Outside, a black car idled by the curb. A driver in a dark suit stepped out, holding a small placard that read Miss Maya Daniels.
“That’s me,” I said, forcing a polite smile.
He nodded once, took my bag, and opened the back door. The ride was silent. I tried not to think, but every passing street reminded me of the world I’d left behind cafés, kids, laughter, noise. All the things the island didn’t have. All the things that now felt too far away and strange.
I’ve become too accustomed to the calmness of the ocean, and the sound of only one voice.
Now, it all feels like it was years ago I was trapped with him, cause how is it he’s now the world's busiest man?
When the car finally pulled through the iron gates and up a long stone driveway, I realized where we were.
The Ashford mansio
