You didn’t want to come.
You told yourself that over and over again the second your cab pulled up to SFO. Told yourself again as you clutched your passport in a death grip at the terminal. Repeated it like a prayer when you landed on sun-drenched Santorini soil, jet-lagged, disoriented, and already annoyed.
You didn’t want to be here.
Not for the luxury, not for the view, and definitely not for your brother Kingston’s dream wedding on a cliffside resort that looked like it was carved out of the gods' personal Pinterest board.
But he asked. He called. He sounded... different.
Older. Softer. Hopeful.
So, yeah. You came.
You regretted it the second you saw the man in a pressed white shirt holding a sign that read:
REYES.
You sighed so hard your soul left your body.
Of course Kingston has a driver.
Three hours later.
You were standing in the middle of the Vedema Resort—five stars of pure intimidation. Every inch of it whispered money, exclusivity, and a level of elegance that made your mid-range suitcase feel like a crime.
You almost tripped over a marble step while dragging your bag through what could only be described as a maze of whitewashed villas and bougainvillea. A concierge had to point you in the right direction, gently, like you were lost. (Which you were.)
When you finally got to your suite—yes, suite, because your brother doesn’t do anything halfway—you sank onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Was it beautiful? Absolutely. Was it you? Not in the slightest.
You kicked off your sneakers and lay there, suitcase half-open, one sandal hanging off your foot. You stared at the ceiling fan spinning above you and muttered, “What the hell am I doing here?”
Flashback: Nine years ago.
You remember the fight like it was yesterday. The venom in your words. The cold finality in his.
“You’re choosing your future over your family.”
“Exactly.”
Kingston had already accepted the job. Private Wealth Manager to the ultra-rich. In another country. Out of reach. Out of your life.
You hadn’t really spoken since.
And Asher?
God, Asher.
You still remember the night before Kingston left. The way Asher lingered after dinner. The half-laughs that turned into confessions. The almost-kiss under the porch light. The way you felt your heart beating in your throat.
You were right there, and you felt him about to leap with you.
And then—
Nothing.
No goodbye. No text. No call.
You waited. Heart cracking. Eyes glued to your phone. Convinced something had to have happened. Because he wouldn’t just leave.
Right?
What you didn’t know back then was this:
“If you care about my sister,” Kingston had told him, jaw tight and voice low, “leave her out of this. Don’t make it harder for her.”
And Asher—stupid, loyal Asher—listened.
He chose Kingston over you. He chose silence over honesty. He left you wondering.
And the worst part? He thought he was doing the right thing.
Now.
Your brother’s getting married. You're in Greece. He’s paid for your flight, your room, probably even the damn lavender-scented hand soap in your marble bathroom.
And you feel like a ghost in a place built for royalty.
You close your eyes and try to breathe. One week. You can survive one week. Then it’s back to your life—your little apartment on the edge of San Francisco, your job as a paralegal chasing justice you can barely afford for yourself.
Back to your boundaries. Your distance.
But there’s a part of you, buried beneath nine years of silence, that still simmers when you think of him.
Asher.
The boy who almost kissed you. The man who left without a word. The ghost who’s apparently here too.
Because of course he is.