He stepped onto the platform and looked out toward the ocean. "You know what burnout taught me?" he asked. "That hiding isn't the same as healing. You can't outwork grief. Or loneliness."
His words felt like wind through the cracks in her carefully constructed shell.
She hated how much they resonated.
"I'm not lonely," she said.
He glanced back at her. "Then why are you always running?"
The question landed like a stone in her chest.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she stepped onto the platform beside him and looked out at the sea. For once, she let the quiet settle.
No schedules. No screens. Just the rhythmic pull of the tide.
For a flicker of a moment, she felt the part of herself she'd buried deep—before Nina died, before Westwood Luxe consumed her.
Arielle. Not the empire. Not the mask.
Just a woman standing beside a man who saw through everything she'd built to protect herself.
And somehow… still stayed.
Halcyon Bay didn't have a gossip column, but it had the next best thing—café counter chatter.
Arielle sipped her espresso in the coastal café as whispers floated past her like ocean breeze. She caught her name more than once, paired with Quinn's in the same breath.
The barista smirked as she slid Arielle her change.
"People say you and Noah have a... spark."
Arielle looked up coolly. "We're collaborating."
The woman winked. "Sure. On a garden or a love story?"
Arielle didn't answer. She rose, collected her files, and walked out without a backward glance. But the question clung to her like salt on skin.
It was just business. That was the truth she kept repeating.
Still, that evening, she wore silk.
A pale ivory blouse, soft against her skin, with delicate gold buttons she rarely bothered with outside of boardrooms. It wasn't for him. It was never for him.
She arrived at the garden plot with spreadsheets in her satchel and purpose in her stride.
Noah was already there—hands in the soil, brow furrowed in focus, sleeves rolled high and collar undone. He didn't look up right away. When he did, he gave her a half-smile that was maddeningly calm.
"You brought a blouse to a construction zone?"
"You brought lemonade to a budget review," she replied, nodding to the sweating pitcher beside him.
"I thought we could compromise," he said, standing. "You get your numbers, I get some air."
She laid her papers on the makeshift table, bracing herself for an evening of clipped efficiency.
It didn't unfold that way.
He poured her a glass of lemonade without asking, the scent of mint and citrus drifting between them. She accepted it wordlessly. They reviewed irrigation layouts and construction staging in low voices, their conversation brushing up against something quieter beneath the surface.
Then, just as she reached for a binder, he reached for the same spot. Their hands touched.
Arielle pulled back quickly.
Noah didn't react, except to smile gently. "You tense up like someone's expecting you to fail."
"No one expects that," she said. "Least of all me."
"Exactly."
She frowned.
He stepped closer, brushing a smudge of dirt from her sleeve with the back of his hand. The touch was brief, but it stopped her breath.
"You don't have to fight everything," he said softly.
Her throat tightened. "I'm not."
He met her gaze then—not as a builder or a contractor or even a man circling a powerful woman—but as someone who saw straight through the lattice of her defenses.
"I know what armor looks like," he said. "I wore mine for years."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was… honest.
Arielle looked away, blinking against the heat gathering behind her eyes. She'd fought so long, so hard, to be unshakeable. But this—this quiet understanding—undid her more than any sharp word ever could.
"I can't afford softness," she said.
He leaned against the table, arms folded. "Why? Because people might think you're human?"
"No," she said, voice low. "Because I might."
Noah didn't press.
He just stood beside her, offering nothing but presence.
And somehow, that was more intimate than any kiss.
As the sun began to dip below the cliffs, the garden glowed gold and amber. Arielle gathered her papers, her movements slower than usual. Measured.
She glanced at him one last time before leaving.
He didn't reach for her. Didn't chase her.
But his eyes held hers like a promise.
Not yet.
But soon.
And when she walked away, her pulse stayed behind.
Halcyon Bay didn't have a gossip column, but it had the next best thing—café counter chatter.
Arielle sipped her espresso in the coastal café as whispers floated past her like ocean breeze. She caught her name more than once, paired with Quinn's in the same breath.
The barista smirked as she slid Arielle her change.
"People say you and Noah have a... spark."
Arielle looked up coolly. "We're collaborating."
The woman winked. "Sure. On a garden or a love story?"
Arielle didn't answer. She rose, collected her files, and walked out without a backward glance. But the question clung to her like salt on skin.
It was just business. That was the truth she kept repeating.
Still, that evening, she wore silk.
A pale ivory blouse, soft against her skin, with delicate gold buttons she rarely bothered with outside of boardrooms. It wasn't for him. It was never for him.
She arrived at the garden plot with spreadsheets in her satchel and purpose in her stride.
Noah was already there—hands in the soil, brow furrowed in focus, sleeves rolled high and collar undone. He didn't look up right away. When he did, he gave her a half-smile that was maddeningly calm.
"You brought a blouse to a construction zone?"
"You brought lemonade to a budget review," she replied, nodding to the sweating pitcher beside him.
"I thought we could compromise," he said, standing. "You get your numbers, I get some air."
She laid her papers on the makeshift table, bracing herself for an evening of clipped efficiency.
It didn't unfold that way.
He poured her a glass of lemonade without asking, the scent of mint and citrus drifting between them. She accepted it wordlessly. They reviewed irrigation layouts and construction staging in low voices, their conversation brushing up against something quieter beneath the surface.
Then, just as she reached for a binder, he reached for the same spot. Their hands touched.
Arielle pulled back quickly.
Noah didn't react, except to smile gently. "You tense up like someone's expecting you to fail."
"No one expects that," she said. "Least of all me."
"Exactly."
She frowned.
He stepped closer, brushing a smudge of dirt from her sleeve with the back of his hand. The touch was brief, but it stopped her breath.
"You don't have to fight everything," he said softly.
Her throat tightened. "I'm not."
He met her gaze then—not as a builder or a contractor or even a man circling a powerful woman—but as someone who saw straight through the lattice of her defenses.
"I know what armor looks like," he said. "I wore mine for years."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was… honest.
Arielle looked away, blinking against the heat gathering behind her eyes. She'd fought so long, so hard, to be unshakeable. But this—this quiet understanding—undid her more than any sharp word ever could.
"I can't afford softness," she said.
He leaned against the table, arms folded. "Why? Because people might think you're human?"
"No," she said, voice low. "Because I might."
Noah didn't press.
He just stood beside her, offering nothing but presence.
And somehow, that was more intimate than any kiss.
As the sun began to dip below the cliffs, the garden glowed gold and amber. Arielle gathered her papers, her movements slower than usual. Measured.
She glanced at him one last time before leaving.
He didn't reach for her. Didn't chase her.
But his eyes held hers like a promise.
Not yet.
But soon.
And when she walked away, her pulse stayed behind.