40. Erika
ERIKA
She’d learned to function inside the wreckage. Stick to Olivia’s script, hit her marks on set, smile past the barricades, lie to everyone except the man sleeping beside her.
Stefan’s arm was across her waist. She’d spent days doing the smart thing—the flinch, the cold texts, the distance she’d built to keep him safe from whatever Martin was holding over her.
And then one night she’d knocked on his door at two in the morning with no excuse that made sense, and he’d opened it like he’d been waiting, and she’d stopped pretending she was strong enough to do this alone.
She wasn’t strong enough. That was the truth she kept circling back to.
She knew Martin was watching. She knew every night she spent here was another photograph he could take, another thread he could pull.
And she came back anyway, because the alternative was lying in her own villa, staring at the ceiling, the walls closing in.
Stefan’s heartbeat under her ear was the only thing that slowed hers down.
It was reckless. She knew that too.
She didn’t care.
He shifted beside her, his arm tightening, pulling her closer, and she let him—let herself press into the warmth of him and pretend she wasn’t already counting the hours until she’d have to lie to him again.
“You’re doing it again.” His voice was heavy with sleep, muffled against her skin.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you watch me like you’re trying to memorize my face.” He pressed a lazy kiss to her shoulder. “It’s either very romantic or deeply unsettling. I haven’t decided which.”
“I was counting your gray hairs, actually. There’s more every day.”
He laughed and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him until she was draped across his chest.
“I don’t have gray hair.”
“You have seven. I’ve named them. Fernando is my favorite.”
“I like everything about you.” He said it without ceremony, into her hair, like it wasn’t the most terrifying sentence in the English language.
She pressed her face into his chest so he couldn’t see what that did to her. His heartbeat was steady under her cheek. Hers wasn’t.
“You’re awake early,” he said after a moment. “Or you never went to sleep. Which is it?”
“Does it matter if the answer’s always the same?”
“Yeah. It does.” He tilted her chin up. “Bad night?”
“Weird dreams,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “The kind where you’re late for something but you can’t remember what, and everyone’s staring at you, and then you realize you’re not wearing pants.”
“The no-pants dream. Classic.” His finger brushed the shadow beneath her eye. “You’ve been having a lot of those.”
“Can you blame me? Nothing about the last month has been normal.”
“I know.” He drew her closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. “But you’re still here. Still making Fernando proud.”
His smile pressed against her hair, his arms tightening around her. Then his voice dropped.
“Hey.” He pulled back just enough to look at her. “I’m scared I’m losing you. And I don’t know why.”
She kissed him. Not because it was an answer—because it was the opposite of one, and they both knew it. He kissed her back, slow and thorough, like he was trying to find what she wasn’t saying.
When she pulled away, his breathing was uneven and his hand was still in her hair.
“I have to go.” She pulled away, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Call time’s in an hour and I need to not look like a woman who’s been making terrible decisions in someone else’s villa.”
“Terrible?” He propped himself up on one elbow, watching her hunt for her sandals. “I’d call last night a lot of things. Terrible isn’t one of them.”
“You’re biased.” She found one sandal under the bed and shoved her foot into it. “And if the paps catch me leaving your villa at dawn, Olivia Grey will actually kill me. Like, physically. With her elegant, manicured hands.”
“Come find me after.” He said it easily, but his eyes were doing that thing again—the quiet cataloguing he thought she didn’t notice. “I’ll make the eggs. The ones you called aggressively fancy and then ate the entire plate of.”
“That was stress eating. Doesn’t count.” She pulled his stolen shirt over her head and reached for her own. She kept her back to him so he wouldn’t see her face.
“Come back to me, Princesa.” Quieter now. “Yeah?”
She turned around. He was still propped on one elbow, sheet pooled at his waist, morning light doing unfair things to his face. He looked at her—like she was the only real thing—and it almost broke her open.
“Yeah,” she said. “I will.”
She kissed him one more time, and walked out before she could change her mind.
The morning air hit her the moment she stepped outside. She was halfway down the path, still warm from his bed, still tasting his mouth, when her phone buzzed.
My office. 9 a.m.. Don’t be late.
No signature. He didn’t need one.
She stood on the path. Hibiscus brushing her arm, the ocean somewhere behind her, Stefan’s villa still glowing through the trees. Every reckless night she’d spent in his bed stacking up like evidence.
Martin knew. Had known for days now. And she’d handed him more ammunition every single night she’d told herself she didn’t care.