The morning ocean was smoother to hear—less like a feral beast and more like a quiet, breathing companion. Ethan woke up before dawn, sooner than Zaria, and sat at the big veranda windows, mug facing him. The coffee was hot, dark, and a little bitter, just how he liked it. He looked out at the horizon as the first light kissed the water, each wave catching gold.
For a man who'd once had half the Manhattan skyline in his pocket—literally, and figuratively in a few cases—the quiet here was still discomfiting. No horns of cities, no whispered investor demands, no scurrying footsteps on waxed marble floors. Just the wind, the scent of salt, and the sound of his own thoughts.
And too many of them.
He wasn't sure yet what Zaria was to him. Not the romantic, poetic sense, but the real, perilou
