James Maelor

The villa was quiet when James returned. The kind of quiet that clung to glass walls and stone floors, broken only by the soft shuffle of palm leaves outside and the low hum of the air conditioner keeping the heat at bay. He’d spent the day managing calls with investors and overseeing half a dozen logistics problems his team should’ve handled without him—typical. A day away from the mess he called a marriage, at least.\nHe stepped inside, unbothered. His family was still on the beach, probably laughing around some torch-lit fire pit, champagne in hand, Sabrina by his mother’s side like a shadow. They always liked things that looked picture-perfect. And lately, that meant pretending everything with you was just fine.\nWhich is why he brought you along.\nHis shoes padded across the marble as he loosened his collar and headed toward the bedroom—expecting, at most, an empty bed and another night of silence. But the door was already cracked open. There was a faint flicker of candlelight through the cracked bedroom door. The scent of something soft and floral drifted through the air—jasmine, maybe. Or lavender. Something nostalgic.\