Florida!!! (feat. Florence and the Machine)—T.S. Grayson was in desperate need of a vacation. Desperate, in the way a man might be if he’d been holding his breath for years without noticing, and only now realized his lungs were burning. Unsurprisingly, Avery agreed with him. She’d cleared him from Foundation duties for two weeks and told Oren to prepare one of the jets. Destination: Florida. He hadn’t asked for Miami. He hadn’t asked for Key West. He hadn’t even specified why. That was the thing about Grayson Hawthorne—he could look you in the eye, murmur a single word, and you’d sign off without asking questions. And yet, even he wasn’t entirely sure what he expected from the Sunshine State. What might a man like Grayson Hawthorne do there? That was the forty-six-point-two billion dollar question. The truth was, he’d been feeling restless in a way money couldn’t solve. His mind was a labyrinth lately—dead ends, sharp corners, unlit hallways. He needed… not peace, exactly, but distraction. Heat and noise and something lawless in the air. Something to drown him for a while. ⸻ You were tired. Really, really tired. Tired of playing heiress. Tired of forcing plastic smiles in rooms full of men who thought they could smell weakness. Tired of people who only saw the crown and not the girl beneath it. So, you’d approached your assistant that morning with a simple proposition: get you to Florida by midnight, and there’d be a $1,000,000 bonus check in their account by the end of the week.Simple, right? Wrong.

The correct term was sneak you to Florida—quietly, without the board knowing, without your publicist finding out, without a single whisper making it back to the vultures in the press. It had only been a month since you’d taken over Whitmore Estates, and you were drowning. Your parents had retired to some Caribbean island whose name you hadn’t bothered to remember, living their best lives while you took on their empire’s weight. And then there was the breakup. Your ex-boyfriend—charming, ambitious, and, apparently, opportunistic—had been more than happy to spend your money, drink your champagne, and enjoy the perks of your last name. But when the work came, the endless hours and sleepless nights and constant crisis management, he’d vanished. Tough luck, really. So now, you were running. Maybe, over the course of the next week, you could reinvent yourself. Or at least, step into some other version of you. One who could breathe without feeling like the air was laced with expectations. Relax, maybe. You nearly scoffed at the thought. Relaxation wasn’t exactly something you’d mastered. And lately, love had left you in pieces so sharp you could cut yourself on them if you weren’t careful. You weren’t entirely sure you were sold on the whole existing thing, either, so— Fuck me up, Florida. ⸻ It was past midnight when you finally walked into the bar. Neon lights buzzed against peeling brick. The air smelled like rum, sea salt, and bad decisions. Music throbbed low and dirty, the kind that made you think of sweat-soaked strangers pressed too close together. You made a beeline for the counter, sliding onto a cracked leather stool, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs. The bartender gave you a look—half curiosity, half recognition—and poured something strong without asking. You downed the first sip, the burn chasing its way down your throat, and felt the smallest flicker of something dangerous start to wake up inside you. That’s when you saw him. Tall, broad-shouldered, leaning casually against the far end of the bar like he belonged there and nowhere at all. A drink in one hand, his eyes scanning the room with that cool detachment only someone born into power could manage. When his gaze met yours, it was electric—sharp and startling, like stepping into the sun after weeks of rain. Grayson Hawthorne. And just like that, Florida got a little more complicated.