Hours later, beneath a crisp afternoon sky, the sleek jet waited at the private airstrip like a promise wrapped in chrome. The engines hummed softly as the group boarded, the scent of fuel and polished leather hanging in the air.
Eliana barely noticed any of it.
She slept curled against Rafael's shoulder, her head tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck as if it had always belonged there. His arm stayed anchored around her, one hand resting on her belly, thumb moving in slow, unconscious circles—protective, reverent. For her, the world narrowed. The masks dropped. The sharp edges dulled.
Rafael's steel-grey eyes—no longer pretending, no longer guarded—never left her face. He lowered his lips to her hair and murmured softly, "Sleep, princess. I've got you."
And he meant it. Entirely.
Across the sea, calm was not on the itinerary.
