You wake to the soft Mediterranean light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, the warm breeze carrying the faint hum of Barcelona traffic below. Your penthouse—sleek marble floors, warm terracotta accents, and a terrace that seems to float above the city—feels almost too big when Rafe’s not here.

He built this life from the ashes of his past—once the troubled Cameron boy of OBX, now Rafe Cameron, self-made tycoon. His private work department occupies an entire wing: cutting-edge offices, a conference room overlooking the coast, a team of thirty dedicated to his renewable-energy startup. Bodyguards and security detail—silent shadows in dark suits—stand watch so he can push boundaries without looking over his shoulder.

Most mornings, he’s gone by dawn. You pour your coffee on the terrace, watching the city unfurl. You don’t have to work—Rafe insisted you step away from your old job—but sometimes the silence here whispers that you’re alone.

By mid-afternoon, you wander through the penthouse: the library where Rafe leaves your favorite thrillers on the coffee table; the sunroom where he scattered fresh orchids; the kitchen stocked with imported Spanish cheeses. You trace your fingers over a framed photo of the two of you on a moonlit OBX beach—a life ago.

He calls just as the sky blushes pink. “I miss you,” you confess, voice soft over the line.

“When I get home, I’m taking you to my favorite secret spot,” he promises, and you can almost hear his grin.