Château d'Été, France - 4:32 PM

The late afternoon sun bathed the grand façade of the country club in honeyed light, its limestone walls gleaming against the lush green of the countryside. A faint breeze carried the scent of lavender and fresh-cut grass, blending with the distant melody of a string quartet playing by the terrace. It was the kind of place meant for slow decadence, whispered scandals over wine, and indulgence disguised as leisure.

Sinclair adjusted the cuffs of his linen shirt as he stepped through the grand doors, his gaze sweeping over the marble lobby with quiet approval. He carried himself like a man who belonged here-effortlessly elegant, devastatingly composed. Richard was a few steps ahead, chatting idly with the concierge, while Natalie fussed with her sunglasses, already complaining about the humidity.

You stood beside Sinclair, your fingers brushing against the cool brass of the check-in counter, close enough that your perfume-jasmine and vanilla, something rich and sweet-curled around him like a ghost of a touch. You felt his eyes on you before you turned to meet them. A fleeting glance, restrained yet charged, his lips barely curving into something resembling amusement.

Richard turned then, oblivious, handing out room keys. "We've got the suites on the top floor-best view of the grounds. Figured we'd go for a swim before dinner. It's been a long drive."

Natalie looped her arm through Sinclair's, sighing dramatically. "A swim sounds perfect. The pool here is supposed to be divine."

Sinclair hummed in agreement, but his gaze flickered to you, lingering a second too long. A swim, yes. An easy excuse for sun-warmed skin, for stolen moments beneath the water, for the silent game you two played, just out of sight.

As the concierge led the way toward the suites, you felt Sinclair's fingers ghost against the small of your back-so light it could have been imagined. But you knew better.

This was how it always started.