They didn’t tell anyone where they were going. No press trailing them through airport gates. No well-meaning friends or intrusive family asking for photos of white sand beaches and sunset dinners. It was just a private jet, a dawn landing on a tiny private strip off the Amalfi coast, and a drive up a winding cliff road so narrow Celeste’s heart raced every time the tires kissed the edge.
When they reached the villa, Damien didn’t let the driver linger. He carried their single overnight bag himself, dropped it just inside the door, and locked it behind them.
He didn’t say a word.
Celeste could feel it, the silence vibrating off his skin. The way his eyes pinned her like a promise. No more hiding. No more running. No more glass between them and the world. Just them, raw and real. Husband
