the View

The phantom heat of a large palm remained.

It cupped the space between hip and thigh.

Slow.

Heavy.

A possessive rhythm of velvet and smoke.

A honeyed burn pulsed against her flesh.

Deep bassline in the dark.

Then, the metallic blare of the alarm.

The melody fractured.

Sienna bolted upright.

Breath caught in a dry throat.

Thirsty.

Twisted sheets bound her thighs, damp with sweat.

The ache was localised. Heavy.

It made her chest physically hurt.

She reached blindly to the left side of the mattress.

Searching for a counterweight to the sudden emptiness in her ribcage.

Cold linen.

Space. Empty.

He wasn’t there.

7:00 AM.

The digital clock bled red into the room.

“Shit.”

She pressed the heels of her hands deep into her eyes.

Pushing the amber-tinted images back down.

Down into the dark corners of the subconscious.

An hour late.

The auditors from the regional office were already hovering in the Sydney CBD.

Checking gold watches.

Tapping polished shoes.

Flipping compliance files.

Her team could handle them.

She had spent years building a staff that didn’t crumble.

But as regional finance manager, the final sign-off belonged to her.

She liked control.

She needed it.

The only thing keeping the chaos from creeping in.

Down the hall, a heavy door slammed.

The muffled thud of a school bag hitting the floorboards.

The twins.

Sienna dragged herself out of bed.

Bypassed the mirror entirely.

No need to see the tired shadows under her eyes.

For seven years, mornings were military efficiency.

Performed by rote.

Cold shower. Work uniform. Hair pulled loosely back into a clip.

Done before the kids could ask for their sports gear.

There was no time for the lingering heat of a dream.

Especially one this visceral.

This close.

Seven years to the day.

The day the universe ripped Matteo away.

Leaving her to anchor a sinking ship.

She closed her eyes.

Let the memory of her late husband wash over her.

Trying to use his gentle ghost to scrub away the taste of the dream.

Standing under the freezing spray, she tried to wash the phantom touch from her skin.

But water couldn’t rinse away the geometry of it.

The weight pressing into her back hadn’t been Matteo.

Matteo was slender.

His touch was familiar, soft, like an old acoustic song memorised in their twenties.

The man in her head this morning was broader.

Solid.

A heavy bassline of a man from a lifetime ago.

A shadow from a past she had no business resurrecting.

It felt like university.

Reckless. Loud.

Entirely too big for the quiet, guarded life she lived now.

7:45 AM.

The rolling suitcase crossed the threshold of the main hallway.

Joe sat at the kitchen island, a mug of coffee warming his hands.

“You look like hell, Sie,” he said, eyes glued to his phone. “Flight leaves in what, two hours?”

“An hour and a half.”

She zipped the carry-on with a sharp snap.

“The twins know the rules. No parties. Clean kitchen, or I cut the data plans.”

Joe offered a lazy, two-finger salute.

“Go get your corporate retreat, sis. Let the auditors break someone else’s spirit.”

Sienna didn’t answer.

Her fingers instinctively found the small gold hoop in her right earlobe.

The melted-down remains of her wedding band.

She twisted the metal until it pinched.

Until the sharp pain grounded her.

The transition from Sydney to Surfers Paradise was a sudden drop in barometric pressure.

Chilly, high-stress hustle replaced by heavy, salt-laden air.

The taxi dropped her at the Altitude Solis.

The sun dropped below the horizon.

Bruised purple and amber bled across the glass facade of the tower.

The lobby smelled of artificial jasmine and expensive, cold stone.

“I am so incredibly sorry, Ms Vance.”

The receptionist’s voice dropped into the low register reserved for corporate disasters.

“A glitch with the system migration. Your executive room was flagged as a double-booking.”

Sienna leaned against the marble counter.

Travel settled directly into her lower back.

“Meaning I don’t have a room.”

“Meaning we have upgraded you to the penthouse level,” she corrected quickly, flashing a synthetic smile. “A dual-occupancy suite. Security doors divide it into Suite A and Suite B. Completely private. Soundproofed.”

“As long as there’s a bed and a lock.”

Sienna slid her corporate credit card across the stone.

The lift ride to the top floor was silent.

A slow ascent matching the steady thrum of her thoughts.

The doors slid open.

A wide, minimalist foyer lined with dark timber panels.

Suite B was on the left, its lock dark and sleeping.

She turned right.

Swiped her card against Suite A.

Pushed into her sanctuary.

The heavy timber door clicked shut.

The hum of the hallway died.

She kicked off her leather slip-ons.

Bare heels sank into a rug thick as a cloud.

Cool floor tiles caught the golden afternoon sun.

The space was stunning.

Clean stone. Black accents. Deep, plush textures.

But her eyes went straight to the floor-to-ceiling glass.

Ahead, the world opened up.

The Pacific Ocean rolled out under the sky like a vast sheet of crinkled, glittering blue silk.

She let go of her luggage handle.

The bags hit the floor with a soft thud.

The heavy weight of Sydney finally slipped from her shoulders.

Her hands went to her collar.

Unclenching the stiff fabric of her corporate armour.

She peeled off the tailored blazer, tossing it over a black accent chair.

The humid coastal breeze from the vents hit the damp skin of her neck.

She sighed.

She tore through the neatly packed rows of workwear in her suitcase.

Fingers found faded, soft denim.

Stiff linen trousers came off.

The immediate, broken-in comfort of her favourite denim shorts took their place.

She stood up, adjusting the loose white linen shirt.

She tugged it down.

The fabric draped low and easy off her right shoulder.

She caught her reflection in the glass.

Fabric grazing bare collarbone.

Catching the warm, sun-kissed light of the Gold Coast.

For the first time all day, her skin could breathe.

She unpacked quickly.

Neat. Orderly.

She didn’t want to think about the audit.

Or the twins.

Or the anniversary weighing heavy on her chest.

She needed food. A drink.

Something to drown the phantom memories of the morning.

One margarita downstairs.

Then she would come back up, lock the world out, and sleep.

The restaurant was built out over the sand.

A 360-degree glass perimeter made the tables feel suspended above the tide.

Overhead, a slow neo-soul track played.

The heavy, syncopated bassline vibrated directly in her chest.

She chose a small, secluded table in the far corner.

Tucked away from the chatter of early conference delegates.

The chair opposite her was empty.

A table built for four.

Three vast expanses of polished timber.

Less like furniture.

More like an accusation.

Thirty-eight.

The voice whispered from the dark, quiet corner of her mind.

The place where she kept her worst impulses locked up.

Two years from forty, Sienna.

The voice whispered from the dark, quiet corner of her mind.

The place where she kept her worst impulses locked up.

Sitting alone in a room full of couples.

She shut the thought down. Hard.

She pressed the condensation-chilled glass of the margarita against her cheek.

Cooling the sudden flush on her skin.

Romance wasn’t a blank space she was looking to fill.

It was a mountain of administrative effort.

It meant letting another human being into a house she had spent seven years learning to navigate alone after Matteo.

She took a slow, sharp sip.

Let the lime burn away the uninvited thoughts.

She was doing okay.

The good days finally outnumbered the bad.

But appetite isn’t something you can reason with.

Seven years of self-imposed exile hadn’t done a damn thing to quiet the physical ache.

The kind exercise couldn’t touch.

Then, the air around the table changed.

The salt-heavy breeze from the sliding glass doors was suddenly cut.

By something thick. Warm. Terrifyingly familiar.

It hit the back of her throat first.

Rich cedarwood. Sharp and clean.

Grounded by the heavy, sweet resin of raw sandalwood and expensive tobacco.

Her heart didn’t just skip.

It detonated against her ribs.

Every muscle in her neck locked.

This scent didn’t belong in a public resort.

An intimate smell.

A bedroom smell.

The exact fragrance trapped beneath her sheets at 7:00 AM.

A large shadow fell over the linen tablecloth.

Without asking, without a word to the hostess, a man pulled out the chair at the table immediately to her right.

He was massive.

Up close, the deep navy linen of his unbuttoned suit jacket spanned her entire field of vision.

The crisp, expensive fabric strained against the heavy breadth of his shoulders as he sat.

He carried that relaxed, coastal luxury effortlessly.

But there was a raw weight to him.

It made the air feel instantly thicker.

He didn’t look at her.

He didn’t look at the menu.

He leaned forward.

Propped his elbows on the dark timber.

Brought a large, heavy hand up to press the heels of his fingers into his temples.

A gesture of pure, bone-deep exhaustion.

Like stilled water, Sienna hung motionless, betrayed only by the slight tremor of her breath.

Her glass was suspended just two inches above the table.

From this angle, she could only see the sharp line of his profile.

A lethal, clean-cut jawline.

Darkened by a thick, well-groomed beard peppered with silver.

Middle-aged. Solid.

Entirely unaware that the woman three feet away was currently forgetting how to inhale.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket.

Stared blindly at the dark screen.

Just to give her eyes a place to land.

It didn’t work.

Her skin prickled.

Alive and buzzing with a terrifying, magnetic attraction to a man whose face she hadn’t even fully seen yet.

Subtle, Sienna. Real subtle.

She was completely out of practice.

The slow, steady burn of seven years of peace was disintegrating.

Melting away under the sheer heat of his presence.

She didn’t know his business.

She didn’t know his history.

She didn’t know why, out of forty vacant tables in this massive room, he had chosen the exact one next to hers.

The silence between their tables stretched.

Thick. Heavy.

Vibrating like a low guitar note.

The man exhaled.

A long, rough sound that roughhoused the quiet air between them.

He let his hands drop from his face.

Broad palms rested flat against the dark wood of his table.

He still wasn’t looking at her.

But his head tilted slightly.

His profile caught the amber glow of the restaurant’s low lighting.

The scent of him wrapped around her like a physical hand.

Dragging her back to the exact velvet shadows of the dream that had broken her open at dawn.

A heavy shudder ran down her spine.

Pooling straight into that deep, familiar ache.

Her hands trembled slightly as she stared down at her phone.

Trying to slow her racing pulse.

Trying to force oxygen back into her lungs.

Trying to pretend she was just another corporate delegate enjoying a quiet drink by the ocean.

But her body knew better.

Every cell stood at attention.

Recognising the weight of his shadow before her mind could even process the impossible truth.

The fragile, beautiful peace of her structured life was about to explode.