~LAYLA~
The sun in Santorini hit different. It was refreshing having the warmth soaking into your skin and lting away the tension that had lived in my shoulders for months.
We were staying in a private villa in Oia, perched on the edge of the caldera. Below us, the Aegean Sea stretched out in an endless expanse of sapphire blue, dotted with white sailboats that looked like toys from this height.
I sat on the edge of the infinity pool, my legs dangling in the water, watching Axel.
He was swimming laps. The water was good for his back, the physical therapist had said. I watched the way the muscles in his shoulders bunched and released, the way the scars on his back from the explosion were fading from angry red to silvery white.
He reached the edge and pulled himself up, shaking the water from his hair like a dog. He looked healthier than he had in years. The hospital pallor was gone, replaced by a light tan that made his eyes look even more striking.
"You’re staring," he said, wiping his face with a towel.
"I’m admiring the view," I teased, sipping my iced lemon water. "It’s a very expensive view. I should get my money’s worth."
Axel smirked and limped over to the lounge chair next to . He didn’t use the cane in the villa, relying on the furniture and walls for balance. He sat down heavily and pulled into his lap.
"Careful," I said, laughing. "Your back."
"My back is fine," he murmured, nuzzling his face into my neck. "And I’ve missed just us. No Board of Directors, no FBI, and no doctors poking at every five minutes."
"It’s perfect," I agreed, running my fingers through his damp hair.
We spent the afternoon like that, lazy and entangled. We talked about everything and nothing. We talked about maybe buying a house in the Hamptons, sothing away from the city where we could breathe.
About the New Horizons Foundation and how Helena’s brothers were thriving in their new school. We didn’t talk about Henry, who was awaiting trial, or Charles, who was still a ghost in the wind.
As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Axel shifted in his lap to look at properly.
"We should go out tonight," he said.
"Out?" I raised an eyebrow. "But we have this amazing villa. We have privacy and a chef who cos in every morning."
"I know," Axel said, his thumb tracing circles on my hip. "But I want to take my wife to a real dinner. At a restaurant with other people and wine and music. I want to show you off."
"Show off?" I laughed.
"Yes," he said seriously. "I want the world to see that I’m married to the most beautiful, brilliant, and terrifying woman alive. And I want to eat overpriced fish while I do it."
"Well, when you put it like that," I said, kissing him. "How can I refuse?"
"You can’t," he said. "I already made reservations. Ambrosia, seven o’clock. Tye recomnded it."
"Tye recomnded a romantic restaurant?" I asked skeptically.
"Helena recomnded it," Axel corrected. "Tye just paid for the reservation."
—
We were at Ambrosia, one of the most famous restaurants on the island. It was perched on the cliffside, the tables set on a small terrace that seed to hang over the volcanic caldera.
It was crowded, bustling with tourists and locals, filled with the sounds of clinking glasses and laughter.
The sun was setting, casting a golden-pink glow over everything.
"To the Phoenix," Axel said, raising his glass of white wine.
"To the Wolf," I countered, clinking my glass against his. "For surviving."
"For thriving," Axel anded.
I took a sip, feeling the cool breeze off the ocean. I wore a backless erald green dress that Axel had picked out, and for the first ti in forever, I didn’t feel like a CEO, was just a woman in love.
"This is nice," I said, reaching across the table to take his hand. "We should do this more often. The escaping-to-Greece thing."
"We should make it annual," Axel agreed. "Every year, two weeks, no phones, and no work."
"No bombs either," I added.
"Definitely no bombs," Axel said, squeezing my hand. "That’s a hard requirent."
I was laughing at sothing Axel said about Tye’s obsession with the new security protocols when a shadow fell over our table.
I assud it was the waiter returning with our appetizers.
"More wine, plea..." I started, looking up but paused.
It wasn’t the waiter.
Standing next to our table were two n who were wildly out of place among the tourists in linen shirts and sundresses.
They wore heavy, dark wool suits despite the Mediterranean heat. One was built like a linebacker, clearly security. The other was older, thin, with silver hair and a posture so stiff he looked like he’d swallowed a coat hanger.
Axel’s smile vanished instantly. His hand subtly moved to the steak knife on the table. "Can we help you?" he asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low timber I knew too well.
The older man bowed. It wasn’t a nod but a formal, waist-bending bow that looked like sothing out of a period drama.
"Mrs. O’Brien," the man said. His accent was incredibly posh. "My deepest apologies for interrupting your dinner. We have been trying to locate you since your plane landed in Santorini."
"Who are you?" I asked, setting my glass down carefully. "And how do you know who I am?"
"My na is Arthur Pennyworth," he said. "I am the Royal Solicitor for the House of Huntington."
"Huntington?" I frowned. "I don’t know any Huntingtons. Maybe you have the wrong table."
"I assure you, I do not," Pennyworth said firmly without moving. "We saw the broadcast four months ago. The press conference regarding Eclipse Beauty success and the O’Brien restructuring. The ’Phoenix’ speech, as the dia called it."
"So you’re fans?" Axel asked dryly, his hand still near the knife. "Send an email to her assistant. We’re eating."
"Not fans, Mr. O’Brien," Pennyworth said gravely.
He reached into his breast pocket. The bodyguard tensed, eyeing Axel warily, but Pennyworth simply pulled out a glossy photograph. He placed it on the white tablecloth, right next to the candle.
"Lady Martha Huntington was watching the news that night," Pennyworth explained. "She fainted when she saw you on the screen, Mrs. O’Brien. Because she thought she was seeing a ghost."
I looked down at the photo.
The air left my lungs. The restaurant noise seem to disappear, replaced by a loud ringing in my ears.
The photo was old, maybe twenty-five or thirty years old. It showed a young woman standing in a garden of roses, wearing a white sumr dress. She was laughing, looking over her shoulder at the cara with her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun.
What truly took my breath away was the face staring back, it was mine. The eyes, the nose and the smile, everything was an exact match. Even the precise line of my jaw and the way my hair fell were identical.
But the date in the corner was from three years before I was born.
"That’s..." I whispered, my hand trembling as I reached for the photo. "Is that my mother? Sarah Stuart?"
"Her na was not Sarah," Pennyworth corrected gently. "Her na was Lady Victoria Huntington. And she ran away from her family’s estate twenty-six years ago so as to marry the love of her life."
Axel leaned forward, looking at the photo, then at me. His face went pale. "Layla..."
"We have been looking for her for two decades," Pennyworth continued. "We found her death certificate years ago, died in an accident with her husband, but no trace of her daughter. We had thought that was it until we saw you on television."
Pennyworth reached into his briefcase and pulled out a second item. It was a letter, sealed with red wax bearing a crest of a lion and a shield.
"What is this?" I whispered, still trying to wrap my head around these revelations.
"Your grandfather, the Duke, is dying, Mrs. O’Brien," Pennyworth said. "He has perhaps weeks left. He has sent a plane. It is waiting at the Santorini airport right now, ready to depart."
He slid the letter across the table toward . "He is begging you," Pennyworth said quietly. "Please. Come ho."
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