Chapter 213 082
EVENING settled over the resort like a silk shawl, soft and deliberate.
For most of the day, Amelia had not stepped outside her suite.
Between answering emails, reviewing proposals, and drifting in and out of sleep, she had existed in a quiet bubble. Lunch had been delivered to her door. Dinner too. She had barely drawn the curtains except to watch the sun dip into the horizon from behind the glass.
It was unlike her.
She was not usually the type to hide.
But today had felt heavy in ways she couldn’t explain.
By the time dinner plates were cleared away, the silence of the room began to press against her. She stood near the window for a long moment, watching the beachfront below, the warm lights along the sand, the soft movement of people, the distant laughter carried by wind.
Maybe she needed air. Maybe she needed something that didn’t involve a screen or a memory.
She walked toward her wardrobe.
After a few seconds of indecision, she pulled out a simple but elegant off-shoulder midi dress in deep emerald green. The fabric was soft and fluid, hugging her frame without clinging too tightly. It stopped just below her knees, revealing smooth calves and a pair of nude strappy heels she slipped on with quiet precision.
She left her hair down this time— long, dark waves cascading freely over her shoulders. A light touch of makeup followed: subtle foundation, a sweep of mascara, a soft nude gloss. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to look effortlessly put together.
She studied her reflection briefly.
It looked casual and unbothered.
Then she picked up a small clutch and headed out.
—
The bar downstairs glowed warmly, amber lights reflecting off polished wood and glass shelves lined with bottles. Soft jazz drifted through the air, an instrumental version of an old classic, familiar yet unintrusive.
Ifeanyi noticed her immediately.
He had been wiping down the counter, but the movement stilled for a fraction of a second when she stepped in.
There was something different about her tonight. Something lighter. Or perhaps simply present.
He walked around the counter, offering his usual composed smile.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening,” she replied, returning the smile.
His eyes swept over her briefly, not in a way that lingered too long, but long enough to appreciate.
“You look… refreshing tonight,” he said smoothly. “That color suits you.”
She tilted her head slightly, amused.
“Refreshing?”
“Yes. Like you decided to let the evening win.”
She laughed softly.
“Is that what it looks like?”
“A little. I hadn’t seen you since morning,” he added casually. “For a brief second, I thought you had traveled back.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Traveled back?”
“Yes. The suite was too quiet. No movement. No calls downstairs. I thought perhaps you had escaped without telling anyone.”
She laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been all day.
“No. Just buried under work and sleep.”
“Ah,” he nodded knowingly. “The most dangerous combination.”
“And what makes it dangerous?” she asked as she settled onto one of the bar stools.
“You start forgetting what daylight feels like.”
She considered that. “Fair.”
He returned behind the counter.
“What are we having tonight?”
“Surprise me.”
His brows rose slightly.
“That is trust.”
“Then don’t ruin it.”
He chuckled and began preparing something— measured, precise movements. She watched his hands for a moment, then let her gaze wander around the room.
The jazz shifted into something slightly more upbeat.
“That song,” she said, “it reminds me of Paris.”
“Paris?” he asked, pouring the drink into a glass. “You have been?”
“Twice. Once for work. Once just because I needed to disappear.”
He slid the glass toward her.
“And did you?”
“Disappear?”
He nodded.
“For a while,” she said, lifting the glass to her lips. She paused. “This is good.”
“Thank you.”
They fell into an easy rhythm after that.
She asked where he had traveled.
“Not as widely as I would like,” he admitted. “Ghana. Kenya. A brief stop in Dubai that doesn’t count because I saw only the airport.”
“That definitely doesn’t count,” she said firmly.
He smiled.
“Then I have hardly traveled.”
“Where would you go if you could leave tomorrow?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Santorini.”
She blinked. “Specific.”
“Very,” he agreed. “White walls. Blue roofs. Sunsets that look unreal.”
“You have thought about this.”
“Extensively.”
She laughed, resting her chin lightly against her hand.
“I would go back to Florence.”
“For the art?”
“For the quiet,” she corrected. “There is something about walking into a bookstore in another country and not understanding every conversation around you. It feels freeing.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Most people find that isolating.”
“Most people are afraid of being alone.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly as though filing that away.
The music shifted again, this time something Afro-soul, smooth and mellow.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much.”
“You prefer this?”
“I prefer music that feels like home without trying too hard.”
“And where is home?” he asked lightly.
She met his eyes.
“Depends on the day.”
He accepted that without probing further.
They moved from music to books.
He admitted he preferred biographies. She confessed a weakness for historical fiction.
“Escapism?” he teased gently.
“Perspective,” she corrected again. “It reminds me that every era thought it was the most complicated one.”
He smiled at that.
They talked about the different kinds of guests the resort attracted— newlyweds who couldn’t keep their hands off each other, business travelers who never saw the beach, families arguing softly in three languages at once.
“You notice everything,” she observed.
“It is my job.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s not.”
He held her gaze for a second, then shrugged slightly.
Through it all, he never asked if she was married. Never asked why she was alone. Never asked how long she was staying.
She noticed.
And she appreciated it.
There was a gentleness in not prying. A respect in allowing silence to exist without filling it with interrogation.
Time moved without announcement.
At exactly 7:55, he glanced at the clock mounted discreetly above the shelves.
“Wednesdays,” he said lightly, “are merciful.”
“How so?”
“My shift ends at eight.”
“That sounds… rare.”
“It is. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The universe occasionally shows kindness.”
She smiled.
“And what do you usually do with this rare kindness?”
He wiped his hands with a clean cloth, stepping out from behind the counter as another staff member quietly took over.
“Sometimes I go home and sleep,” he admitted. “Sometimes I walk.”
“Walk where?”
He glanced toward the open entrance where the distant glow of beachfront lights shimmered.
“The shore looks different at night,” he said. “The lights reflect on the water. It’s quieter. Less performance, more honesty.”
She followed his gaze.
Then he looked back at her, expression calm but thoughtful.
“If you are not too tired from hiding indoors all day,” he began gently, “would you like to take a short walk along the lit beachfront with me…?”