I never thought I'd find myself on a private jet, flying thousands of feet above the world in my pajamas. But here I was—barefoot, tangled hair, wearing one of Denzel's oversized hoodies over my nightshirt—cradled in luxury, as the engines hummed quietly beneath me.
That man was insane.
"You're really not going to let me change?" I had asked him earlier, standing in his hallway with a scowl on my face.
Denzel had only rolled his eyes. "Women take hours. You would've missed the jet."
"You could've told me last night."
"I wanted to see your face when you realized."
So now I sat, still reeling, filming the private lounge area of the jet with one hand and trying to steady my coffee in the other. Cream leather seats. Gold accents. A panoramic window that made the clouds look like whipped cream.
This wasn't a vacation.
This was something out of a movie.
I took picture after picture, trying to freeze the moment in pixels. Denzel was buried in his phone, but occasionally his gaze flicked up with that same bored, almost amused look he gave me when I got too excited.
"Aren't you tired of taking pictures?" he asked, not even glancing up this time.
I lowered the phone just enough to glare. "This is my first ever vacation outside the country. Of course you wouldn't understand."
He smirked. "You say that like it's my fault I've been to five countries this year."
"Exactly," I said, sitting back, arms crossed. "This is normal to you. To me, it's a dream."
He looked up then, really looked, and for a moment the teasing faded.
"I know," he said quietly. "That's why I brought you."
I blinked. "What?"
"I wanted you to have something for yourself. Even if it's just a few days."
That shut me up. That… meant something.
Santorini looked like a postcard had come to life.
Blue domes, whitewashed houses, and streets paved with stories. The sky was the kind of blue that made you feel small in the best way. And the sea—God, the sea—was infinite, glittering like it knew all our secrets and forgave us anyway.
Denzel had booked a suite with a view that could make angels weep. Infinity pool. Rose petals on the bed. A private chef.
He was going all in.
We explored the island like two people with no past and no future. We ate seafood by the water, our legs tangled beneath linen tablecloths. We hiked to ruins where Denzel pretended to hate the sun, but still took every picture I asked for. And when we went shopping, I didn't hold back.
I bought sundresses, sandals, sunglasses, even a ridiculous floppy hat that made Denzel shake his head but still say, "It suits you."
And he didn't blink at the cost.
He just watched me with a strange, quiet satisfaction, like seeing me happy gave him something he couldn't name.
Later, we walked barefoot down the beach, the sky bleeding orange as the sun began to sink. I let the waves touch my toes, curling and uncurling them in the soft sand. Denzel's blazer was slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, shirt half unbuttoned.
"I've never seen you this relaxed," I said.
"I've never had someone drag me through a ten-shop shopping spree," he replied, deadpan.
I laughed, and he smiled. Not a smirk. A real smile. Soft. Rare.
"Do you ever think about stopping?" I asked. "The business. The pressure."
He paused, watching the waves roll in.
"No. Because it's who I am."
"But do you ever wonder who you'd be without it?"
His eyes met mine, and something about them made my breath hitch.
"Maybe I'd be the kind of man who deserves you."
The words hit me like a confession.
I looked away.
"That's not fair," I whispered.
"I know."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with the truth we kept circling.
Back at the hotel, night had fallen. The curtains were drawn wide, the city lights below like stars scattered across the earth.
I was standing by the window when I felt him behind me—his hand brushing my waist, the heat of his body pressing into mine.
"You didn't wear the new dress," he murmured, his lips near my ear.
"It's too nice. I didn't want to ruin it."
"You'd ruin it in the best way."
I turned, slowly, and found his eyes already on mine.
This wasn't hunger. Not just lust.
It was something else.
He leaned in, kissing me like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth. His hands slid beneath my thighs, lifting me as he carried me to the bed.
And this time, when we made love, it wasn't fast or frantic.
It was slow.
Like he was tasting every piece of me he'd ever wanted.
Like he knew this would end, and he wanted to remember the weight of my body, the sound of my moan, the tremble in my breath.
He touched me with reverence. With possession.
As if, in this room, I wasn't just some girl he'd picked for a contract.
I was his.
And I gave him everything. My skin. My tears. My trust.
When it was over, I lay on his chest, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
But the silence said enough.
We weren't in love.
But we were something.
Something real.
Something that would hurt when it ended.
And I'd already decided—I'd let it hurt.
Because this moment, this night, was mine.
And for once in my life, I wanted to be selfish with something beautiful.