Chapter 22 MAID IN SANTORINI
The Santorini sun poured golden light through the sheer curtains of the villa, catching the edge of Lena's sunglasses as she lounged by the infinity pool. Her legs were crossed lazily, one foot rhythmically tapping against the sunbed. A glass of untouched mimosa sweated quietly on the small table beside her, slowly warming in the heat.
This was supposed to be a honeymoon. At least, that's what the rest of the world thought.
Inside, Ethan Sinclair was exactly where Lena expected him to be on a video call with the London office, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping a glass of water as he fired off instructions in that calm but commanding tone she'd learned to both resent and respect. He hadn't even glanced at the sea view once since they arrived.
She rolled her eyes, reaching for her phone, scrolling aimlessly through social media, pausing only when she saw a headline speculating about their "lavish romantic escape."
"Romantic, my ass," she muttered under her breath.
The truth was simple: the marriage was a deal. A contract. She'd signed it. He'd signed it. No kisses. No affection. No obligations beyond what was legally binding.
"You do know you're on a honeymoon, right?" she said flatly, not moving an inch. "You might want to pretend for the press. At least fake a smile."
Ethan didn't miss a beat. "The press isn't here."
"That's the problem," she replied, tossing her phone down. "At least they'd keep things interesting."
"I didn't bring you here to be entertained. You knew what this was."
She stood, stretching slowly, "I'll find something else to do today. Maybe go get lost in town, start a scandal. That would make a few headlines."
"Don't push it, Lena."
She smiled sweetly.
He spoke without looking up.
"Since you didn't bring anything along, I had Valentino send over a few options for you to pick from."
Lena turned her head slowly, the only real sign of interest. "Right. You told me not to pack."
Before Ethan could respond, a maid in soft sandals approached quietly, bowing slightly before speaking. "Excuse me, sir. The Valentino team has arrived. They're setting up on the terrace as instructed."
Lena blinked. She turned to look toward the private path that curved around the villa, where a cluster of people in sleek black outfits were already assembling clothing racks, setting up mirrors, and arranging champagne flutes like it was a red carpet event.
She let out a low whistle. "Wow. Must be nice to live in a world where top fashion houses make house calls."
Ethan glanced up at her, "It's just clothes, Lena."
Lena watched as the Valentino team moved like clockwork across the terrace, setting up rolling racks of designer gowns, silk blouses, and hand-stitched suits like it was the most normal thing in the world. One stylist was unfolding a full-length mirror while another was laying out accessories on a marble-topped side table.
It was theatrical. Apparently, just another Tuesday in Ethan Sinclair's world.
She adjusted her sunglasses and leaned back against the lounger, her voice flat and unreadable.
"So... this is how you shop?"
Ethan didn't look up from his tablet. His legs were crossed, fingers gliding across the screen as if the entire scene unfolding next to them was a minor distraction.
"I don't have time to browse. They bring what's relevant. I pick. Simple."
Lena tilted her head slightly, watching the black-clad team set up as though this villa were a backstage fashion tent.
"Right. Who needs stores when Valentino comes to you?"
"Stores are for people who enjoy waiting," he replied. "I don't."
A smirk tugged at her lips, but she kept it small. Contained.
"Of course. Heaven forbid Ethan Sinclair be seen under fluorescent lighting like the rest of us."
That got him to glance up. Just briefly. His eyes, sharp and calm, met hers.
"You sound surprised."
She gave a lazy shrug, swirling her drink.
"Not surprised. Just... entertained. There's a difference."
"You'll get used to it," he said, his voice casual. Unbothered.
"Is that part of the contract too?" she asked, lifting a brow. "Adjusting to spontaneous designer fittings?"
Ethan finally set the tablet down and looked at her fully. His expression didn't change, but his voice dropped just slightly calm.
"You're a billionaire's wife, Lena. You have to look the part."
She blinked once behind her sunglasses, then gave a quiet laugh, like she wasn't sure if she was insulted or impressed.
"Wow," she muttered. "Nothing like a little light couture to keep up appearances."
"You said you were bored earlier, right?" he said. "Enjoy the show."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the villa like he hadn't just summoned half of Valentino to their private residence.
Lena exhaled a slow breath, setting her glass down as she stood.
Show, huh?
As she made her way up the stairs to the upper terrace, it became immediately clear he wasn't exaggerating. There were over a dozen people in place now stylists, assistants, a photographer, even someone holding a lint roller like they were prepping for a runway appearance. Everyone turned when she appeared.
"Mrs. Sinclair," several of them greeted in soft, respectful tones, with slight nods and smiles.
She wasn't used to that title. It still felt like someone else's name.
She was guided toward a plush cream chair positioned under a white umbrella. It was slightly elevated and clearly reserved for her, the only seat with a small gold tray of refreshments and chilled water waiting beside it. Even the way it was arranged felt intentional like a throne at the center of a private kingdom.
She sat, crossing her legs with calm detachment, sunglasses still on.
A tall man approached her next immaculately dressed in linen and leather loafers, his silver hair swept back, his face immediately recognizable from fashion magazines. Alessandro Donati, creative director of Valentino's Mediterranean division.
He offered her a warm, professional smile.
"Mrs. Sinclair, welcome. It's an honor."
Lena gave him a small nod.
"Thanks. I didn't know I'd be needing a front-row seat."
He chuckled softly. "Mr. Sinclair didn't want just options. He wanted the best of this season's private collection flown in."
He gestured gracefully to the racks.
"This capsule is from our unreleased Amalfi line resort wear , but timeless. A few pieces were seen briefly at Venice, but most haven't been shown to the public yet. Some are quite... monumental."
Lena raised an eyebrow behind her sunglasses.
"Monumental clothes?"
"Art disguised as leisure," he said with a smile. "You'll see."
He signaled discreetly, and just like that, the assistants began moving. Models emerged from behind a sheer screen, one by one, each dressed in a different look flowing silks, hand-embroidered details, delicate sheer layers that caught the sun like liquid. Each piece was introduced, its stitching, history, and craftsmanship explained.
Lena tried to look bored. She crossed her legs, tapped her finger against her water glass, tilted her head like it was all routine. But inside, she was quietly stunned.
It really was a show.
And it was for her.
She leaned back slowly, lips curving into a subtle, private smile.