They left before sunrise.
No headlines. No bodyguards. No note to the press. Just a private jet, two passports, and a silence that carried all the words they were too afraid to say in public. Damon didn't tell her where they were going at first. He just looked at her from across the cabin of the plane—shirt rolled at the sleeves, jaw set tight—and said, "Somewhere the world can't find us. Just for a while."
Serena didn't ask questions. She only nodded.
Because she knew what he meant.
Because sometimes love needed a hiding place before it could become real.
---
They landed in northern Italy, in a town so quiet it looked like time had forgotten it. Cobblestone paths wound through narrow streets, and old mountain villas leaned into the hills like they'd grown from the stone itself. The air was crisp, fragrant with cypress and something older—like stories whispered by the wind.
Their villa was nestled above a lake, surrounded by green and guarded by snowcapped peaks. No neighbors. No cell towers. Just birdsong and old earth and silence.
It was perfect.
It was temporary.
But it felt like a second chance.
---
On the second morning, Serena stood barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in an oversized sweater of Damon's, stirring coffee over the old stovetop. Her hair was loose, her cheeks still flushed from sleep. Damon entered without a word, wrapping his arms around her from behind, burying his face in her neck.
"You smell like peace," he murmured.
"And you smell like trouble," she said with a small smile.
He chuckled softly, but it faded quickly. She could feel it—the tension still humming beneath his skin, even in paradise.
"We're safe here," she said gently, turning in his arms.
"For now," he replied, eyes dark.
"You're not allowed to look at me like that unless you plan to kiss me," she said, voice soft but sure.
"I'm always planning to kiss you."
And he did—right there, in the old stone kitchen, with the scent of coffee and the echo of church bells in the valley below. The kiss was warm, slow, like honey poured over old wounds. His hands settled at her waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her sweater, not demanding—just wanting to feel something that reminded him he was still here. Still human. Still hers.
They made love like the world didn't know their names.
Like the silence might last forever.
---
That night, wrapped in a thick blanket on the balcony, the lake shimmering below, Serena leaned against Damon's chest, listening to the wind move through the trees.
"You haven't asked what the photo was about," he said quietly.
"I figured you'd tell me when it hurt less."
He smiled faintly, pressing his lips to her hair.
"It was the man who helped clean up my father's legacy," he said after a long pause. "The fixer. He kept the police away from our family when the scandals started. He buried everything. I met him once. I shook his hand. And I never looked back."
"But now it's looking back at you."
"Yes."
Serena turned to face him fully. "You're not your father, Damon."
"But I carry his shadow," he whispered. "And people love turning shadows into proof."
Her fingers touched his jaw, guiding his gaze to hers.
"Then let them look," she said. "Let them search every corner of your past. They won't find anything uglier than the lies we told ourselves before we found each other."
His eyes stung. He didn't hide it this time.
"You're stronger than I am," he said.
"No," she replied. "I just haven't been taught how to be afraid of you yet."
He laughed through the ache. "God, what did I ever do to deserve you?"
"Maybe you don't," she whispered, kissing him softly. "But you have me anyway."
---
Three days passed in a kind of fragile bliss. They cooked together. Took walks. Danced slowly to no music in the living room. Damon sketched again—for the first time in years—while Serena sat nearby, writing in her old journal, her bare legs curled beneath her.
It felt like healing.
It felt too good to last.
And on the fourth morning, the knock came.
A sharp, deliberate knock against the villa's wooden door.
Damon was the first to stand, already reaching for the small weapon he'd hidden in the kitchen drawer. Serena's breath caught.
When he opened the door, he didn't see Marcus.
He saw a man in a tailored suit, sunglasses hiding his eyes, holding a leather briefcase.
No introduction.
Just a message.
"We need to talk," the man said. "The past you tried to bury just resurfaced… and this time, it has a name."
Damon stepped out, closing the door behind him.
But Serena, standing silently behind the wall, heard everything.
He hadn't just shaken hands with the fixer all those years ago.
He'd signed something.
A contract.
A deal that now tied him to one of the most dangerous names in global finance.
And the name the man whispered?
Was hers.