The island was a jewel of white sand set in an ocean of liquid sapphire. As the private seaplane touched down gently against the wooden dock, it felt as though we had left the earth behind. There were no sirens here, no flashing paparazzi bulbs, and no suffocating glass walls of the Black Tower. Just the rhythmic pulse of the tide and the warm wind smelling of salt and hibiscus.
Damian helped me out of the plane, his hand firm on my waist. For the first time in weeks, I saw the tension in his shoulders finally break. He wore a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, and sunglasses that masked his face. But when he looked at me, I felt the heat behind the lenses.
"Welcome to paradise, Mrs. Black," he said softly.
The villa was a masterpiece of driftwood and glass, built into the side of a
