Monday, February 6, 2023 — 9:58 AM
Beachside, Valentino Estate
The beachside air was still crisp, though the sun had begun to shimmer gently over the waves like molten glass stretching to the horizon. Ethan walked with steady steps along the stone path that twisted between lounge tents, palm-lined archways, and sunlit decks. The remnants of the night's chaos — perfume-smeared napkins, discarded wine glasses, and a few giggling influencers recounting rumors — still lingered.
He passed by the restaurant pavilion, a mellow jazz tune echoing out over the sound of gulls. Ahead, he spotted Jonathan Barrett at the edge of the beach, deep in conversation with a platinum-haired influencer whose attention was clearly split between Barrett's words and her own reflection on her phone. Ethan watched them only briefly — there was no judgment in his gaze, only calculation. His mission this morning was elsewhere.
Tent #167 stood a little apart from the others, veiled with silk drapery that fluttered in the breeze like a mirage. He paused for a second, fixing his collar, then stepped through the shaded entrance.
Inside, light spilled in from one side, illuminating the velvet-draped bed and the polished wooden floor. Amilia Barrett was already seated, facing the direction of the ocean, a glass of water in her hand. She wore a dark crimson robe that shimmered with a soft luster, wrapping her figure in elegance that was both commanding and disarming.
"Ethan," she said, her voice low but firm. "Right on time."
Ethan offered a light nod and took a seat on the opposing lounge chair. His expression was composed as ever — like stone kissed by warm sunlight.
"You seem comfortable," he said with a soft smile.
Amilia looked him over — his sharp jawline, his honed composure, his unshaken calm. "You're different," she said. "You watch people as if you've seen them before."
Ethan didn't reply to that. Instead, he allowed a brief silence to settle before shifting the conversation toward what truly mattered.
"You said you wanted to talk about something serious."
Amilia swirled the water in her glass slowly. "Your financial state. Your family." Her gaze narrowed slightly. "Your father's condition."
Ethan's hands subtly clenched around his knee, though his face revealed nothing. He leaned forward slightly. "What about it?"
"I've reviewed your background. Quietly," she admitted. "Your mother's managing with dignity, but the strain is visible. Your sister works too hard for too little. And your father... still paralyzed."
There was a moment's silence.
"I can help him walk again," she said.
Ethan didn't flinch — not visibly. But inside, a subtle storm was building. He remembered the helplessness of his last timeline. Watching, day by day, as his father's condition deteriorated beyond salvation.
"Why?" Ethan asked. "You're not known for charity, Amilia."
Her lips twitched upward. "I don't believe in charity. But I do believe in potential."
He studied her carefully. "So what's the cost?"
Her robe shifted slightly as she crossed her legs, revealing just enough to keep the balance between elegance and allure. "You'll owe me one favor. Just one." She leaned in. "And I promise you—it won't be something you'll regret."
Ethan raised a brow. "But I can't refuse it, once asked."
"No," she confirmed, the word soft like silk drawn over skin.
There was a quiet moment between them, the only sound being the ocean wind against the tent's fabric.
"Deal," Ethan said at last, his voice steady.
A small smile tugged at the corner of Amilia's lips. "Good."
She stood slowly, placing the glass on the nearby table. "Before you go, though, I have one more request."
Ethan waited.
"A massage," she said plainly. "Full-body. I didn't sleep well. And you owe me a favor now, remember?"
He didn't expect that. But neither did he refuse. "Alright."
Amilia walked to the velvet-covered massage cot and lay down on her front, her robe carefully draped around her lower half. Her back, shoulders, and neck were bare, her dark hair swept to one side.
Ethan picked up the small porcelain bottle of oil from the side table. It smelled of lavender and sandalwood — an odd but calming blend. He poured a small amount onto his palms and began gently working it into her shoulders.
For a while, neither spoke. His hands were precise, firm but respectful. He wasn't just moving muscle — he was reading posture, interpreting stress points, gauging where tension had formed over months of high-stakes living.
"You're surprisingly good at this," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow.
"I've had to take care of people before," he said quietly.
"You're not like the others here," she murmured. "They all want something. You're... already full of secrets."
"Maybe I am," Ethan replied calmly.
He continued downward — her back, her waist, her arms — careful, efficient. There was sensuality in the air, undeniable, but also something else: control. Presence. It wasn't lust that governed Ethan — it was mastery.
When he reached her lower back, she shifted slightly, her breathing deeper now. But Ethan, ever disciplined, didn't cross the line. He adjusted the robe modestly when needed, then ended the massage with light pressure along her spine and neck.
Amilia sat up slowly, her eyes half-lidded from the comfort. "Thank you," she said softly.
Ethan nodded. "We're even now."
"No," she whispered with a slight smirk, brushing her robe over her shoulder. "Now we're just beginning."
He gave a brief smile, eyes unreadable.
Outside, the sun had climbed higher in the sky. Time was ticking. And so was Ethan's plan — quietly, beneath the surface, like a dragon beneath calm waters.