Chapter 5 - Secrets on the Beach and Rising TidesThe sun was just beginning to paint the horizon in shades of bruised purple and gold when we finally slipped back upstairs, our hands intertwined like we had been doing it for a lifetime.
We agreed on a fragile, intoxicating truce: for the rest of the week, the lines between performance and reality would blur completely.
By morning, the Ricci estate was buzzing with activity. Caterers arrived in white vans, string quartets tuned their instruments on the back terrace, and cousins bickered loudly over seating charts for the main birthday gala scheduled for Saturday night.
By Friday afternoon, Marco and I managed to escape the chaotic household, walking barefoot down the private wooden staircase that led directly to the secluded cove behind the estate.
The tide was low, leaving wet, reflective sand that stretched out toward the crashing Atlantic rollers. The salty breeze whipped my hair around my face as I walked along the water's edge, letting the cool foam lap at my toes.
Beside me, Marco had rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt, his expression unusually contemplative as he watched the horizon.
“My father died on this beach,” he said quietly, breaking the rhythm of the crashing waves.
I stopped walking, turning to look at him. In the two years we had worked together, Marco had rarely ever spoken about his father—only that he had built the Ricci empire from the ground up before passing the reins to his oldest son prematurely.
Marco walked closer, staring out at the grey-blue water. “I was twenty-four. Fresh out of business school, arrogant, convinced I could run the world. My father took me out on his boat right over there, told me that power isn't about how many enemies you crush—it’s about who you protect when the storm hits.”
He turned his head, his green eyes locking onto mine with quiet vulnerability. “That night, his heart gave out on the way back to shore. I held him in my arms right here on the sand while waiting for the paramedics. By the time they arrived, he was gone.”
My chest ached. I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my face against his chest. Marco’s arms came around me instantly, pulling me so tight I could hear the steady, strong thud of his heart.
“You carry so much, Marco,” I murmured against his shirt. “You don't always have to be the fortress.”
“With you,” he whispered into my hair, his grip tightening, “I don't feel like I have to.”
We stood there on the secluded beach for a long time, holding each other against the wind, completely unaware that fifty yards away, half-hidden behind the dunes at the top of the wooden stairs, a pair of sharp, malicious eyes was watching our every move.
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It was Julian Vance—a ruthless rival real estate developer from Manhattan who had been trying to muscle in on Ricci Holdings' downtown properties for months, and who happened to be the plus-one of Marco’s estranged cousin, Sofia.
Julian’s camera phone clicked twice, capturing the intimate embrace in crisp, high-resolution detail, before he turned and walked back toward the main house with a vicious, triumphant smirk.
