Revenge In A suit & Tie

First Real Laugh. In a Private Beach.

I woke up to silence an unusual kind of silence, but one that felt safe, like a sweet moment before a storm. My first memory of the day was a warm beach under my feet, and the sunlight curling around my face.

I blinked, and then realized I had fallen asleep on that private stretch of Santorini beach Damon booked last night after the gunman drama at our villa gate. Following that, he thought a private beach might be safer. I didn't care to argue.

When I looked back at the beach. He was already awake, lounging in a white draw-stool and looking out at the sea. He was bare-chested, and as I looked at him I could see their was ease in his being. Not the polished CEO, or hired husband, but a boy whose chest was rising and falling with no difficulty.

I sat up, brushing white sand off of me.

"Hey," I said softly. He turned still with the hazy morning golden sun getting some eye time.

"Hey," he smiled, "You rested?"

"Better than I have in months."

He gestured to the chair beside him. I sat next to him, shoulders touching.

We sat in silence for awhile no vows to recite, no cameras, no PA schedule, just a man and woman, a breath, and an infinite sea.

We walked down the beach with the surf lapping at our ankles.

"Thank you," I said, softly, but sincerely. "For this. For last night. For everything."

He glanced over. "You deserve more than fireworks and headlines."

I stopped and looked at him. "What do I deserve?"

He took my hand and paused.

"You deserve to feel safe. To laugh. To escape the noise."

I swallowed. "I forgot how loud my head is."

"Then let me be your quiet."

I desperately wanted to say yes, could feel it in every part of me, but the words stuck in my throat.

I nodded, enough for him to squeeze my hand.

He knelt down, picking up a shell. It was creamy, spiraled, smooth and almost perfect.

"I never got your last name right," he teased, holding it out.

I frowned. "Seraphina Monroe."

"Monroe," he murmured. "I heard someone call you Sierra."

I sighed. "Old name. Old me. I like Seraphina."

He smiled. "Then I will call you Seraphina."

He tapped the shell against my hand. "What is your favorite sound of all?"

"Children laughing," I said without thinking.

The recollection crept up on me on the front porch of my parents' home while I was six years old, the summer breeze containing my sister's laughter. He smiled, too, with warmth and playfulness. "Two favorites, then," he said and he dropped the shell to the sand leading to ripples that shook the tide. My laugh came then, light and real, and fitting into place with me. He laughed, too.

It was the first time I had felt like me in weeks or months. The waves lulled us back down to the blanket we shared. We talked. He told stories from his childhood, of him and ole friends playing in alleys in Chicago, flipping burnt pancakes as a teenager. And I told my stories, of the small farm house I grew up in, my mom's garden, the way laughter sounded like safety back then.

He listened. Not the professional listener, but the curious friend. The "to just be" kind of friend. At some point, I recognized the sun had dropped lower in the sky. The beach emptied. The world quieted again.

He leaned in close. "I think this might be the best day we have had." I brushed sand from my jeans. "It's the first day I feel like I could breathe."

He reached out to tuck some hair behind my ear and his fingers grazed my cheek.

Serious again, he asked, "Do you think… after all this, we might… be okay?"

I swallowed. "I don't know. But today… today feels real."

He squeezed my hand.

We came to a driftwood log, perfect for sitting on as the tide came in. We shook wet sand off our swimsuits and sat side by side, I leaned my shoulder against his.

He laid his head softly on mine. I closed my eyes and breathed him in.

"I could stay here," I said dreamily. "Forever."

His hand brushed back my hair. "So could I."

"And forget the world?"

His voice was so low it melted into the hush of the waves. "I would, believe me."

We sat in comfortable closeness there, no cameras, no contracts, no threats, just two people making space to simply exist together quietly.

The clouds came in off the horizon. It was not predicted, not here but storms happen. I pointed towards the low gray banks far out at sea.

"Storm's coming," I said.

He stood and offered his hand.

I took it trusting this moment, this man.

We rushed inward, racing rising winds. His fingers linked with mine.

As soon as we reached a small pavilion, it started pouring rain, a soft curtain of drops pouring down from the sky.

We laughed as raindrops hit our skin.

"Shall we dance?" he asked, voice teasing but eyes serious.

I nodded.

And so we danced two people dancing in damp linen clothes, our toes sinking in the wet sand and hearts sinking in hope.

When the rain let up, we were holding each other tightly, laughing, warm and safe, even though the sky started to darken again.

Some hours later we were returning to the villa, cold and brushing drops of rain off from our shoulders.

I walked to the private kitchen area where I kept a stash of wine a quiet ritual for me.

I opened the cupboard. Nothing there except for our glasses.

I frowned.

And then heard feet behind me.

He grabbed the back of my arm, eyes narrowed.

"There was a vial that was here," he said, quiet.

I shook my head. "I did not touch anything."

He bent, and I watched him examining the counter, noticing a wet patch liquid spilled or a damp rag?

He opened the drawer. Felt something wet on the bottom.

He pulled a crumpled plastic vial from it.

My throat went dry.

He stared at me.

"Seraphina...what is this?"

The name I hadn't heard in months reverberated in my mind:

Zachary’s.

Rain-drenched droplets fell off the foreign vial that Damon was holding.

“Where did this come from?” he said with a strained voice.

I took a step back.

He wore an ice-cold, penetrating gaze.

“It’s not just talk or threats anymore,” he said, “...and I’m not protecting you from them.”

He lifted the vial.

“I’m protecting you... from all of this.”

As we battled the uncertain possibilities ahead of us, and thoughts of our own bravery, the security camera at the villa blinked red; it was recording everything.