Page 68 of Jetmir

The island gave way to dramatic limestone cliffs, the sea stretching beyond them in an endless expanse of impossible blues. A warm breeze carried the scent of salt and tropical flowers, stirring the palms that framed the edge of the property.

Hidden within the cliff face was a narrow stone staircase. It had been carved into the rock to disappear from view unless you knew exactly where to look. From above, it was little more than shadow and stone.

She wrapped her fingers around the rail, and we began our slow descent. I stayed half a step behind, watching her footing more than the scenery. The steps were uneven in places, polished smooth by years of salt spray, and one careless misstep could send you tumbling onto the rocks below.

“How big is the island?” she asked once we reached the base of the stairs. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the glare, her gaze sweeping across the coastline as though trying to measure its boundaries herself.

“Big enough,” I replied vaguely.

She gave a small nod, unsurprised by the evasive answer.

I walked ahead, leading her around a rocky outcrop until the cove opened before us. A secluded crescent of white sand lay between the cliffs, and the water was so clear the seabed shimmered beneath the surface. At one end of the beach, a private dock extended into the bay, where two jet skis bobbed lazily beside a pair of speedboats and a sleek white yacht.

She lingered for a moment, taking it all in. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Yes,” I agreed, unable to peel my eyes away from the silvery-blonde hair that framed her face and her ocean-blue eyes. God, her beauty took my breath away every time.

“And those are all yours?” She turned to look at me.

I nodded and said, “They’re under lock and key. In case you were wondering.” She rolled her eyes but said nothing. “If you’re up for a jet ski ride later, we’ll head out. Together.”

She answered with a quiet scoff.

We continued to the docks and then climbed a stone path, white limestone rising above the sea as though it had grown from the cliffs themselves. The villa came into view, its glass reflecting the Caribbean sun.

She stopped walking and soaked it all in.

“You like it?” I asked hopefully. Every renovation had been done with Anya’s tastes in mind and I wanted her to love it.

She tore her eyes away from the view. “It’s… nice.”

But her eyes shimmered, telling me the truth. She thought it was more than nice. We continued through to the front door and I entered first, stepping aside to let her in.

Inside, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating polished travertine and dark walnut, all clean lines and open sleek edges.

I showed her the living room first, then the cinema, the gym, and the wine cellar beneath the house. She barely acknowledged what everything was worth.

Until we entered the library. She gasped as she scanned the walls.

“It was you,” she murmured, her fingers coming up to rest against her plump lips. “You’ve been buying my photographs.”

“Yes, the ones I could get a hold of. Your work sells fast.”

She looked at me over her shoulder. “But why?”

I shrugged. “Those photos are a part of you.”

Slowly, she studied every piece, shaking her head every so often, then walked over to the bookshelves and stopped.

“This… oh my gosh… This is…” She traced the spines of Jane Austen’s second editions of Mansfield Park, Persuasion, and Emma, and then more modern books by her favorite romance authors. “Why do you have these?” she breathed, soaking in all the titles.

“They’re your favorite books, and I want to make you happy.”

“They are.”

Her fingers drifted to the desk where I usually worked. She pulled open the top drawer—the one that held every letter I’d written to her while we were apart. Unless she turned them over and inspected them, she’d have no way of knowing they were addressed to her. Tucked beneath the stack was the wedding ring she’d left behind.

She closed the drawer with deliberate care, then slid open the next.