The Caribbean sun dipped low into the horizon, setting the sky ablaze with molten golds, deep oranges, and streaks of lavender. The sea reflected it all—glimmering like sheets of flame rippling toward the shore. The world had grown quieter, softer, as if it were holding its breath to witness something sacred.
Ariana Blake stood barefoot on the private stretch of beach behind Leo's island estate. Her long cream maxi dress fluttered around her ankles, sand cool between her toes. She hugged her sketchpad loosely against her chest, as if it were a shield—or maybe a lifeline.
She hadn't planned to walk this far. But the moment the sun began to fall, something inside her pulled her out of the suite and toward the water's edge. It felt safer here. Easier to breathe.
The truth was, the suite was no longer just luxurious. It had become dangerous—emotionally, intimately, complicated. One moment, she and Leo were speaking in polite, clipped tones, upholding the structure of their "arrangement." The next, they were trading glances that said more than words, standing too close, inhaling each other's silence like it held answers they were both too afraid to say aloud.
A crunch of footsteps behind her made her heart jump.
She turned.
Leo Maddox Cross stood a few feet away, shirtless in slate gray linen trousers, barefoot like her. His six-foot-two frame was lean and defined, his muscles kissed by sunlight and honed by discipline. His dark blond hair was tousled from the sea breeze, and his storm-gray eyes locked on hers with something unreadable in them.
"I thought I might find you here," he said quietly.
Ariana's fingers tightened slightly on her sketchpad. "Needed air."
"Me too."
He stepped beside her, leaving enough space not to crowd her—but close enough that she could feel his presence, heat radiating off his skin, scent carried by the wind.
They stood in silence, watching the waves pull toward the shore and retreat again.
The sky was slowly bleeding into twilight.
Ariana finally spoke. "I used to walk like this when I was younger. Sunset strolls. It helped me think."
Leo didn't look at her. "What did you think about?"
She exhaled a soft laugh. "Mostly ways to run away. My mom was always working two jobs. My stepdad drank. A lot. Home was a place to survive, not live."
He turned to her then, expression somber. "You've never told me that."
"I haven't told anyone that. Except Lily."
Leo folded his arms, a subtle tightening of his jaw. "How old were you when you left?"
"Seventeen," she said. "I took my sketchbook, seventy dollars, and the Greyhound to New York. I thought it would save me. It didn't. Not right away."
Leo's voice dropped. "What did?"
Ariana's throat tightened. "Drawing. Creating. Even when I was starving, couch surfing, doing odd jobs—I kept sketching. It made me feel like I wasn't invisible."
He was silent for a long beat.
Then: "You're not invisible now."
She looked at him, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone.
"People see you," he said. "I see you."
Her heart jumped, quick and unwelcome.
He looked out at the water again. "You're braver than most people I know."
"You don't know that many people," she said, trying to smile.
Leo smirked, but his eyes were serious. "I know enough."
The waves crashed gently, spraying cool mist on their ankles.
Ariana lowered her sketchpad to her side and took a slow breath. "What about you?"
He frowned. "What about me?"
"You've been on edge since we got here. More than usual. Is it just the investors?"
Leo was quiet for a moment, then turned and began walking slowly along the shore. She followed.
"I've been coming here since I was a teenager," he said, voice low. "This was the one place my family couldn't touch. No expectations. No board meetings. Just me and Elliot."
Ariana glanced at him. "Your brother."
He nodded. "We'd surf until we were sunburned. Talk about stupid things. Eat grilled fish from the locals. Laugh."
His voice cracked slightly.
Ariana's chest ached.
She waited, giving him the space he needed.
"I brought him here the summer before he died," Leo said, stopping near a tide pool. His eyes were on the horizon, unfocused. "He'd just gotten out of rehab. We thought he was clean. I wanted to believe it."
Ariana's breath caught.
Leo exhaled. "He overdosed three weeks later."
She reached out without thinking and touched his arm.
He didn't pull away.
"I blamed myself," he said. "Still do."
"You were a brother," Ariana whispered. "Not a god."
Leo's jaw clenched. "I was his protector. And I failed."
She stepped closer. "You loved him. That's not failure."
He finally looked at her, and there was something raw, wounded, and naked in his expression.
"I haven't told anyone that story," he said.
She swallowed. "Why me?"
"Because you don't look at me like I'm a machine," he said. "Because you don't want anything from me except the truth."
She could barely breathe.
The sky had dimmed to lavender now, the stars starting to prick the sky.
They stood there, two flawed souls, hearts bare, secrets shared.
And then—without warning—Leo reached out and gently took her sketchpad from her hand. He flipped it open, glancing at the pages, studying the flowing lines, the emotion carved into graphite.
"These designs," he said. "They're you."
"They're just dresses."
"No," he said. "They're pieces of you."
Ariana flushed.
He flipped to one sketch—one she hadn't meant to show. A woman standing alone, head high, a crown of flowers in her red curls, cloak billowing in the wind. Strong. Fierce. Free.
"She looks like you," Leo murmured.
Ariana tried to smile, but it trembled. "Maybe who I want to be."
"She already exists," he said softly.
Their eyes met.
And in that moment, something broke inside both of them. Walls, fears, defenses.
Leo reached for her, and for the first time, she didn't back away.
His hands slid gently to her waist. Her palms rested on his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat.
Neither moved closer.
Neither dared break the silence.
But everything had changed.
Everything.
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