really here,” he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves.
“We’re here.”
He turned around, leaning his back against the railing and looking at me. His face looked softer in the fading twilight, the harsh lines of pain and tension finally beginning to smooth out.
“Three months,” he said.
“Three months,” I agreed, stepping closer until I was standing directly in front of him. “No work. No family politics.”
He looked up at me, a quiet flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. “Maybe I’ll finally finish the draft for my book.”
“Maybe you will.”
“And you’ll actually learn how to take a proper vacation.”
“I’m on vacation right now.”
“Working from a terrace with a view doesn’t count as a vacation, Zhenya.”
“I’m on vacation,” I insisted, though I didn’t pull away when he leaned into my space. “You just don’t know what my relaxation looks like.”
Nikolai gave me a look. “Work.”
“Work,” I admitted softly.
Nikolai laughed quietly—a low, comfortable sound that settled deep into the quiet space between us. He reached out, his warm fingers sliding between mine, lacing our hands together.
“Come on,” he murmured, tugging gently on my hand as he turned back toward the house. “Let’s go inside.”