Best Damn Investment
“What’s the point of power if I can’t misuse it for the woman who owns me?”
— Rhys
The gate clicked shut behind us with a quiet finality, the sound swallowed by the early morning hush and the faint gull cry echoing off the bay. Auckland’s salt-stung air lingered soft on our skin, cool against the heat still clinging to our bodies, and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like the entire world had stopped to watch us leave.
She was barefoot. Fierce. Wrecked in the best way. Still wearing my shirt, stretched loose across her shoulders and falling just long enough to toy with my patience, black leggings clinging to the legs I’d had wrapped around me not even an hour ago. Her hand was in mine, warm and small and stubbornly tight, and she walked beside me like she belonged there. Like she always had. Like nothing could touch us now, not grief, not memory, not the ghosts we’d buried in our bed before sunrise.
And I swear to God, the world could’ve burned down behind us and I wouldn’t have turned around. Not with her looking at me like that. Not when every step forward felt like the start of something we’d earned in blood and fire and sleepless nights.
“Tell me what the Maldives are like?” she asked softly.
Her voice—still hoarse from crying, from kissing, from screaming my name until it became something holy—slipped between us like a whispered spell. Not casual. Not curious. Hopeful. Like she didn’t believe it until she could hear it in my voice.
I looked down at her. At the way her mouth curved just slightly, like she didn’t know whether she was allowed to smile yet. At the way the morning light kissed the bruise I’d left beneath her jaw. At the way her eyes searched my face like it held the promise of something safer than any map could chart. I tightened my fingers around hers, suitcases trailing behind me with my other hand, wheels humming soft against the stone path. And I smiled.
Not the smile I used in boardrooms. Not the one the press wrote sonnets about. The real one. The one I hadn’t found since we lost them.
“The Maldives,” I said, voice low and rough and filled to the brim with things I couldn’t give her here—not yet, “are like waking up inside a dream you never want to leave.”
She tilted her head slightly, listening. Drinking it in like she needed it to live.
“The water’s so clear it looks like glass. You stand in it and you can see all the way to the bottom—even when it’s deep enough to swallow you whole. It’s like stepping through the world into something better. Something quiet.” I squeezed her hand. “The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask questions.”
She didn’t say anything, but her thumb stroked slow over mine. One, two, three times. Like she was learning the rhythm of peace again. Like she didn’t quite believe it could be real.
“The sand’s white and soft,” I went on, my voice gentling even more as we rounded the corner of the hedge-lined path, the SUV finally in sight. “So fine it feels like silk under your feet. Clings to you. Gets in everything. Like even the earth doesn’t want to let you go.”
Her eyes flicked to mine then, mouth twitching at the corner. “Sounds clingy.”
I laughed—low and rough and easy. “Jealous?”
She shrugged. “Depends. Does the earth bring me cocktails?”
I tugged her a little closer, a grin cutting across my face like dawn breaking open.
“Only the best. Fresh mango, coconut, and enough rum to make you forget how many orgasms you’ve had.”
She choked on a laugh, biting her lip. “Rhys.”
“What?” I smirked. “I’m painting a picture.”
“You’re corrupting a postcard.”
“Details, kitten.”
We turned onto the final stretch of driveway, Jude’s black SUV gleaming under the rising sun, the windows tinted and smug. And there he was, the poor bastard, half slumped over the horn with the air of a man already regretting his job and most of his life choices.
He saw us and hit it again—long, annoyed, pointed.
I didn’t flinch. Just leaned down and kissed her hair, slow and reverent.
“And the sunsets,” I murmured, still painting her the world she deserved, “turn the whole fucking sky into fire. Gold and scarlet and blood-red orange. So beautiful you can feel it burn into your bones. And at night—” I brushed my lips along her temple. “At night, the stars feel close enough to touch.”
I kissed her again. Couldn’t help it. The crown of her head. The soft line of her hair. Every place my mouth landed felt like a vow. Like a promise made real through skin.
“It’s the kind of place,” I whispered, “where the world forgets you. Where it’s just you. And the sea. And the sky.”
We stopped beside the SUV. I opened her door like I always would, like no matter how powerful she became, she’d always be my sacred. My love. My war.
“And what language do they speak there?” she asked, tilting her head toward me as Rumour climbed contentedly into her lap and settled like a smug little velvet throne-warmer.
I smirked, hauling the suitcases into the back of the SUV one-handed, never letting my eyes stay off her longer than absolutely necessary. The trunk shut with a solid thunk. I brushed my palms off against my pants, my body already turning instinctively toward her before I even finished exhaling. I slid into the seat beside her, close enough for my knee to brush hers, then let myself lean in the rest of the way—like gravity meant nothing next to her.
“The Maldives speak Dhivehi,” I said, voice low, letting the syllables hum in the space between us like a secret. “It’s their native tongue.”
She blinked, surprised—curious—and something tugged at her mouth. That not-quite-smile she gave when she was trying not to show how enchanted she was by things.
“But,” I added, dropping my voice further as I leaned in, just until my breath kissed the shell of her ear, “they also speak English at the resorts.”
I let my lips brush her ear—barely contact, just enough to make her shiver—then pulled back with a grin as colour rose deliciously up her throat.
“So you’ll still understand me,” I teased, dragging my knuckles lightly over her knee.
From the front seat, Jude cleared his throat with the subtlety of a man choking on his own suffering, and Elara—stoic behind her mirrored aviators—barely suppressed a smirk.
“Don’t worry, kitten,” I murmured, mouth brushing the bone there, “the only language we’ll need is the one we already speak.”
She arched a brow, suspicious.
“And I’m guessing you know how to speak some Dhivehi,” she said, not a question—more like a challenge.
I chuckled, low and rough, my chest rumbling against her side as Jude pulled away from the curb and our house disappeared behind us like a dream finally willing to let go.
“I know enough,” I said. Not bragging. Just fact. My fingers tightened around hers.
She looked up at me—half teasing, half dare—and I grinned, letting the feral edge slip into my smile as I leaned close again, my shoulder brushing hers, mouth right against her ear.
“Enough to order you a cocktail,” I whispered, letting the syllables curl soft against her skin. “Enough to book us a private sunset boat ride. Enough to tell the staff not to disturb us when I plan on keeping you in bed until you forget how to walk.”
She let out a soft, strangled laugh, ducking her face into my shoulder like she could hide from the way her body was already reacting. And I wrapped my arm around her tighter, tucking her into my side like I could lock the whole world out just by holding her close enough.
“And enough,” I murmured, gentler now, brushing my nose along her temple, “to tell you I love you in a thousand different ways.”
“I don’t think Dhivehi’s going to be your downfall,” she said, smiling against my chest. “Shame. I was hoping I’d finally found a language you weren’t fluent in.”
“I could learn it,” I murmured into her hair. “Just to make sure you have no safe language left to hide behind.”
The SUV rounded a long bend, and then the private airstrip came into view—white tarmac gleaming in the rising morning light. And there it was.
The jet. Clean, sleek, and pointed straight at the future like it belonged to no one but us.
She shifted beside me, eyes locking on the plane like it might still vanish if she stared too hard. That same look she always gave the beautiful parts of her life—as if someone might come and take them away.
I smirked, pressed a kiss to her temple, and dropped my voice so low only she could hear.
“I own it.”
She turned sharply toward me, brows lifting, eyes wide.
I grinned, wicked and unrepentant.
“Well—technically,” I said, voice dipping into mock-seriousness, “it’s under a shell company. Asset depreciation, international tax shielding, discretionary operational leasing... very boring.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “You are unbelievable.”
“You didn’t ask for believable,” I murmured, lacing our fingers again. “You asked for freedom.”
And this? This was the first page of it. Our luggage. Our jet. Our chaos. Our future.
And her—my barefoot goddess in leggings and my shirt, dog in her lap, fire in her soul—finally looking at it all like she just might believe she deserved it.
I leaned in one last time before the car rolled to a stop and the doors unlocked.
“Next question,” I murmured. “Or do you want me to start describing the spa tub in our villa?”
She shot me a glare. One I planned to undo the second we hit altitude.
“Later,” she said. But her voice cracked around the edges, already betraying her.
God, I loved her. And this was just the beginning.
Jude stepped out first, already sweeping the tarmac. One hand on his comms, eyes sharp, scanning for a threat that didn’t exist but would always haunt us anyway. Because the world had already tried to take her from me once. And I’d never let it get that close again.
Elara followed behind him, Rumour cradled under one arm like a barking luxury item smuggled through customs with smug defiance. The little Pom had no idea how many laws she broke by existing with that much attitude and fluff. Jasmine laughed quietly, and fuck, just like that, the weight of the air shifted. The runway, the sky, the silence—all of it breathed easier.
I stepped out of the SUV, the heat of the tarmac curling up through my shoes, and reached back without hesitation. My hand found her waist, and I lifted her down like she belonged nowhere else but in my arms. Because she did. Because she let me. Because distance—any distance—was no longer survivable.
Her fingers slid into mine the second her feet touched the ground, soft and sure, and I tucked her into my side like I was designed for it. Possessive. Protective. Proud. The kind of pride that didn’t fit in headlines or net worth—no, this was deeper. This was island wind already wrapping around us, already kissing her skin. This was tasting salt on her lips before we even reached the ocean. She looked up at the jet, then turned that blue-eyed grin on me. Wicked. Knowing. A spark of mischief that never stopped lighting fires under my skin.
“Business expense?” she asked, teasing.
My smirk tugged lazy and lethal as I kissed her temple, dragging in the scent of her hair like it was the only oxygen I trusted.
“Best damn investment I ever made.”
She snorted, that little huff of a laugh that always betrayed her amusement.
“Does the boss know you’re using company assets for leisure?”
I hummed low, mouth tracing a slow line along her hairline like the truth was something I wanted her to feel more than hear.
“Considering the boss is currently carrying his wife to a private island so he can corrupt her with sun, sand, and cocktails that may or may not be legal... I think he’ll let it slide.”
Her laugh broke free—bright, alive, that sound I’d crawl through hell for. No quarterly report had ever made my chest feel like this. No empire I’d built ever came close.
“And besides,” I murmured, ducking lower, voice pitched to make her shiver, “what’s the point of power if I can’t misuse it for the woman who owns me?”
We reached the bottom of the stairs, and I stopped her with a hand at her waist, turning her just enough to trap her attention. No escape. No deflection. Just the truth between us, raw and unpolished.
“Everything I built,” I said, brushing my thumb along her jaw, tracing the flutter of her pulse like it was a love song written in flesh. “Everything I have—it’s yours now. My company. My name. My soul. My only real job now, mon amour... is loving you.”
She stepped back, running her hand down my arm until her fingers threaded back through mine—then tugged.
“Come on, Mr CEO, you’ve already delayed us enough.”
And then she ran. God help me, she fucking ran—barefoot, hair a mess, still in my shirt like it was designer couture, the hem fluttering obscenely high as she took the stairs two at a time. Her suitcase forgotten. Her dignity questionable. Her hold on me? Absolute.
I let out a low, breathless laugh. Destroyed and devoted. My body still throbbed from her—every nerve ending tuned to her rhythm, every muscle aching for more. I chased her up the stairs like a man who knew exactly what he was running toward.
The door hissed shut behind me. That sound? That was the past slamming shut. Finally. Fucking. Closed.
