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After Celia left, Rhys came upstairs to find me.
He looked even more exhausted than I felt, his eyes full of broken blood vessels. He tried to hug me, but I moved away.
“Aria,” he knelt in front of me, taking my cold hands in his, his voice urgent. “Pack a bag. The private jet leaves tonight. For Santorini. There’s sun, there’s the sea… you can paint. No one will bother you there.”
“And then what?” I asked softly. “I just wait for you there? Wait for you to handle the company, marry Celia, and then visit me on your island once a year?”
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