The heavy, velvet silence of the penthouse was the most peaceful thing Maya had felt in years. Tucked under the heavy weight of the duvet, she felt the steady, rhythmic warmth of Julian's chest against her back. For a few golden moments, she wasn't the masked author hiding from her fans, and he wasn't the property of the music industry. They were just two people who had found a temporary sanctuary.
Then, the world came knocking.
The sound wasn't a gentle rap on the wood; it was a loud, rhythmic pounding of a fist against the heavy oak door of the suite.
"Julian! Open up! We have the jet on the tarmac in two hours and the label is losing their minds over that photo from the garden!"
Maya bolted upright, the silk sheets slipping down. Her heart, which had been beating a slow, post-intimacy rhythm, suddenly felt like a trapped bird.
Julian groaned, burying his face in a pillow before rolling over. His hair was a wild mess, and his eyes were squinted against the slivers of morning sun cutting through the blackout curtains. "Go away, Marcus," he croaked, his voice thick with sleep.
"I can't go away! The 'Ghost Girl' from the villa garden is trending on Twitter, and the paparazzi are camping in the lobby!" Marcus, the manager, sounded like he was about to have a stroke on the other side of the door. "If you have a girl in there, she needs to leave through the service elevator now."
The word "now" echoed in the room, cold and clinical. The magic of the night didn't just fade—it evaporated.
Maya scrambled out of bed, her eyes darting around for her black dress. She felt a sudden, crushing wave of exposure. This was exactly why she wore the mask. This was the spotlight she spent her life avoiding.
"Hey, hey," Julian said, jumping out of bed. He didn't care that he was naked; he reached for Maya, catching her hands to stop her frantic searching. "Ignore him. Maya, look at me. It's fine."
"It's not fine," she whispered, her voice trembling. She found her dress crumpled near the chair and pulled it on with shaking hands. "He called me a 'Ghost Girl.' They're looking for me, Julian. If they find out who I am... if my readers see this..."
"They won't," Julian promised, his face tightening. He grabbed a robe and threw it on, heading toward the door to stop Marcus from breaking it down. He turned back to her, his expression a mix of regret and intense longing. "I don't want you to leave like this."
"I have to," Maya said, finally finding her shoes. She looked at the door, then back at him. The "nice bad boy" looked devastated, caught between the machinery of his fame and the girl he'd spent the night getting to know.
"Julian!" Marcus yelled again, the handle of the door jiggling. "Don't make me use the master key!"
The transition from the warmth of the bed to the cold, sterile metal of the service elevator was jarring. Julian moved with practiced stealth, his hand firm on the small of her back as he guided her through the "backstage" of the hotel—a maze of laundry carts and industrial kitchens.
"I'll call you," he whispered, pressing her into the corner of the elevator. He looked desperate, his eyes searching hers for a promise she wasn't sure she could keep. "Maya, I mean it. This wasn't just—"
"You don't have my number, Julian," she reminded him softly, her heart aching as the elevator doors began to slide shut.
"I'll find you," he called out just as the metal doors clicked into place.
Maya leaned her head against the vibrating wall of the elevator, her breath coming in ragged gasps. As soon as she reached the ground floor, she sprinted toward a waiting taxi, her mind a blur of panic and adrenaline.
The Villa
"Pack. Now," Maya commanded, bursting into the villa.
Chloe was lounging by the pool with a mimosa, looking confused. "What? Maya, it's ten in the morning. We have a spa reservation at noon."
"We're leaving," Maya said, her voice cracking. She didn't stop to explain. She threw her clothes into her suitcase with a violence that startled both of her friends. "The paparazzi are at the hotel. Julian's manager is talking about 'Ghost Girls' and Twitter trends. If they connect me to him, they'll find out about M.K. Thorne. My career is built on being a ghost, Chloe. I can't be a headline."
Seeing the genuine terror in Maya's eyes, Sarah stood up, her playful expression vanishing. "Okay. If you're serious, we're gone. Chloe, call the car."
Within forty minutes, the villa was empty. Maya sat in the back of the black SUV, her eyes fixed on the retreating coastline of Cabo. She had deleted her call logs. She had blocked the temporary number Julian had used to text her the night before. She was disappearing back into the ink and the shadows where she belonged.
The Penthouse
Back at the hotel, the room was finally quiet. Marcus had been shoved out with a promise that Julian would be at the jet in an hour.
Julian sat on the edge of the unmade bed, the scent of Maya's perfume still lingering on the pillows. He felt a hollow ache in his chest he hadn't expected. He reached down to pick up his discarded shirt from the floor, but his hand brushed against something leather and firm tucked under the edge of the nightstand.
It was a small, weathered Moleskine notebook.
He opened it, expecting to find phone numbers or perhaps a diary. Instead, his eyes fell upon neat, elegant handwriting—pages upon pages of prose, dialogue, and world-building.
His breath hitched as he turned to the final page. There, scribbled in the margin next to a character sketch, were the words: Property of M.K. Thorne. Julian's eyes widened. He knew that name. Everyone knew that name. The world's most famous reclusive author wasn't just some "shy girl" from a party. She was a titan of words, a woman who hid behind a mask while he lived behind a microphone.
He looked at the notebook, a slow, determined smirk spreading across his face. She thought she had escaped. She thought she could go back to being a ghost.
"I told you," Julian whispered to the empty room, clutching the notebook to his chest. "I'd find you."