The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, washing the sea in soft strokes of gold and rose. The resort still slept, wrapped in silence save for the rhythmic hush of waves kissing the shore. It was the kind of morning that promised peace—yet to Nicholas Ashcroft, peace felt like a foreign concept.
He stood on the balcony of his suite, shirtless, the breeze whispering against his skin. In his hand, a glass of whiskey—amber and gold—caught the newborn sunlight, glowing like fire in the quiet dawn.
Below, the waves rolled in slow, lazy folds toward the sand, their calm rhythm mocking the storm that churned inside him.
The wind carried the faint scent of salt and jasmine, but all he could think about was her—Harper. Her eyes, glassy and guarded, that look that cut straight through him.
