Opus

The hum of the airplane engines had become a low, rhythmic lullaby that finally pulled me under, but sleep was a fleeting luxury. When I woke up from the few hours of sleep that I had, the cabin lights were dimmed, casting a soft, blue hue over the rows of passengers. My neck was stiff, a familiar consequence of transcontinental travel, but as I blinked away the fog of exhaustion, I noticed something new resting on the empty tray table beside me.

There was a book titled “Opus: The Cult of Dark Money, Human Trafficking, and Right-Wing Conspiracy inside the Catholic Church” authored by Gareth Gore. It was a heavy, daunting book, the kind that demanded attention. A small, yellow adhesive note was attached to the cover, the ink slightly smudged as if written in haste.

I picked up the note, reading the elegant cursive. “I finished this on my last long haul flight and found it gripping. Given your work and thoughts of the systemic rot of Catholicism, I thought you’d enjoy the loaner. Safe travels.”

As I was looking at the book, a flight attendant—a tall man with a kind face and a neatly pressed uniform—passed by and paused. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so as not to disturb the sleeping passenger across the aisle.

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," he whispered with a small, knowing smile. "You're Lara Beck, right? The author?"

I felt a sudden heat rise to my cheeks. "I am. Are you the one that dropped off the book?”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I was pretty sure of who you were but we all look differently crossing time zones in awful lighting.”

“Thank you for loaning the book. That's very kind of you."

"You’re very welcome. I've followed your work for a while," he continued, his expression turning more serious. "I’ve also seen you at a few TedTalks. What I appreciate most is that you aren't just 'anti-Catholic' for the sake of being provocative. You treat it like a cult because you have the legit proof to back it up because you lived it first hand and witnessed some awful stuff. It’s rare to find that kind of intellectual honesty."

"I try to let the evidence speak for itself," I replied, feeling a genuine spark of pride. I was kind of flattered that I was recognized so far from home, and by someone who truly understood the nuance of my writing. It wasn't about hate; it was about exposure.

"Well, Gore is a bit of a kindred spirit, I think," the attendant said, nodding toward the book. "Let me know what you think if I'm still on shift when you finish. Can I get you anything before you dive into the book?"

"Just some ice water, please," I said. “Maybe something stronger as well?”

He returned a moment later with a cold bottle of water, a cup of ice and four of the tiny TSA approved bottles of vodka. Before opening up the book, I had some of my water and started eating the last of my bagels, chewing slowly as I stared at the aggressive subtitle on the cover. Dark money. Human trafficking. It felt like I was about to stare into a mirror of the very world I had escaped. I was thankful that the flight attendant brought some vodka…it was going to be a heavy read.

I grabbed the book, got a bit more situated in my comfortable seat, and proceeded to open the book. The spine cracked satisfyingly. Based on the weight of it and the praise from the attendant, I knew it was going to be an interesting book.

As I was reading the forward by the author, Gareth Gore, I felt a surge of professional respect. I learned that he is also an investigative journalist who was sent to cover the sudden collapse of Banco Popular in 2017. Initially, he thought he was chasing a standard story of corporate greed—the kind of dry, financial reporting that fills the back pages of the Wall Street Journal.

Instead, the text described how Gore stumbled into a massive conspiracy orchestrated by Opus Dei, an ultra-conservative Catholic sect. I felt a chill run down my spine as I read his account. His investigation revealed how members of the group had secretly stolen billions of money from a major bank to fund a radical global expansion.

The details were harrowing. From the recruitment of children to the quiet bankrolling of major political shifts in the U.S., it was a narrative of absolute power and zero accountability. It was certainly a chilling look at how a secret religious order used a super large bank to pull the strings of power from the shadows. I found myself highlighting passages, my mind racing as I compared his findings to my own experiences.

The cabin remained quiet, the only sound the occasional rustle of a page or the distant chime of a call button. I lost track of the altitude, the time zones, and the miles. It took me two and a half hours to read the book, my eyes darting across the pages until I reached the final acknowledgments.

I closed the cover and let out a long, shaky breath. It was definitely an intense but interesting read. I leaned my head back against the headrest, staring up at the overhead compartments. As someone who is a former Catholic Cult member and trying to unearth the truth to share with those deep in the “church,” the weight of the book felt like a weapon I hadn't known I was missing.

I looked at the note the flight attendant had left. He was right - Gore had captured the systemic rot with surgical precision. I clutched the book to my chest, a singular, recurring thought echoing in my mind: I wish that this book was given to those in and considering becoming Catholic. If they could see the ledger—the literal cost in lives and dollars—perhaps the spell would finally break.

After closing the final page of the book, I glanced at my watch. There were still a few hours left of the flight, stretching out before me like an empty highway. I stared at my phone for a moment but tucked it back into my pocket; I didn’t want to use it and risk messing up the technology in the plane. With no other books to read and the cabin falling into a dull silence, my options were limited. I knew for a fact I wouldn't be fucking Xander while he was in the cockpit nor while he was on the clock—professionalism had its place, even if my body felt otherwise.

The only thing left to do was lean my head back against the seat, close my eyes, and let my mind drift. I decided to think back on my former partners—both the romantic and the sexual ones.

My mind first wandered to Vince. A small, involuntary smirk touched my lips as I remembered the way he worked. He certainly made me cum with his tongue and dick for days on end. I remembered when we were first together; we were a literal force of nature. We couldn't stop fucking. Headboards would splinter and break under the force of our rhythm, and the neighbors complained so frequently it became a running joke, all because I couldn't stop screaming in pleasure. The man has a magical tongue and ick

"God, Vince," I whispered to the empty cabin, the memory of his weight on me feeling almost real.

I recalled one specific winter vacation before he retired where we were snowed in for an additional three days. It turned a eight day trip that turned into a sex marathon. We fucked nonstop for those eight days, the heat from our bodies the only thing keeping the chill at bay.

Then, my thoughts drifted to K. I thought about the few times that we fucked. The dude definitely knew how to work his dick; he had a precision that was hard to forget. But thinking about Boris? That made my panties wet instantly. He had a massive dick in all the best ways. He always made sure I came as he destroyed my pussy and rearranged my guts.

I can still feel him stretching me, I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. The amount of cum that Boris produced was incredible even when he was drained

Then I remembered C. A different kind of thrill. He loved fucking me while I was unconscious, and he had my full permission to do so. There was something about waking up to the sensation of him already deep inside me that hit a different nerve. The dude not only fucked me like the sex addict that I am, he ate my pussy so intensely that I nearly drowned him on multiple occasions.

"You're going to kill me one of these days," he’d gasp, coming up for air, only for me to pull him back down. He always returned the favor by flooding my pussy with his cum until I felt like I was overflowing.

Finally, I thought back on Vic. Vic was a contradiction. Not only was he passionate as we fucked, he was rough as well. He certainly fucked me like the side piece that I was to him—with a certain kind of reclaimed hunger that left bruises and memories. I loved how much cum he consistently shot in my pussy, no matter how tired he was. Once, due to bad weather, we were stuck in a hotel together for thirty-six hours. It was a fever dream of sweat and friction. He barely pulled out of my filled pussy the entire time, keeping me claimed and soaked until the weather cleared.

By the time I was done thinking back on these men, the plane’s descent had begun. The vibration of the wheels hitting the tarmac snapped me back to the present. I took a deep breath, smoothing my hair and calming my pulse. I grabbed my stuff, my hands fumbling slightly as I checked for all three of my passports. I left my seat and left the book on the table.

I knew that my ticket would match my Lichtenstein passport, but I wasn't worried about the discrepancy. I knew Sera had called the airport customs ahead of my arrival to let them know who I truly was. The transition had to be seamless.

When I finally reached the customs hall, the air was thick with the scent of espresso and jet fuel. I scanned the lines, but the decision was made for me. The lead agent, a tall man with sharp eyes, called out over the crowd: “The lady with the navy blue duffel bag. Come through this line.”

I did as he asked, my boots clicking against the polished floor. When I got to his station, he held out a hand. “Ticket and passports, please.”

I handed all three passports and my ticket over. He flicked through the pages with practiced ease, his expression neutral for the benefit of the cameras and the crowd. Then, he leaned in just an inch.

“Welcome to Italy, Grand Duchess,” he whispered as he stamped my Lichtenstein passport, using my preferred title. The corner of his mouth twitched into a respectful half-smile. “Glad to have you back in our country.”

“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my voice low. I glanced back at the growing queue of travelers watching us. “If you need to keep up with the false spectacle of pulling me to your line, you can search me. I understand the optics.”

He nodded, appreciating the cooperation. “I need a female agent for a quick search!” he hollered, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He looked back at me. “I believe you’ve done this before.”

“More times than I can count,” I said with a slight nod.

A female agent made her way over to us, looking bored and efficient. She gestured toward a designated area just off to the side.

“Step aside, stretch your arms out and spread your legs a bit,” she huffed, not unkindly, just doing her job. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Do you have anything sharp on you or any weapons on you that I should know about?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“I’m going to perform a pat search now, ok, ma’am?”

“Ok,” I replied.

I stood still as her hands moved over my frame, checking my waistband, legs, and torso. The search took less than two minutes. Once she was satisfied, she stepped back and nodded to the lead agent.

“You’re clear,” she said.

The lead agent handed back my documents. “Enjoy your stay.”

I grabbed my stuff, slung the navy blue bag over my shoulder, and walked through the final gates. It was time to get lost in Italy but things were about to change. The second I stepped outside of the airport, onto the cement sidewalk and there was Vic standing out like a sore thumb. Tight black jeans, tight black t-shirt and navy blue cowboy boots.

“La Duquesa Marie,” he said in his sexy voice.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I said as I put my face in my palm.

The pilot's protection

The anticipation of seeing Xander was a fever dream I couldn't shake. I couldn’t wait to see him again as it had been over twenty years. I felt somewhat attracted to him on and off over the years and I knew he felt the same as well. Though I’d probably be on his flight to Italy, I didn’t want to say nor assume anything because I was sure that there’d be multiple flights out to Italy during the rest of the day and he wouldn’t necessarily be the pilot.

I hoped that we’d both have time for a quick fuck before us getting on our planes. We fucked only once before in the past and Xavier almost caught us but thankfully he didn’t. A month later, Xavier left and spent twenty odd years hiding from me.

Halfway through the flight, I put my headphones and phone’s charging cord away in my small bag. I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I wasn’t necessarily tired but I knew that I was going to need all the sleep I could get before landing in Italy as I was going to find a former fuck buddy to spend time with before hiding for a bit.

About twenty minutes before we landed, I woke up and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I’m a firm believer in brushing one’s teeth anytime one wakes up and I also enjoy having fresh breath. I sat in my seat just before the “buckle your seat” sign came on. We landed and taxied to the gate.

I immediately got up, grabbed my shoulder bag and my duffle bag and headed towards the gangplank to go through customs. Thankfully, it was quick as I was the third or fourth person off the plane. After going through customs, I continued my way to the main part of the airport. Seconds later, I saw Xander handsome as ever in his pilot’s uniform. He rushed towards me and ignoring all the glares he was getting from the airport staff. Once we were close enough, I dropped my duffle bag and ran into his open arms.

As soon as I was in his arms, he picked me up and spun around a little bit until we both got dizzy. When he put me down, he kissed me then whispered in my ear that he was happy to see me again after all these years.

"Lara," he groaned against my lips, his hands gripping my waist tightly. "I haven't been able to think about anything else since you texted me that you had a layover here in Toronto. I’ve been thinking about you for hours."

He pulled away and then kissed me again but this time a little harder and a little deeper. My panties got wet and I moaned as he slid his tongue down my throat.

He leaned back, his eyes dark with intent. "Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "I've been planning this since your text identifying who you were came through. There’s a windowless boardroom that I reserved for an hour before I fly into Italy. It's private and it's exactly what we need right now."

"An hour?" I asked, a smirk playing on my lips. "You think that's enough time to handle me, Captain?"

"It’s an hour more than I thought I'd get," he countered, pulling me closer so I could feel his arousal. "And I plan on using every single second of it. What do you say?"

I told him to lead the way. "Lead on, Xander. Don't make me wait."

He hefted my heavy duffle bag, took my hand and lead me to the boardroom. He used his ID to get us in there. Once the door closed behind us and clicked, he locked the door.

"Finally," he breathed, turning to face me. "I've wanted you against a wall since the moment you hit 'send' on that text."

We dropped my bags, strip and he pushed me tits first against a wall. I spread my legs and push my hips towards him. In one quick thrust, his glorious dick is in me. He starts fucking my aching pussy like I was a sex deprived woman. Minutes later, we both cum and he shoots his load in me. He catches his breath then starts slamming his dick in me. When I told him: “Harder!”, he started fucking me harder and faster as he was pulling my hair with one hand. We both came and he spent several minutes shooting his load in me.

He pulled put, carried me to the table and laid me down on my back. I spread my legs and he mounted me. He moans: “That’s one amazing pussy. You drain me fast but I want to fuck you for days on end!”

"Then don't stop," I whispered, pulling him closer. I wrapped my legs around him and tell him to cum. He does and shoots more cum in my pussy as he’s squeezing my tits as hard as he could.

"I'm not finished with you yet, Lara," he panted as he pulled out. “I have another load for you.”

I get off the table, turn around and bent at the waist before being tits first on the table. I spread my legs and he mounted my pussy. He fucks me. He cums hard and fast then caught his breath. He was officially drained.

He pulled out, helped me off the table and we got dressed. "You okay?" he asked softly, adjusting his tie.

"Never better," I replied.

I let him leave alone before I left a few minutes later. I wanted to make sure that I still had the passports of my home country, the Russian Federation and my Lichtenstein one. Thankfully, I did so I grabbed my bags then I left the boardroom and headed to international departures.

When I arrived at the ticket counter, I explained to the ticket agent that I’d paid for my ticket to Italy with the layover here in Toronto while I was in Cuba but wasn’t given a physical ticket for the flight to Italy. She asked for my passport so I gave her my Lichtenstein one. She pulled up my name and was able to print out my ticket. She gave it to me and I thanked her.

As I turned to find outlets to charge the headphones, my phone and the portable charger, there was Xander. He approached.

"Lara! Is that really you?" he exclaimed for the benefit of anyone listening. “Where are you headed to?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “I’m off to see my great aunt.”

"No way!" he said, playing his part. "I wish you had told me sooner so we could catch up. I'm piloting a plane to Rome."

“Had I had your information, I would’ve reached out,” I said. “Numbers and emails change and who knows if you would’ve checked an old email address?”

"Well, let me make it up to you," he said. “Let’s see if I can get your ticket upgraded.”

He brought me to the ticket agent, hands her my boarding ticket then leaned over the counter giving the agent a charming but serious look.

"Listen," he said quietly, "Lara is a very dear friend of mine going through a bit of a rough patch. She doesn’t have a ton of funds and trying to see her great aunt who isn’t doing well, and it would mean a lot to me if we could make this trip a little easier for her. She deserves to have some luxury from time to time, doesn't she?"

The agent looked between us and nodded, tapping away at her screen. "I think we can find a seat in the front for her, Captain. Just this once."

The agent was able to upgrade me. I thanked her as she gave me my new ticket. I took my old ticket and ripped it up before tossing it out.

“Captain, it was a pleasure seeing you again and thank you so much for the upgrade. Knowing you’re piloting the plane I’ll be in makes me feel safer since I’ll be in your hands,” I said. “I appreciate the kindness.”

Xander nodded and left me to do his inspection of the plane, get it fueled and ready before takeoff.

I find several outlets that are close to each other so I can charge everything all at once. It took several hours but that was ok. As I waited, I noticed that a few restaurants near the gate weren’t open when I first arrived to the gate but now are slowly opening I put all of my technology into my shoulder bag and then headed to the closest restaurant. It actually was a coffee shop but it’s what I wanted. Coffee by the buckets, bottles of water and bagels any way I wanted.

I ordered two extra-large iced coffees with plenty of sugar and cream with hazelnut syrup added, three of the largest bottles of water and a few bagels with a variety of schmear. It would be a few hours until my flight and I was thirsty and hungry. I chugged both coffees but took my time with the bagels.

When it was time to board the plane, I was thankful. Thanks to Xander tiring me out as well as the coffee, I’d be able to sleep. I found my seat without a problem. As I sat down after storing my bags, a flight attendant asked me to follow her to the cockpit and I did as she asked.

Inside, Xander looked up from his instruments. "Close the door as you leave," he told the attendant. Once we were alone, he handed me several of his credit cards and several thousand dollars casg in Euros.

"Take these," he said firmly. "I want to make sure you have some luxury while you're here. I’ve already called the credit card companies to add me to the account and told them not to flag any purchases no matter what the limit is."

"Xander, I can't take all this," I said, though my hand tightened around the cards and the Euros.

"You can and you will," he insisted. “When I was asked your name to add to the account, I had to be honest and shared who you really are- Marie Alexandrovna Romanov – but I received pushback when I told them to add you. I told them that they can’t limit who I do or do not add and when I told them that they’re risking losing a significant card member, they said it wasn’t a problem. It came to that as I explained that though you have the family name, you don’t have the family money as the family doesn’t know that you exist as of yet,”

“Xander, I can’t thank you enough,” I said. “I’ve been going through my personal stash lately and its dwindled fast.”

"Don't thank me," he said, taking my hand. "It's my pleasure. My accountant will be paying the bills for the credit cards, but don't worry about being tracked. The locations of the purchases will be blocked so neither he nor I will know exactly where you are."

"Why go to that much trouble?" I asked.

He gave me a serious look. "I did this so in case anyone asked where you were, both he and I would be truthful in their answers when they say they don't know. Stay safe, Marie."

I thanked him again and headed to my seat. Once situated, the signage stating to buckle one’s seat was lit up and the flight attendants went through their safety procedures. I ignored the safety procedures due to the fact that I had more air miles than all of the staff on board the plan combined – both as a passenger and as a pilot. As we were in the air and at altitude, I took out an emergency contraceptive pill and took it with some of my bottled water. I had to be careful over the next few days as I had so few left. It’d been five days since the Depo-Provera birth control injection and I’d technically be protected on Day 7 though I considered myself protected on Day 8. I could always go to a local pharmacy to pick more up but at the same time, I didn’t want to waste Xander’s money. I figured that I’d play it by ear.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep for a few hours. It wouldn’t take up the full eight and a half hours but it took a few hours of the flight time. I didn’t have claustrophobia or anything but I hated breathing recycled air with a few hundred people over eight hours without having the opportunity to have access to fresh air. This was the price to pay to end my work for the Italian government. This process would be easier than leaving the Russian government but I had to do this alone.

The Lichtenstein passport

The engine of Sera’s sedan hummed a low, steady rhythm as we blurred past the outskirts of the city. Sera drove with a focused intensity, weaving through the slow moving traffic with a precision that felt almost desperate, her knuckles white against the leather steering wheel. Beside her, Elena remained unusually quiet, her gaze fixed on the passing landscape of grey concrete and flashing neon. We were making incredible time, especially considering the distance from the hotel, but the silence inside the car felt heavy, stretched thin like a wire about to snap under the weight of everything left unsaid.

My mind wandered back to the others. I could already picture the fallout at the hotel. Bob would be absolutely livid; he was a man of protocols, a man who always said goodbye with a firm handshake and a look in the eye. Leaving without a word was a personal affront he wouldn’t forgive until the next millennia. Boris would simply shrug it off, his eyes never leaving his newspaper. He’d be aloof, as per usual, treating my disappearance as just another predictable variable in our worlds. This wasn’t the first time I had disappeared on him, and I knew he’d likely have my replacement scouted before my plane even cleared the tarmac. That was always us; looking for a replacement love when we left the other whenever our paths would cross. And then there was Polina. We had only known each other for  about two weeks—hardly enough time to build a bridge. She wouldn't have a single word to say, her expression as unreadable as a closed book found in the ruins of a library.

The terminal loomed ahead, a glass-and-steel giant rising from the tarmac, reflecting the pale morning sun. As Sera pulled into the departures lane, the reality of the moment finally settled in. The smell of jet fuel and the distant roar of engines signaled the end of this chapter.

"We're here," Sera whispered. She didn't look at me, but I could see the tension in her shoulders.

Elena was out of the car before I could even reach for the door handle. She moved to the trunk, her movements sharp and efficient. By the time I stepped onto the curb, she had already hoisted my duffle bag onto the sidewalk, the heavy fabric thudding against the pavement.

As I reached for my bag, Elena surprised me. She pulled me into a tight, fierce hug. It wasn't the polite embrace of an acquaintance or a rival; it felt like she was trying to apologize through a hug.

"I’m sorry," she whispered against my shoulder. "I was so blinded by my jealousy of you. I spent every waking moment trying to compete against you, measuring my worth against yours. Even after Sera and I married, I felt like I was standing in a shadow you didn't even know you created. I wanted her love to be mine alone, and I hated you for the space you occupied in her heart."

I stayed still, stunned by the sudden transparency. The jealousy I had sensed for years was finally laid bare, stripped of its venom and replaced by an exhausted honesty.

"But when the generous gift you sent me arrived," she continued, pulling back just enough to look at me, "it forced me to stop. I realized I was fighting a war you weren't participating in. You weren't my enemy. I was just my own."

I didn't know what to say. The weight of the gift had apparently built a bridge instead of the wall I had expected. I simply nodded, a slow, silent acknowledgment of her peace offering. There were no more words needed between us.

"Take care of yourself," she said, finally letting go. She stepped back toward Sera, who was watching us with a soft, knowing expression.

I gathered my things, the handle of my duffle bag was rough against my palm, grounded and real. I didn't look back. I turned toward the sliding glass doors, the conditioned air of the terminal swallowing the heat of the morning as I stepped into the anonymity of the crowd.

I walked past the bustling crowds, the frantic travelers checking watches, and the high-end duty-free shops, pushing deeper into the labyrinth of the airport. I wasn't looking for the grand halls or the luxury lounges where people like Marie Romanov were expected to be found. I kept walking until the floor tiles changed from polished stone to worn carpet and the noise faded, heading toward the furthest, smallest gate in the building—the one reserved for the long, quiet flights that crossed oceans and left everything else behind.

At the near-empty counter, I approached the ticket agent. He looked tired, his uniform slightly rumpled from a long shift. I cleared my throat, shifting my weight and leaning into the persona I had practiced until it felt like a second skin.

"Grüezi," I said, my voice adopting the Liechtenstein accent, precise and slightly formal. "I am looking for the least inexpensive ticket to Europe you have today. I wish for the one with the fewest layovers possible, please."

The ticket agent tapped at his keyboard for a moment, his eyes scanning the monitor in a rhythmic dance. "The cheapest option with the least layovers would be to Toronto first, then on to Rome, Italy," he informed me, looking up with a shy smile.

"Yes, that will do, thank you. How much is the total, please?" I asked, keeping the accent steady and my gaze direct.

"It will be twelve hundred, including the taxes," he said. “Credit card or check?”

"I will be paying by cash," I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out a thick envelope. I counted out the bills carefully on the counter. “I know that the WiFi in Cuba is spotty at best. I need to get to my great aunt as soon as possible.”

As he processed the transaction and handed me the printed ticket, I slid a gift card across the counter to him before I turned away.

"Wait, you forgot this," he said, trying to hand it back, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"No, it is for you," I stated, my voice soft. "A small thank you for your help. Please, take it."

He looked surprised, his face softening with a rare moment of genuine gratitude as he tucked it away into his vest pocket. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Have a safe flight, ma'am."

I nodded my head in thanks and headed to my gate. It was a few minute walk through corridors that felt increasingly isolated, and I was grateful for that. When I arrived at the gate, however, the peace was shattered. There was so much noise from the sheer volume of people there waiting for the plane—business travelers shouting into phones, families corralling toddlers, and the constant chime of gate announcements.

Thankfully, there was a gift shop a few feet away from where I was standing. Through their glass wall, I could see the sleek packaging of electronics. I walked into the shop, the chime above the door momentarily cutting through the terminal's roar.

"Excuse me," I said to the clerk, who was busy restacking magazines. "I am looking for the best noise-canceling headphones you have."

The clerk pulled a box from behind the counter, presenting it like a prize. "These are the top of the line for sale at airports but still super affordable," she said. "They'll block out everything from jet engines to screaming babies."

"Excellent. I will take two pairs," I told her, thinking of a backup just in case. "I also need a portable charger, a universal charging cube and several charging wires that are compatible with the headphones and my phone."

“Charging cables to charge the headphones are in each package as is the charging cable to charge the portable charger, and here are the charging cable and universal cube” she said as she led me to the electronics corner.

“Thanks,” I said.

"Going somewhere far?" she asked me a few minutes later as she was ringing up the items with practiced speed.

 “I just hate the sound of screaming kids and the sound of other people eating,” I replied simply.

On the way out of the gift shop, I realized that it was an expensive purchase—nearly as much as a second ticket—but I felt it was important. My sanity during the long haul to Italy was worth every cent. I went back to the gate to find an outlet to charge my new arsenal. The gate area was crowded, but I scanned the baseboards with a hunter’s focus. Thankfully, I found two outlets next to each other behind a row of chairs.

I slid onto the floor, my back against the cold metal, and plugged everything in. As the charging lights began to pulse, I felt a slight release of tension. I had enough power to turn my phone on to text Sera.

"I'm flying to Toronto. From there, I'm flying to Rome, Italy. Once I land in Italy, I'll let you know. Don’t tell Bob where I am until I ask you to."

The reply was almost instantaneous. “Understood. Be safe. Don’t make us come get you, Highness.”

I decided to put my phone on airplane mode immediately so it could charge faster and last me until I landed in Toronto. It was a short flight, and once connected to the headphones, I knew I could disappear into my favorite podcast and ignore the chaos around me. I closed my eyes for a little bit, practicing the "half-sleep" I had learned over years of international travel—a state where the body rests but the mind remains alert to the environment.

Forty-five minutes later, the gate agent's voice crackled over the speaker. I was up in an instant, the new technology coiled and tucked away into my smaller shoulder bag. As I moved, I reached into the hidden, silk-lined compartment of my shoulder bag and felt the embossed cover of my Liechtenstein passport. I knew a flight like this would require identification.

Thankfully, the name listed had nothing to do with Deppgrl Smith or Her Imperial Highness Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. To the rest of the world at this moment in time, I was Lara Beck.

The gate agent barely looked at me, her eyes glazed over from checking hundreds of passengers, as she scanned my boarding pass and directed me toward first class. I easily found my seat—1A, the sanctuary of the front row. I stored my duffle bag in the overhead bin and sat down, the leather of the seat cool against my skin. I opened up my smaller bag to get out a set of the headphones, a charging cable for my phone and my phone. I was grateful that there were outlet plugs for the wire at my seat.

I got myself set up, the noise-canceling technology engaging with a soft hiss that deleted the world. I was already watching the opening credits of one of my favorite shows before the cabin door even closed. The precision was perfect. I couldn't hear the flight attendants' safety instructions, nor the frantic energy of the boarding process.

Just before the "close doors" signal, I took my phone off airplane mode one last time and sent a quick text to Xander—my ex-husband’s twin brother.

“Hey, Xander. I’ll be in Toronto in about three and a half hours. I’m wondering if you’ll be at the airport today in between flights.”

“I’m sorry…who’s this?”

“It’s Lara Beck but you knew me as DeppGrl Smith. Xavier was my husband.”

“Yes, I will be at the airport in a few hours. I’ll be piloting a plane to Italy. I’ll be able to see you briefly.”

“It'll be good to see you.”

“It'll be good to see you as well. Where are you flying from? I’ll be at your gate to greet you.”

“I’m flying from Cuba. We’re about to get air bound momentarily. See you in a few hours. Can’t wait to see you.”

“Can’t wait to see you either.”

I smiled a genuine smile and threw my show back on as the airplane took off. Just three and half one hour episodes and I’d see my ex-husband’s fraternal twin.

Escape from Cuba

The limestone walls of the museum seemed to press inward as Santi and I finally emerged into the humid, salt-heavy air of Havana. The sun was beginning its descent, casting long, bruised shadows across the cobblestones that felt like stains on the city's vibrant facade. We wandered aimlessly for a while, the silence between us thick and suffocating.

"You're awfully quiet," Santi remarked, his voice tight with an edge of defensive guilt.

"I’m disappointed in you," I replied without looking at him. “We fucked and you weren’t bothered to tell me that you have a very pregnant girlfriend.”

We eventually stumbled upon a hole-in-the-wall Cuban Creole bar tucked into a narrow alleyway. It was a dimly lit sanctuary that smelled of charred cedar, garlic, and decades of stale tobacco smoke trapped in the rafters. Hunger was a dull ache, a necessary distraction from the cold knot tightening in my chest.

"Let's just order," he muttered, pulling out a heavy iron chair that scraped harshly against the floor. “We don’t need to talk.”

We ordered without much enthusiasm. For drinks, the waiter brought two Cancháncharas—potent mixes of aguardiente, honey, and lime served in traditional clay pots. The sweetness of the honey did little to mask the medicinal burn of the alcohol as it slid down my throat. When the food arrived, it was rustic and rich: Ropa Vieja with the flank steak shredded into tender, savory ribbons in a deep tomato and pimiento sauce, served alongside Moros y Cristianos—black beans and rice seasoned heavily with cumin and bay leaves. There were also golden, fried plantains, their edges caramelized to a sugary, blackened crisp.

The clinking of silverware against ceramic was the only rhythm we shared for a long time. The announcement Santi had made the previous day—that his pregnant girlfriend would be arriving the following morning—still vibrated in the air like a physical blow.

I set my fork down and finally met his eyes. "I need to know the logistics of the evening, Santi. Are you spending the night with me, or will you be spending it in your own hotel room?"

Santi didn’t meet my gaze. He traced the condensation on the rim of his clay pot with a calloused thumb. "I think it's better if I spend the night in my own room, Imperial Highness. Given everything."

"Given everything," I repeated, my voice a flat echo. I nodded once, a sharp, clinical movement. "I see. A sudden bout of propriety."

"It's not about that," he started to argue, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

"I don't need the explanation. I’ve had enough of those lately."

I simply continued to eat, the flavors of the Creole spices turning to ash in my mouth. When the last of the black beans had been pushed around the plate, he signaled for the bill. He paid in silence, the transaction feeling final. We walked back to the hotel through the gathering dusk, two shadows moving in parallel but never touching.

As soon as we crossed the threshold of the lobby, the cord was cut.

"Goodnight, Highness," he said, hesitating at the elevator.

"Goodbye, Santi," I replied, walking toward the stairs instead.

When I entered my room, I found a neat, brown paper bag resting on the bed, containing my freshly washed and folded clothes. The scent of neutral detergent was a small, clinical comfort. I pulled my heavy leather duffel bag onto the mattress and began to pack with a methodical, almost frantic precision.

I reached for my phone and called Marlon asking him to my room. He arrived a few minutes later, knocking with a rhythmic, cautious cadence.

"You look like a woman who's already halfway out the door," Marlon said, leaning against the doorframe as he watched me shove a sweater into the bag.

"I am," I said, smoothing out a silk shirt before tucking it away. "I need a favor, Marlon. I need you to hand Bob a note from me. Personally. Not left at the reception desk."

Marlon’s brow furrowed, his eyes scanning the room. "What’s in it, Deppgrl? If I’m carrying messages from you, I should know the weight of what’s in my pocket."

"I can’t and won't disclose that," I replied firmly, stepping closer to him. "I don’t want you caught in the crossfire of Cuban officials if things go sideways. If you don't know the contents, you can't be an accomplice to the words. I just need to get out of Cuba. Now."

He searched my expression for a long moment, then gave a slow, understanding nod. "You always were good at the vanishing act. Write your note and I’ll finish packing these bags so you can focus."

I sat at the small desk, the hotel stationery feeling flimsy under my pen. I wrote with a hand that didn't shake.

Bob,

By the time you get this, I’ve left Cuba and am using my third passport to get out of here. Please let everyone know that I needed to leave and it had nothing to do with them. Tell Boris to move on as I don’t think that I’ll ever remarry—Xavier’s fault, of course. You have my blessing to marry Polina, but I know you would even without my blessing. Sera and Elena will let you know where I am when it’s time. Oh, and don’t give Marlon shit once you’ve read this.

Love you forever, bro.

Marie Alexandrovna.

I folded the paper, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it with a firm press of my thumb. On the front, I wrote Bob’s true name: Duke Artem

As I handed the envelope to Marlon, the weight of the secret I had been carrying felt too heavy for the flight ahead. I looked at him as he saw Bob’s real name.

"Marlon, before you take that, there’s something you should know about who Bob and I truly are. We aren't trust fund babies."

He paused, the envelope halfway to his pocket. "I gathered that much."

"We are descendants of Tsar Alexander III," I said softly. "We are some of the last of the Romanovs.”

Marlon’s jaw tightened in visible shock. He looked at me as if a ghost had just materialized in the center of the room. "Romanovs? I didn't think there were anyone from your family line living outside of Europe. I thought the history books closed that chapter."

"The books only close the chapters the public isn’t allowed to read," I told him. "Considering what happened to my distant relatives one hundred eight years ago, Russia leaves a bad taste in our mouths. We’ve learned to be ghosts because it's safer than being icons."

He nodded, the gravity of my heritage finally sinking in. "I’ll get this to the Duke. You have my word." He turned and slipped out of the room.

I pulled out my phone. There was only one person who could facilitate a disappearing act of this magnitude. I pulled up my encrypted messages with Sera.

”Sera, how soon can you get here? I need to get back to my second home,” I sent.

The reply came almost instantly, flashing on the screen with cold, military efficiency.

“Elena and I will be there in five minutes. If you’re not down in six minutes, we won’t be here.”

I shoved the phone into my back pocket. I did a final sweep of the room, ensuring that I hadn't left a single trace of my existence behind. I grabbed my duffel and my smaller bag then headed for the stairs, avoiding the lobby cameras as much as possible.

The night air hit me like a wall of wet velvet as I stepped onto the curb. Sera and Elena’s car was idling in the shadows, its engine a low hum. The trunk was already popped and a back seat door was already opened for me.

"You're at five minutes and forty seconds," Elena said as I was throwing my stuff in the trunk. "Cutting it close, Marie."

"I had a lot to pack," I replied, tossing my bags into the trunk.

I slammed the trunk shut and slid into the back seat. The moment the door latched, Sera shifted into gear.

"No more distractions?" Sera asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

"No more," I said. "Just get me to the airfield."

The tires screeched against the pavement as we tore away. Sera didn't look back. She simply steered us toward the local airport, leaving the ghost of Santi and the weight of Havana behind in the rearview mirror.

Sunburn and secrets

I stripped and hopped into the shower again, needing to wash the morning’s sweat, sun, dust and pollen off of me as well as washing the weariness of the travel off. As the water hit my skin, the lukewarm spray felt like a relief. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t have to look after my shoulder. The freedom of moving without having to be careful or guard myself  felt like a weight was being lifted from me. I knew that I had more work to do with leaving the work of other governments behind me but Russia was my biggest adversary.

"Need some help with that?" Santi asked, stepping into the shower a few minutes later, the steam swirling around us in the small space.

I turned slightly, letting the water run down my tits briefly. "I think I can manage, but I won't say no to the company."

He reached out to touch my arm, intending to pull me close, but he paused. His eyes scanned the heat radiating from my back, noting the angry red hue.

"Deppgrl," he murmured as he leaned in and kissed the back of my neck, his breath warm against my damp skin. "You're really red. I don't think shower sex is something that would be good for your skin at the moment. Your skin is sensitive from that sunburn."

I chuckled and agreed, leaning my head back against his shoulder as the water ran over us. "I think you're right," I said. "It’s definitely not the time for that. As much as I’d like to, I think the friction might make me cry."

"Then let's just focus on getting you clean," he whispered, picking up the soap.

We took our time showering, enjoying the quiet proximity and the slick slide of soap over skin, and when we finally got out, we toweled off.

I threw on one of the casual outfits that I just purchased—linen shorts, a cotton shirt, and cute sandals. Santi dressed in jean shorts, a polo shirt, and sneakers. As we headed downstairs, we stopped at the desk and asked reception to have our bedding changed and the room cleaned.

"We can certainly do that for you," the clerk said, looking up from his ledger.

"If I gathered my clothing, would you wash those for me as well?" I asked.

"We would," the clerk replied, "but please add them to the bag that designates items are personal so they stay separate from the in-house laundry."

"I'll be right back down," I told Santi. I headed back up to the room to gather my clothing. Once I had everything, I tossed my clothing in the bag mentioned by the clerk. It was a tight squeeze, the fabric bulging against the drawstrings, but it was fine. I knew that some of my clothing was extra dirty and needed a thorough cleaning, but at the end of the day, I was grateful that my clothing was getting cleaned.

When I got back downstairs, Santi was waiting by the door. We decided to take a cab to a local museum. Even though we knew that the cabs didn’t have air conditioning, we were okay with that as the cabbies drove with the windows open in the summer which made the air a little cooler as we moved.

In no time, we arrived at the museum. We thanked the cabbie and paid him well, then entered the museum after paying an entrance fee. The air conditioning felt great on my burned skin, instantly taking the sting out of the heat. It was only a few dollars for each of us but since we both cherish museums and appreciate history, we paid a few dollars more.

"We want to pay a little bit extra in case someone can’t pay," I told the employee as I handed over the extra bills.

The museum employee looked surprised and grateful for the extra money and the employee was clearly thankful for it. They knew that there are some locals who come to the museum to get out of the heat and the cold but don’t have the money to enter.

Santi and I spent the next few hours in the museum and lost track of time. The museum had wonderful displays, it was well organized, and we were blown away with the artifacts that it held.

"Look at the detail on this," Santi said, pointing to a centuries-old carving. "It’s incredible it’s survived this well."

"It really is," I replied, though my mind was already shifting to my plan. I knew that I would step away from Santi—claiming to need to use the bathroom—but rather than heading there, I wanted to head back to the museum employees accepting payment to make a donation.

"I'll be right back," I told him. "I just need to find the restroom before we move to the next wing."

"No problem," Santi said, smiling. "I'll start looking at the colonial era exhibit."

I excused myself and headed back to the employees. I found the one that accepted the payment for Santi and I then explained to her what I would like to do. She was happy that I was making a donation.

"What is the largest donation amount you are aware of?" I asked her.

She said that it was two thousand Cuban pesos. I knew that was approximately equivalent to ninety-five dollars from many other countries. I looked at her and told her that I would like to donate forty-five thousand Cuban pesos—the equivalency was about one thousand nine hundred dollars from many other countries.

The employee was stunned, her mouth opening slightly as she processed the amount. She was incredibly grateful for the generosity.

“What name can I put down for the administration?” she asked. “They like to know who donated so they can send a thank you note."

"It’s an anonymous gift," I said, wary of the possible real reason why the administrators needed my name. “No note necessary.”

She nodded her head to acknowledge what I said. I smiled and thanked her after providing the money.

As I left her to head to the bathroom, I took out my phone and texted Sera, my spy friend and former lover. I knew at this point, I was asking for far too much.

"Hey, Sera. I know you know where I am. I just made a large cash donation at the museum. It’s heavily guarded with security cameras. Can you please do your magic and make me blurry for my most recent interaction with the staff?" I sent.

I waited by the sinks for a moment. The phone buzzed.

"Of course. Give me five to ten minutes. Cuba’s cameras are old technology and hard to manipulate but I’ll get it done for you. Elena sends her thanks for your generous gift that was delivered and released me from dog house. She said that you’re welcome to text us any time you need us," Sera replied.

I put my phone away, went to the bathroom, and headed back to where I left Santi. Once he saw me, he smiled, walked over, and kissed me.

"Did you miss me?" I asked, looking up at him.

"I did," he said, his voice warm, then kissed me again.

I smiled a little bit. I had some guilt, though. I was enjoying my time with Santi when Boris wanted to spend the time with me as well, and I did wonder why he wasn’t fighting Santi for time with me.

As we walked, I decided to ask Santi that. "Santi, why isn't Boris fighting you for time with me? It feels strange that he's just letting us have this time without an argument."

Santi slowed his pace, his expression turning thoughtful. "He realized that you were right, Deppgrl," he said quietly. "We both did. You’ve been through so much in such a short amount of time. Having confirmation twice now of who you truly are, it's a lot for anyone to process. He understands now that marriage to anyone isn't in your best interest at the moment."

I looked at him, surprised by the sudden clarity.

"Boris does love you very much," Santi continued. "He does want to marry you and have kids with you, eventually. But he knows that right now, you need space to breathe and just be. He’s willing to give you that space, though he did make one thing clear—he won't wait for you forever."

I nodded my head.

Some time to myself

The air in the hotel suite was heavy with the scent of expensive linen and the lingering warmth of a few hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. Beside me, Santi was a still, dark shape against the white sheets, his breathing rhythmic and heavy.

I stayed there for a moment, pinned by the weight of his arm across my waist. It felt grounded—a sharp contrast to the frantic, fleeting existence I’d led for the last fifteen years. Slowly, I eased out of his grip, inching toward the edge of the mattress until the cool air hit my skin. He didn't stir, only let out a low, sleepy mumble that sounded like a question he wasn't quite awake enough to ask.

I escaped into the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it. I stayed under the spray until the tiles sweated and my skin turned a flushed pink. There was a nagging fear that if I stayed in there long enough, I’d drain the hotel’s entire reservoir of hot water, but I couldn't bring myself to step out. So, I did what I went into the tub to do, I showered. I washed and conditioned my hair, scrubbed the sweat and smell of sex off of my body and shaved my legs.

Finally, the guilt of the utility bill won out. I climbed out and cocooned myself in a pair of heavy, plush towels—one for my body, one twisted into a precarious wrap for my hair.

Back in the bedroom, I moved like a ghost. I knelt by my bag, wincing as the zipper gave a sharp skree in the silence. My wardrobe was pathetic—the curated kit of someone who had learned to live out of a single carry-on at a moment's notice. I dug past a thermal layer and a tactical belt until I found a silk skirt, panties and a fitted low cut shirt that didn't look too wrinkled. I knew the shirt was two sizes too small and I knew that my tits would be falling out if I moved the wrong way.

I retreated to the bathroom to finish up getting ready before leaving for the morning. I applied deodorant, a vigorous brushed of my hair, brushed my teeth and applied lotion, completely forgetting the sunscreen that I bought the other day with my brother. I looked at myself in the mirror—not a shadow, not an asset, just a woman in a hotel.

I hung the damp towels neatly, then found a notepad in my bag. I scribbled a note for Santi.

Santi, the sun is up and it’s getting warm out. I’m going to run a few errands before the heat hits. Back soon. Don't worry.

Once I completed the note, I left it under his phone. I grabbed the plastic keycard, some money, a rubberband to wrap around the money and the keycard and my sunglass then I left the room as quietly as possible.

The Havana morning was already humming when I stepped out, the humidity pressing against my skin like a damp palm. My first stop was a small café tucked into a colonial-era corner, with fans whirring overhead and the smell of strong tobacco and roasting beans.

"Un café cubano, por favor. Y la tortilla con hierbas," I told the waiter. A Cuban coffee, please. And the herb tortilla.

"¿Fruta también?" he asked as he wrote down my order. Fruit too?

"Sí, gracias, Señor." I said. Yes, thank you, Sir

I sat there for an hour, nursing the syrupy, potent coffee and ate the herb tortilla as I watched people who weren't looking over their shoulders. It was a luxury I wasn't used to. Afterward, I ducked into a pharmacy. The fluorescent lights felt clinical, grounding.

"Necesito la pastilla del día después," I said my voice steady despite the internal riot. I need the morning-after pill

The pharmacist was an older man, his spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. He moved with a glacial pace that grated against my ingrained sense of urgency. As he rang me up for the pills and the juice, I stared at the small sign on the counter from The Church stating that they disown those who use emergency contraceptive, condoms and prescription birth control methods.

I was lost in thought when the pharmacist repeatedly told me the total: Santi was wonderful, and waking up in his arms felt like a miracle, but I knew my own limits. I needed a mountain of therapy to untangle the knots Russia had tied in my psyche before I could even think about the permanence of marriage or the vulnerability of a child. I was still learning how to be a person; I couldn't be a mother yet. The same goes for whomever I’m sexually active with.

A long, audible sigh of frustration escaped him.

"¿Problemas con el sistema?" I asked, snapping back to the present, trying to keep my voice light even as my pulse began to tick in my jaw. System problems?

"No, no estabas prestando atención, señora. No es culpa mía que los rusos no puedan prestar atención.”  he muttered. No, you weren’t paying attention, lady. It’s not my fault Russians can’t pay attention.

"Lo siento mucho. Perdón por la molestia," I said. I'm so sorry. I apologize for the inconvenience.

"Esta bien," he grumbled, though his face remained pinched. It’s ok/

When the pharmacist sighed in frustration again, I apologized profusely and paid the total. "De nuevo, mil disculpas. Gracias por su paciencia."  Again, my sincerest apologies. Thank you for your patience.

"Vaya con Dios," he replied, already turning away. Go with God.

I grabbed the paper bag and left, finding a quiet area on the streets to take the pills in semi-private. I ducked into a small, shaded alcove near a crumbling stone archway—a sliver of shadow away from the main thoroughfare. My hands shook slightly as I cracked the seal on the orange juice and popped the blister pack. I swallowed the pill with a large gulp of the tart juice, the cold liquid sliding down my throat.

I spent the rest of the morning at a nearby department store, a sprawling palace of glass and chrome that felt like a different world from the crumbling beauty outside. I bought things that weren't practical. I bought a dress that wouldn't fold into a hidden compartment and shoes that weren't designed for running. I also bought more practical clothing and footwear that would help ease me into blending in with the locals of this beautiful island.

By the time I sat down for lunch at a paladar across from the park, my feet were aching and my shopping bags were heavy. I checked my phone. No frantic messages from the Kremlin. No missed calls from handlers. And nothing from Sera; not even passing on a thank you from Elena. Just the smell of fresh bread and the feeling of the tropical sun on my neck.

For the first time in years, I wasn't a ghost. I was just a customer waiting for her food.

When the carne asada arrived, the meat was tender and full of flavor. I ate slowly, forcing myself to taste every bite, to exist entirely within the four walls of the patio. My training screamed at me to identify the exits, to catalog the faces of the men at the bar, but I pushed it down. Eat the food. Watch the pigeons. Be here.

My phone vibrated against the wood of the table. It wasn't a burner, and the notification wasn't encrypted. It was a text from Santi.

The bed is cold. Where are you?

I stared at the screen for a long beat. In my old life, a message asking for my location was a demand for accountability, a precursor to a debrief or a scolding. With Santi, it was just a man who missed a woman.

I typed out a reply, my thumbs hovering over the glass. At lunch. Bought some clothes as my stockpile was limited. Be back in a little bit as I’m enjoying the sun.

Bring me something sweet besides you, he replied instantly. And don’t stay in the sun for so long….you’ll burn.

I’m in some shade, I said as I tried to be a little mysterious of my exact location. You might have to join me in the shower when I get back. It’s hot outside.

Santi sent the little heart emoji. If I knew anything about him, he, like me, has a very high sex drive and won’t turn down sex often.

I paid the bill, the colorful Cuban pesos feeling like play money in my hand. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a small stall and bought two pasteles de guayaba, the flaky crust still warm through the paper bag.

The walk back felt different. The humidity didn't feel like a weight anymore; it felt like a blanket. I passed a group of children playing with a deflated soccer ball. I just watched them play.

When I reached the hotel suite, I let myself in quietly. The room was flooded with the midday sun now, the harsh light revealing the dust motes dancing in the air. Santi was sitting up in bed, a book discarded on his lap, his hair a mess of dark curls.

He looked at the shopping bags, then at the grease-stained pastry bag in my hand, and finally at me. A slow, easy smile spread across his face—the kind of smile that made my chest ache with a terrifying sort of hope.

"You're back," he said, his voice still thick with the remains of sleep.

"I'm back," I repeated. I dropped the bags on the other chair and sat on the edge of the bed, handing him a pastry. But as I watched him take a bite of the guava tart, I knew one thing for certain, we’d enjoy each other in the shower.

Anchor in the dark

The town square was a wash of deep shadows and flickering yellow streetlights, the air thick with the humidity of a Cuban night. We could still hear the band playing a low, distorted bolero, the sound drifting through the open shutters of the surrounding buildings.

Marlon stood near the edge of the plaza, his shadow stretching long against the uneven cobblestones. His eyes kept darting toward the dark entrances of the narrow alleys that fed into the square.

I stepped into his line of sight, forcing him to stop.

"Marlon," I said, my voice low but vibrating with an edge he couldn't ignore. “How did you find me?”

“I know that you have a weakness for good food, good drinks and good music,” he said. “Xavier couldn’t get Santi to share anything about how you were and wanted me to make sure that you’re ok.”

"Look at me. My ex-husband doesn’t have the right to know where I am. He doesn’t have the right to know if I’m eating, if I’m sleeping, or if I’m even still alive. To Xavier, I am a dead woman. Do you understand that?"

Marlon squinted at me, the orange light making the hollows of his cheeks look like deep bruises.

"People like him don’t stop looking because they’re a narcissist and want control,” I snapped. "If I hear that Xavier gets so much as a whisper of any information of me, I won’t just come for the person who leaked it. There will be hell to pay, Marlon. Total, unmitigated hell. I will burn everything down before I let him find me."

Marlon watched me for a long beat. The skepticism in his eyes was replaced by a sharp, sudden caution. He saw the fire in my eyes and realized I wasn't just talking about him—I was talking about the world.

"I hear you," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Good," I said, finally letting a breath out, though the knot in my stomach remained tight. "Because as far as he’s concerned, I no longer exist."

I turned and walked away without looking back, leaving Marlon standing in the town square. My pulse was still hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that the stagnant night air couldn't soothe. I headed back toward the bar where I'd started the night, desperate for the burn of a cheap rum to steady my hands and quiet the noise in my head. But as I rounded the corner, the hope vanished. The heavy wooden doors were already shut, the vibrant music and laughter from earlier replaced by a hollow silence.

With the bar closed, I made my way through the labyrinth of quiet, moonlit streets. My footsteps echoing against the salt-stained walls until I reached the hotel. As soon as I entered my room and the door clicked shut behind me, I pulled out my phone and messaged Santi.

Me: Come to my room.

Santi: I'll be there momentarily.

A few minutes later, a rhythmic knocking sounded against the wood. I moved quickly to unlock it and let him in. Before I could even say a word, Santi reached for me, pulling me into his arms with a desperate strength. He leaned down and claimed my mouth in a crushing kiss, his heat cutting through the chill of my lingering fear. His hands were broad and warm, anchoring me in the present.

When I pulled back for air, I told him what I wanted.

"I want you to fuck me, Santi."

“That’s what I was hoping you would say,” he said, his voice rough as he pulled me closer. "I've been thinking about this since I saw you at the plaza."

We pulled apart just long enough to strip, our clothes discarded in a heap on the floor and we moved to the bed. As I lay down on my back, I spread my legs for him, inviting his weight. He moved over me, his muscles taut, and mounted my pussy.

The night became a blurred sequence of frantic motion and heat. We didn't stay on the bed for long; the urgency between us was too volatile to be contained. We fucked on the couch, the worn fabric rough against my back while he drove into me with a raw, relentless rhythm.

"Right there," I gasped, my head falling back against the cushions. "Santi, please."

"I can't get enough of you," he strained out, his forehead pressed against mine as he moved. "The way you feel... it's driving me crazy."

I clung to his neck, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders as our breaths hitched in unison. He moved me against the wall, his hands pinning my wrists above my head as he fucked me standing up, the friction sharp and constant. The solid weight of him against me was the only thing that kept me grounded.

"Is this okay?" he asked breathlessly, his eyes searching mine.

"Don't you dare stop," I breathed out, my body arching into his, feeling the cool plaster of the wall against my skin and the furnace of his body in front of me.

In the bathroom, he had me bent over the cold marble counter, the stark contrast of the chilled stone against my stomach heightening the heat as he pounded into me from behind. I watched our reflection in the steamed-over mirror, the sight of his dark hair against my skin making my heart race even faster.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice vibrating against my spine.

"Because of you," I whispered back, gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned white.

Between the bursts of movement, his fingers were constantly on me, rolling and tugging at my nipples until they were sensitive and aching, drawing low moans from deep in my throat. Every touch was deliberate, every pull a reminder of the fire he was stoking.

We moved out onto the patio, the humid air slicking our skin and making every touch feel electric. The distant sound of the ocean provided a backdrop to the quiet sounds we made in the dark. I bent over the railing, my waist pressing against the cool metal as I gripped it for leverage, looking out at the dark, white-capped water. Santi stood behind me, his hands firm on my hips as he moved into me, the salt air mixing with the heat radiating from his skin.

We moved back inside to the floor in front of the unlit fireplace, our bodies moving with a desperate, unspoken understanding. He pushed me down, his weight a heavy, welcome anchor. The room felt smaller, the air tighter. Every time he reached his climax, his body tensing with the effort of holding on, he gripped me tight and came in me, again and again. We drifted from one surface to the next, driven by a need to stay lost in the sensation, before we finally collapsed back onto the bed, tangled and exhausted.