Check-In, Checkmate

LUNA’S POV

If this place had a scent, it would be expensive eucalyptus and unattainable self-worth.

The Isla Madera Influencer Retreat had promised three things: seclusion, serenity, and the kind of organic meals that left you both spiritually aligned and mysteriously hungry an hour later. I came for the first two. Serenity? I was starving for it—emotionally, mentally, and professionally.

The ocean whispered in the distance as I stepped out of the black car service, my platform sandals clicking against the stone walkway. My suitcase, an obnoxiously shiny lavender Away carry-on, rolled behind me with the blind optimism of someone who didn’t know what was coming.

I adjusted my sunglasses and looked up at the sleek, white stucco lobby—arched doorways, woven pendant lights, infinity pool just visible over the railing. Instagrammable to a fault. I hated how much I loved it.

“Welcome to Isla Madera Retreat, Miss Valentine,” the concierge greeted with a perfectly symmetrical smile, like she’d been trained by angels and luxury hospitality management school at the same time. “Suite 6 is ready for you.”

Suite. Six.

I liked the sound of it. I could practically taste the isolation: high-thread-count sheets, minimalist decor, maybe even one of those rainfall showers. A place to unplug. Unwind. Un-post.

I followed her down the corridor, the sound of a waterfall somewhere nearby. “Just so you know,” she chirped, “your roommate has already arrived.”

I stopped walking.

“I’m sorry—what?”

She paused, smile intact. “Yes, all attendees were assigned shared suites. It was in the onboarding package.”

No, it most definitely was not. I would’ve noticed a detail like shared quarters. I didn’t even share fries, let alone my sacred post-burnout healing space.

I cleared my throat. “And… who exactly am I sharing with?”

She gave me the kind of polite shrug that said I just work here, honey, and gestured toward the arched doorway ahead.

Suite 6 had a private balcony overlooking the ocean, sunlight pooling across the pale concrete floor like liquid gold. There was a citrusy-clean smell in the air, and the soft hum of a fan spinning lazily above. Luggage sat by the dresser already—black, sleek, and masculine. My stomach turned.

“Hello?” I called into the space, my voice echoing slightly.

And then, like karma rolled out in six-foot-two inches of smug, he stepped out from the bathroom.

Towel slung low on his hips.

Dripping wet.

Smirking like the devil just got a rebrand.

“Luna,” Knox King said, like my name was the punchline to a joke only he found funny.

You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.

My mouth dropped open, a sharp breath escaping before I could shove it back in with some sarcasm. This was not happening. Not him. Not here. Not Suite 6.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped, stepping backward like his abs were contagious.

He reached for a shirt on the nearby chair, annoyingly casual. “Same thing you are, sunshine. Trying not to lose followers while pretending I’m spiritually centered.”

“Rooming here. With me.”

Knox looked around the suite like he was noticing it for the first time, then raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re hiding another Luna, I think we’re stuck.”

I turned to the concierge, panic rising in my throat like it was wearing stilettos. “This has to be a mistake.”

She opened her digital tablet and scrolled. “Suite 6: Luna Valentine and Knox King. Correct assignment.”

Of course, it was Suite 6. Of course, the universe hated me.

Knox adjusted his shirt—black, slightly damp, annoyingly well-fitted—and leaned against the kitchen island like he had every right to exist in this Pinterest board come to life.

“Unless you’re into bunk beds, I’d say we’ll have to make this work.”

The concierge excused herself quickly, probably sensing the emotional weather was about to turn stormy.

I planted my suitcase beside the couch and turned to him, arms crossed. “Let’s get something straight: This isn’t cute. We’re not playing house. And I don’t trust you as far as I can throw that overcompensating jawline.”

He grinned. “You’ve been thinking about my jawline?”

“I’ve been thinking about how you cost me the Dionyx Cosmetics collab last year.”

His smile faded, just slightly. “That’s what you think happened?”

“That’s what I know happened.”

He stared at me for a beat too long. I hated that it still made my stomach flip. Knox King was the reason I spent six months rebuilding my brand, my confidence, and my peace of mind. Seeing him now, here, invading my temporary oasis—it was like running into your high school nemesis at a silent meditation retreat.

“I’ll take the side of the bed closest to the window,” I muttered, yanking my suitcase over the polished floor.

“Great,” he called after me. “I like waking up to the ocean view anyway.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it nearly realigned my chakras.

I set my suitcase down by the left-hand dresser and flung it open, deliberately loud. Passive-aggressive zipping was an art form, and I had a gold medal in it.

Knox was annoyingly silent behind me, probably watching me with that same cocky expression he used in every one of his “candid” TikToks. I didn’t even have to look to know it was there—eyebrow cocked, lips quirked, full of “aren’t-you-charmed” energy. I wasn’t charmed. I was trapped. In a luxury suite with a walking, talking PR nightmare.

I threw open a drawer. Empty. Polished. It even smelled like cedar. I almost sighed in appreciation before remembering that he was still in the room.

“Just to be clear,” I said as I pulled out a stack of coordinated lounge sets, “we’re dividing this suite. You stay in your zone, I stay in mine. No wandering. No commentary. No… Knox-ing.”

He snorted.

“I’m serious.”

“You always are.” He crossed into the kitchenette, bare feet making no sound on the cool tile. “That’s what makes it so easy to mess with you.”

I spun on him. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Make this miserable for me like you made my entire 2024 a career dumpster fire.”

Knox’s smirk faltered, just slightly. “Still on that, huh?”

“You didn’t deny it earlier.”

He poured water from the glass carafe into one of the resort’s eco-chic tumblers. “I didn’t deny it because I figured you wouldn’t believe me either way. Might as well conserve energy.”

His nonchalance was infuriating. Knox King had always played the villain well, online and off. Last year, when we were both finalists for the Dionyx Cosmetics brand ambassador campaign, I was the clear front-runner. Until a “coincidentally timed” video surfaced of me at a Halloween party three years ago, holding a cocktail that had been… questionably named. The context had been harmless, but the optics? Brutal. And guess who conveniently launched a “clean rebrand” video series the same day?

Knox.

I’d never gotten proof. But I didn’t need it.

The sponsorship went to him. My name got dragged. And the message was clear: in the court of influencer public opinion, perception was king—and so was he.

“You can have the big bathroom,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’ll use the ensuite off the sleeping alcove.”

“Wow,” he said, eyebrows lifting as he leaned back against the counter. “Didn’t realize we were already nesting.”

I ignored him, pulling my skincare bag out and heading for the bathroom. The sleek vanity made my inner Virgo weep. Floating oak cabinets, matte black fixtures, backlit mirror. I locked the door behind me and leaned on the sink, staring at my reflection.

“You’ve got this,” I whispered to myself. “Deep breaths. Tight pony. No killing your ex-nemesis. That’s bad for brand deals.”

A knock startled me.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to critique your serum routine,” Knox’s voice called. “But they left us an itinerary packet. Group welcome dinner starts at seven.”

I checked the time. 5:32 p.m.

Plenty of time to scrub him out of my aura.

I showered fast, braided my hair into a sleek crown, and applied minimal makeup—just enough to say I wake up like this, but prettier. A soft linen jumpsuit in cream, gold hoops, and my nicest sandals later, I emerged ready to fake every ounce of wellness I did not currently feel.

Knox was lounging on the sofa in jeans that were too tight and a white linen shirt unbuttoned just low enough to be criminal. A beaded bracelet clung to one wrist—definitely not his aesthetic. Probably a brand collab.

“Your vibe is very ’I drink agave kombucha and emotionally journal in cursive,’” I deadpanned.

He looked up and grinned. “Your vibe is ‘I’ve planned the murder but need an alibi.’”

Fair.

I clutched the itinerary and breezed toward the door. “Let’s just survive this dinner. Then we can pretend we live in two different universes.”

He followed too close. “Luna?”

“What?”

He held the door open for me, then murmured, “Try not to stab anyone with your fork.”

“I make no promises.”

The retreat’s welcome dinner was held in a greenhouse-style glass dome perched on the edge of the bluff. From the outside, it looked like a luxury terrarium for egos—inside, it buzzed with soft jazz, clinking glasses, and too many perfectly symmetrical faces.

“Look at all these ring lights in human form,” I muttered.

Knox chuckled beside me, deep and low. “Careful, Luna. They might hear you through their sponsored AirPods.”

I hadn’t planned on walking in beside him. But somehow, between elevator timing and the way the golf cart driver insisted we “arrive as one party,” we’d shown up side by side. Which meant we entered the dome like a power couple. Gross.

A few heads turned. Whispers stirred.

I stiffened.

“Smile,” Knox murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “You know how this works.”

He wasn’t wrong. I plastered on my best I-love-networking grin, chin lifted and shoulders poised.

A hostess with eyebrows sharper than her stilettos approached. “Welcome! You must be Luna and Knox. Suite 6, yes?”

I nodded. “Unfortunately.”

She blinked.

I covered it with a too-bright laugh. “Just joking. We’re thrilled to be here.”

“Of course,” she said, not convinced. “Please, find your place cards. Dinner will be served shortly.”

The seating was arranged around a single long table dressed in muted linen and eucalyptus garlands, like some Pinterest dream board. Each plate had a miniature custom name tag tucked into the folded napkin—eco-chic branding, naturally.

I scanned the table.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“What?” Knox asked, leaning in.

I pointed.

There they were. Two gold-edged cards, side by side like they were mocking me.

Luna Valentine.

Knox King.

He sighed, amused. “I’m starting to think the universe ships us.”

I glared at him. “The universe can go to hell.”

“After dessert,” he said smoothly, pulling out my chair like a gentleman. I sat with the grace of someone imagining him falling face-first into the ornamental koi pond outside.

Influencers trickled in around us, like a high school reunion for people who knew how to edit their pores. I spotted Jemma Rae—fitness goddess turned vegan lifestyle mogul—across the table. She air-kissed the air around my cheek and leaned close.

“Luna, babe, you look divine. I was just telling my team how obsessed I am with your neutral aesthetic.”

“Thanks,” I replied, choosing not to remind her she’d once commented, “copying is the sincerest form of flattery” on one of my viral reels.

Her gaze slid to Knox. “And you. Mmm. The King himself. You two collabing now, or…?”

Before I could shut that rumor down, Knox grinned. “Roommates.”

Jemma’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Shut. Up.”

I tried not to scream.

The dinner began with a champagne toast from a retreat coordinator who used the word “synergy” too much and referred to us all as impact artists. As the courses arrived—some sort of citrusy crudo, then a beet foam thing—I picked at my plate and avoided looking at the man beside me.

Knox, of course, had no such restraint.

“You still hate beets?” he asked, nudging my elbow.

“Still tastes like dirt,” I replied.

“They’re cleansing.”

“So is fire.”

He laughed, and worse, it wasn’t annoying. It was warm and genuine and low enough to vibrate somewhere I didn’t want to think about.

Dessert was a deconstructed mango tart that looked like modern art. I was debating licking the spoon when a familiar voice called across the table.

“So, Luna… any big projects coming up?”

The tone was casual. The face behind it? Smug. Too smug.

Devon Skye.

He was a lifestyle vlogger with a podcast about “authentic masculinity” and a million followers who didn’t realize he recycled most of his tweets from Tumblr circa 2012. Also? He was the first influencer to publicly reshare the cocktail video scandal last year, with an “awareness matters” caption that made me want to launch myself into the sea.

I tensed.

Before I could respond, Knox’s voice cut in smoothly.

“She’s got several, actually. Some people can secure work without throwing others under the bus.”

The table went quiet.

Devon blinked. “Just making conversation, man.”

“Try harder,” Knox said.

I stared at him. He didn’t look at me—just returned to his dessert like he hadn’t just dropped a loyalty grenade in front of everyone.

Heat bloomed in my chest. Not just anger, not just confusion—but something suspiciously close to appreciation.

Which made no sense.

Knox King didn’t defend me. He sabotaged me. Right?

I didn’t know anymore.

But I did know one thing:

Suite 6 was going to be hell.

And maybe… just maybe… I wasn’t ready for what that meant.