The Aegos sun is a physical weight, pressing the scent of salt and hot concrete into Thalia’s skin. She stands on the pier with a single scuffed suitcase, the only passenger to disembark from the morning ferry. The silence of the harbor is absolute, broken only by the rhythmic slap of water against the limestone quay. Behind her, the ferry’s engines churn, a retreating rumble that marks the end of her life in Athens. She is twenty-nine, three months into a secret she cannot keep, and this island is her only cage.
She reaches into her linen pocket, her fingers brushing a small silver lighter. The metal is cool despite the heat, engraved with the sharp initials A.S.—a relic from a storm-soaked night in Piraeus she should have forgotten. A caretaker’s post is a small price for invisibility. If she can stay small, stay quiet, the billionaire who fathered her child will never find her here among the goats and the ruins.
A low, guttural thrum begins to vibrate through the soles of her sandals. It isn't the rhythm of a supply boat or a local fisherman’s skiff. A sleek black hull cuts through the turquoise mouth of the bay, white foam curling at its bow like a warning.
The yacht slowing its engines carries the gold Stavrakis crest and is heading straight for her.
