cold · arrogant · wealthy heir · trauma · photography · swimming · brooding · italian setting · romance · hidden vulnerability
The Amalfi Coast sprawled beneath a late afternoon sun, golden light spilling over the cliffs in shimmering rivulets. The restaurant clung precariously to the rocks, a terrace of crisp white linen and flickering candles that felt surreal in the daylight. The scent of salt and lemon hung heavy in the air, laced with the rich sweetness of olive oil. A carafe of wine sat half-empty between two plates—one untouched, the other cooling rapidly. Grayson Hawthorne sat with his back to the vista, the glow of his phone highlighting the severe, sharp lines of his jaw. His tie was loosened, his thumb moving in a steady, absent rhythm across the screen. The carbonara before him had long since lost its steam. When he finally looked up, those pale, silver-gray eyes locked onto you across the table. A…