The island of Skopelos was a world made of blue and white. Here, there were no black SUVs, no silencers, and no gold bars—at least none that anyone could see.
Isabella, now known to the locals as Sarah, sat on the wooden porch of their small white cottage. She was wearing a loose linen dress that flowed around her ankles. She was eight months pregnant, and she felt heavy and warm, like a loaf of bread baking in the Mediterranean sun.
She looked out at the olive grove. Jaxson—now Mark—was working. He wasn't stealing jewels or fighting Syndicate hitmen. He was pruning the trees. He was wearing tattered denim shorts and a straw hat, his tanned back glistening with a light sweat. He looked peaceful. The hard, jagged edges of his personality had been smoothed out by the sea air.
"Mark!" she called out, rubbing her stomach. "The baby is kicking again. I think he's going to be a soccer player."
Jaxson dropped his shears and walked toward her. He moved with the same grace he had at the docks, but there was no tension in his shoulders anymore. He climbed the porch steps and knelt beside her chair. He pressed his ear to her stomach, his large hand resting gently on the curve of her bump.
"He's got a strong kick," Jaxson whispered. "Just like his mother."
He looked up at her, and for a moment, Isabella saw the ghost of the man who had burst into her life in Oakhaven. But then he smiled, and the ghost was gone. "I caught some fresh sea bass for dinner. I'm going to grill it with lemon and oregano from the garden."
"You're spoiling me," Isabella said, running her fingers through his messy hair.
"I'm making up for lost time," he replied.
That night, after the sun had dipped below the Aegean Sea, leaving the sky a deep, velvety indigo, they sat on the porch. The only sound was the cicadas and the distant lap of the waves.
Jaxson stood up and reached for her hand. "Come inside, Sarah. It's getting chilly."
Inside, the cottage was lit by candles. Jaxson had made sure the bedroom was perfect. He had replaced the old mattress with a thick, soft one, and the sheets were the finest Egyptian cotton they could find in Athens.
He helped her out of her linen dress, his hands moving with a reverence that made Isabella feel like a queen. Even though her body had changed with the pregnancy, Jaxson looked at her with more desire than he ever had at the villa.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever stolen."
"You didn't steal me, Jaxson," she whispered back, using his real name just this once in the dark. "I gave myself to you."
They moved to the bed, and the encounter was slow, tender, and deeply physical. It was a scene of pure, unfiltered love, written with the same directness as their first night in the cabin, but with a new layer of soul-deep connection.
The next morning, Isabella woke up to the smell of fresh coffee. She looked at the silver ring on her finger. It was tarnished a bit from the salt air, but it was her most prized possession.
She walked into the kitchen. Jaxson was standing at the counter, looking at a newspaper. He looked up when she entered and quickly folded the paper, but not before Isabella saw the headline.
"SYNDICATE WAR ENDS IN OAKHAVEN: VANESSA THORNE MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD."
Isabella didn't feel scared. She didn't feel the need to run. She walked over to Jaxson and hugged him from behind, pressing her face against his warm back.
"Is it finally over?" she asked.
Jaxson turned around and took her in his arms. He looked out the window at the blue horizon, where the sea met the sky and everything was infinite.
"It's been over since the day I met you, Bella," he said. "We're just the authors of the rest of the book now."
He kissed her, a long, lingering kiss that tasted of coffee and the future. Outside, the Greek sun rose higher, shining down on the olive grove, the white cottage, and the two people who had found heaven by walking through hell.