The next morning came too bright, too loud, and far too normal for what had transpired between them.
Ariana Blake, 27, rubbed her temple as she stared at her reflection in the mirror of the en-suite bathroom. Her hazel eyes—usually sharp with stubbornness and strength—were still clouded by what she'd said to Leo the night before.
"Next time you want to kiss me... maybe don't stop."
She didn't regret it.
But she wasn't sure how to walk it back either.
Her T-shirt clung to her back from the steam of the shower, her hair damp and curling at the ends. She wiped the mirror clear, taking in her reflection: delicate cheekbones, full lips, and the faint scar under her left eye she'd had since age twelve—her best friend called it a "badge of stubborn." She just called it a reminder not to fall face-first for anything.
And yet here she was.
Falling—if not yet face-first, then definitely off balance—for Leonardo Maddox Cross.
She stepped out into the main bedroom of the penthouse suite and caught the faint sound of voices echoing through the living room.
Leo.
And Naomi.
She didn't mean to eavesdrop—but she didn't make a point to announce herself either.
"…a three-day retreat," Naomi was saying crisply. "Private island. Invitation-only. Half the merger board will be there."
"Good," Leo replied. His voice was low, calm, but there was something clipped underneath it. "I want Ariana to come."
There was a pause.
"You think that's wise?" Naomi asked, her tone neutral, but pointed. "After the leak? The tension? The press?"
"That's exactly why," Leo said. "It'll reinforce the engagement narrative. Kill speculation."
"And if she gets too close?"
There was a beat of silence.
"She won't."
Ariana turned away before she could hear anything else, her stomach twisting.
"Kill speculation," he'd said.
Not because he wanted her there.
Because she was useful.
Of course.
Why would she let herself believe anything else?
---
By the time she walked into the kitchen, Leo was seated at the breakfast counter, a tailored navy suit clinging to his tall frame like second skin. His black hair was immaculately combed back today, jaw clean-shaven, face unreadable as ever. His body language screamed authority—straight spine, steady hands, total control.
"Morning," he said.
Ariana forced a smile. "Morning."
He handed her a cup of coffee, her favorite. Oat milk, cinnamon, no sugar.
That confused her even more.
"Thanks," she said, accepting it. "You're being weird."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was just me being nice."
"You never make the coffee for both of us. What do you want?"
Leo let out a faint laugh, and for a moment, the ice between them cracked just enough to let warmth through.
"I want you to come with me to the Caribbean," he said smoothly, sipping his own coffee.
Ariana blinked. "What?"
"There's a private retreat. Investors. Key partners. It's hosted on my private island. We leave tomorrow."
Her brain scrambled for a response.
"And you want me to come because…?"
He set his cup down. "It'll boost our credibility. You and me. In-person appearances matter. Especially after the press stunt."
She folded her arms. "So this is about image."
"Partly."
"And the other part?"
His eyes flicked to hers.
"The other part is that I trust you not to embarrass me."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," she muttered, turning to grab a banana from the bowl on the counter.
Leo chuckled. "You'll have your own space. It's a massive estate. You won't be forced into anything."
"Oh, I know that," Ariana said. "If anyone's forcing anything, it's me. I forced you into a half-kiss and ran to bed like a hormonal teenager."
Leo leaned against the counter, studying her. "Is that what you think happened?"
She stared at him.
"You didn't run," he said after a moment. "You just walked away before I did something I wouldn't be able to take back."
There it was again—that flicker of vulnerability.
She hated how much it affected her.
"You've got issues," she said softly.
"So do you," he replied. "That's why we're perfect for each other."
"Perfectly dysfunctional."
He tilted his head. "Still perfect."
And damn it, she smiled.
---
The private jet ride the next morning felt like something out of a dream.
Ariana sat by the window, dressed in a breezy cream linen jumpsuit and gold sandals, her long legs curled beneath her as she sipped champagne. Her red hair was braided loosely over her shoulder, sunglasses perched atop her head.
Across from her, Leo was already on his tablet, reviewing reports. He wore a white dress shirt rolled at the sleeves, black slacks, and his usual impossible focus.
The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was peaceful.
She tried not to look at him.
She failed.
"You know," she said, breaking the quiet, "you could at least pretend to be excited to be flying to paradise."
"I don't do pretend."
"Could've fooled me."
He looked up, caught the teasing in her eyes, and almost—almost—smiled.
"Work doesn't stop just because the location is scenic."
She rolled her eyes. "You're going to get heatstroke in a suit."
He leaned forward slightly. "You're going to get bitten by island bugs in that outfit."
She smirked. "I'll risk it."
Leo's eyes lingered a beat too long. "So will I."
She flushed and turned to the window.
God, she hated how charming he could be when he wasn't trying.
---
The moment they landed, Ariana was breathless.
Leo's private island was a sun-drenched dream. White sand beaches. Palm trees swaying in the breeze. A vast stone estate nestled into a lush hill overlooking a turquoise bay. The air was thick with salt and jasmine.
She stepped out of the SUV and turned in a slow circle, her sandals crunching against the gravel path.
"You live here?" she asked, incredulous.
Leo shrugged, walking beside her. "I own it. I don't live anywhere."
"That's… bleak."
"It's practical."
She looked up at him. "Don't you ever want a place that feels like home?"
He paused. "I haven't earned that yet."
She opened her mouth to say something, but the housekeeper appeared then—a middle-aged man with a warm smile and sharp eyes.
"Mr. Cross," he greeted. "And this must be Miss Blake."
Ariana extended her hand. "Ariana, please."
"Welcome," he said kindly. "Your suite is ready."
They followed him inside, the air instantly cooler and filled with the scent of polished wood and citrus. The interior was modern luxury—marble, brass, soft cream linens, floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Suite?" Ariana asked hesitantly.
The man hesitated. "Ah, well. There was a mistake in the setup. The master suite is available. The others are currently under maintenance after last week's storm. I'm afraid you'll have to share."
Ariana's jaw dropped.
Leo looked at her.
"I'll make other arrangements if you prefer," he said smoothly, but something behind his voice suggested curiosity.
She stared at the large room ahead—massive bed, balcony overlooking the sea, plush armchairs, dual vanity bathroom.
"I'll live," she said. "But I'm building a pillow wall. Non-negotiable."
Leo smirked. "Noted."
---
That night, after unpacking, Ariana stood out on the balcony of the shared suite. The moon hung low over the ocean, casting silver light across the waves. She leaned on the railing, hair loose and face bare.
Leo joined her, two glasses in hand.
She took the wine silently, sipping without looking at him.
"Regretting it yet?" he asked.
She glanced over. "What, the island? The deal? The bed?"
"All of the above."
She laughed softly. "Not yet."
He studied her.
"I meant what I said earlier," he murmured. "I trust you."
She met his eyes. "Then prove it."
He tilted his head. "How?"
"Tell me something real. Something no one else knows."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"When I was fifteen, I got caught stealing a car. It wasn't about money—I had plenty. I just wanted to feel like I was in control of something."
Ariana blinked.
He continued. "My brother took the blame. He lied to our father. Got grounded for a year. Never told a soul."
Her throat tightened. "Is that the brother from the picture?"
Leo nodded once.
"He died four years ago," he said. "And I've been trying to earn that loyalty back ever since."
She placed her glass down.
Then, without thinking, she reached out and placed her hand over his.
He didn't flinch.
He just turned his palm and threaded their fingers together.
For once, the silence wasn't cold.
It was honest.
It was the beginning of something neither of them could define—but neither of them wanted to deny anymore.
---