Chapter Eleven: Almost Yours
The Italian coast sparkled the next morning, sunlight dancing across the waves like a trail of scattered diamonds. Amara stood barefoot on the balcony, sipping her coffee, trying to calm the storm inside her chest.
She had spent half the night tossing and turning, haunted by Ethan's words. Maybe they wouldn't be wrong. He had said it lightly, almost teasing, but the softness in his eyes had betrayed something more.
And worse—she wanted to believe it.
"Early riser," came Ethan's smooth voice behind her.
She turned. He was barefoot too, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair slightly mussed as though he hadn't bothered with his usual polished armor. For once, he looked less like the movie star billionaire and more like a man—one she shouldn't want.
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted. "Too much pretending lately."
He joined her at the railing, the ocean breeze tugging at his shirt. "Pretending gets easier with practice."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Is that what you tell yourself every day?"
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. "Sometimes," he murmured.
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythm of the waves below. Amara's fingers tightened around her mug, her heart thudding unreasonably fast. It was supposed to be an act. All of it. Yet in this quiet morning light, with no cameras and no audience, the pretense felt dangerously thin.
Later, when they walked along the beach for another staged photo op, the paparazzi swarmed at a distance, long lenses glinting in the sun. Ethan pulled her close, his hand warm at her waist, his voice low against her ear.
"Remember, smile like I just told you the world's best secret."
She forced a laugh, though it wasn't entirely fake. "What if you're terrible at secrets?"
His gaze locked on hers. "Then I'll let you be the one I can't hide."
Her heart stumbled. The cameras clicked, capturing the moment as though it were love in its purest form. But Amara knew—it wasn't part of the script.
That evening, after the photographers had retreated and the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of gold and violet, Ethan suggested a boat ride.
The yacht carried them into the open water, the city shrinking into the horizon. Amara leaned against the railing, the wind tangling her hair. Ethan stood close, his eyes reflecting the sunset.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"So are you," he said without hesitation.
Her breath caught. She turned toward him, every nerve alight. His hand brushed against hers, tentative yet deliberate. The space between them crackled, shrinking with each heartbeat.
He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to her lips. She forgot the contract, the rules, the world. All that existed was this pull, sharp and undeniable, drawing her toward him.
Then—his phone buzzed. Loud, jarring, slicing through the moment like shattered glass.
Ethan exhaled, pulling back. The mask slipped quickly over his face again as he glanced at the screen. "Business." His voice was flat.
Amara turned away, hugging herself against the sudden chill. The almost-kiss lingered in the air like smoke after a fire, unspoken and unresolved.
Neither of them mentioned it on the ride back. But as Amara lay awake later that night, staring at the ceiling of the villa, one truth rang louder than the waves outside.
They were playing with fire. And sooner or later, one of them would get burned.