The plane touches down in Palm Springs at 11:47 AM.
First class is quieter than I expected. The seats are wide, leather, spaced far enough apart that I can pretend I'm alone. Damon sits across the aisle, a window seat, his laptop open, his jaw set. He hasn't spoken to me since we boarded. Not a word about the itinerary, not a demand for coffee, not even a cold dismissal.
Just silence.
I should be relieved. Instead, the quiet hum of the engines and the occasional ping of the seatbelt sign feel heavier than his voice. I steal a glance at him. He's wearing a cream linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the watch catching the light. No suit jacket today. He looks almost human in the desert-bound light.
Almost.
I look away before he catches me.
---
The air outside the airport hits like a wall. Dry. Hot. The kind of heat that bakes the breath out of you. I follow Damon to the waiting car—black, sleek, with a driver who holds the door open without a word. The drive to the resort is twenty minutes of tense silence. Damon scrolls through his phone. I watch the landscape shift from strip malls to palm trees to the first glimpse of mountains, red and gold, rising against a sky so blue it hurts.
Then we turn onto a private road, and the resort appears.
It's breathtaking.
Low-slung, mid-century modern, all glass and angles and turquoise water that reflects the mountains. The main building is white, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a roofline that seems to float. Palm trees line the driveway. The pool shimmers like a mirage. I press my face to the window like a child.
"It's beautiful," I breathe.
Damon doesn't look up from his phone. "Try not to be so childish, Ms. Santos. It's a hotel. You've seen one, you've seen them all."
My jaw tightens. I pull back from the window and say nothing.
Inside, the lobby is cool and smells of citrus and something floral. A woman in a resort uniform hands us key cards. Damon takes his without a word. I take mine and follow him down a hallway lined with abstract art and indirect lighting.
Our suites are next to each other. His door is two steps from mine.
Of course, I think. Of course I'll have to see him every time I step out.
I slip into my suite and close the door behind me.
---
The room is stunning. A king bed with white linens, a sitting area with a leather couch, and a wall of glass that opens onto a private patio. Beyond it, the desert stretches to the mountains, the sky endless, the sun painting everything in gold.
For a moment, I just stand there. The silence is different here—not the cold, oppressive silence of the office, but something wider, emptier. The kind of quiet that lets you breathe.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and close my eyes.
Relief, I realize. That's what I feel. Not because I'm away from Damon—he's twenty feet away, behind a wall I can almost feel through—but because for the first time in days, no one is demanding anything from me. No summons. No files. No cold voice saying you're late.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it from my bag. A text from Leo: Made it to the desert alive?
I almost smile. I type back: Barely. It's hot.
His reply comes fast: Hotter than the 37th floor?
I laugh once, quiet, alone in the room. Different kind of hot.
You okay? he asks.
I stare at the message for a long time. Am I okay? I'm in a luxury resort in Palm Springs. I'm getting paid more than I've ever made. My brother's bills are covered for another month. And I'm exhausted in a way that sleep can't fix.
I'm fine, I type. Talk later.
I set the phone down and walk to the window. The mountains don't answer. They just sit there, ancient and indifferent, the way I'm learning to be.
I step into the bathroom to freshen up before Pippa arrives. The lighting is warm, forgiving, but it still catches everything. I lean toward the mirror, studying my face.
The dark circles under my eyes are deeper than they were this morning. My cheekbones stand out too sharply. I look like a woman who hasn't slept properly in weeks, who exists on coffee and dread and the occasional kindness of a stranger with a granola bar.
But beneath the exhaustion, I see what others see. Full lips, still holding a trace of color. Eyes too large for my face, dark and soft, the kind of eyes that have been called soulful by people who don't know the weight behind them. Skin the color of warm honey, unbroken despite everything.
Beautiful, my mother's voice whispers in my memory. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise.
I press my palms against the cool marble counter and breathe. Beauty doesn't matter in Damon Blackwood's world. Beauty doesn't make the work go faster. But right now, looking at my own reflection, I remind myself that I am still here. Still standing. Still whole.
I touch up the concealer, smooth my hair, and walk out.
---
Pippa Sterling arrives at 3:00 PM.
I'm in the lobby, reviewing the dinner seating chart, when she walks through the front doors like she owns the place. Blonde hair in perfect waves. Oversized sunglasses pushed up into her hair. A white linen jumpsuit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She's beautiful in that polished, deliberate way that makes you feel invisible standing next to her.
"Maya!" She spots me immediately, crossing the lobby in three quick strides, arms already open. "Darling, you must be exhausted. How was the flight? Was Damon awful? Don't answer that."
She doesn't wait for an answer. She pulls me into a hug—quick, aggressive, perfumed—and then releases me just as fast, already turning to scan the lobby.
"Where is he? I need to go over the branding deck before dinner. Is he in his suite? Should I knock? I hate knocking. It's so passive."
"He's in his suite," I say, keeping my voice level. "I can let him know you're here—"
"No, no, I'll surprise him." She winks at me. "He loves surprises."
I doubt that very much. But I say nothing. I just watch her walk down the hallway toward the suites, her sandals clicking against the stone floor, and I feel something settle in my chest. Something heavy.
Three months, I remind myself. You just have to survive three months.
---
An hour before dinner, Pippa finds me in the hallway outside my suite. She's holding a garment bag and a tote overflowing with papers.
"Maya, perfect. I need you to steam this dress for tonight. The resort's steamer is useless, so you'll have to do it by hand. And I need my presentation slides printed—double-sided, color, bound. The front desk said they can't do it until morning, so you'll have to find somewhere off-site."
She hands me the garment bag without waiting for a response. The tote follows, heavy with folders.
"Oh, and can you bring me a matcha latte? The café down the street makes a good one. I'd go myself, but I have calls." She flashes a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Thanks, darling. You're a lifesaver."
Then she's gone, clicking down the hallway, not looking back.
I stand there holding her clothes and her papers, my jaw tight. A matcha latte. Off-site printing. Steaming a dress by hand. I have my own work to do—the seating chart, the client notes, the itinerary for tomorrow.
Internal seething, I think. That's what this is.
But I don't say a word. I carry the garment bag into my suite, hang it in the bathroom, and start searching my phone for a print shop that's still open.
---
The dinner is held in the resort's private dining room—a glass-walled space overlooking the pool and the mountains beyond. Fifteen clients, all in expensive resort wear, all laughing too loud and drinking cocktails that cost more than my weekly grocery budget.
Damon sits at the head of the table, commanding without trying. He's changed into a dark navy shirt, the top button undone, his presence somehow filling the room even when he's silent. I sit near the end, a notebook in front of me, a pen in my hand. My role is clear: take notes, participate when spoken to, be invisible otherwise.
Pippa has other ideas.
She's seated to Damon's right, and she's already leaning into him, her hand on his forearm, her laugh carrying across the table. "Damon, you simply must let me handle the social media campaign for this property. The demographic is screaming for a fresh voice. Young, aspirational, a little edgy. Think Architectural Digest meets Instagram's most beautiful hotels."
She squeezes his arm. He doesn't move. Doesn't react. But I see the muscle in his jaw tighten.
I look down at my notebook and write: Pippa – social media pitch.
The clients love her. She's flirtatious, charming, the kind of person who makes everyone feel like they're the center of attention. She moves around the table during dinner, touching shoulders, refilling wine glasses, laughing at jokes that aren't funny. By the time the main course arrives, she's promised three different clients "exclusive behind-the-scenes access" and "a campaign that will make your competitors weep."
I eat my salmon in silence and take notes.
Halfway through dinner, Pippa stands up and walks behind Damon's chair. She places both hands on his shoulders and leans down to whisper something in his ear. Her fingers graze his biceps. She lingers there, too long, too close, her body angled toward him like she belongs there.
Disgusting, I think. My pen scratches against the paper. Absolutely disgusting.
But my face doesn't change. I keep my eyes on my notebook, my breathing even, my expression neutral. I have bills to pay. I have a brother who needs me. I don't get the luxury of reacting to every woman who throws herself at my boss.
When I look up again, Pippa is back in her seat. Damon's eyes meet mine for half a second—cold, unreadable—and then he looks away.
---
After dinner, the clients drift toward the bar. Damon disappears toward his suite. Pippa follows him, calling out something about "just one more thing," and I'm left alone in the dining room, gathering my notebook, my pen, the scattered remnants of the evening.
I step outside onto the patio. The desert night has transformed the landscape. The mountains are dark silhouettes against a sky littered with stars—more stars than I've ever seen, scattered like salt across black velvet. The air is cooler now, almost comfortable. The pool glows turquoise in the darkness.
And then I see him.
Damon is on the balcony of his suite, two doors down from mine. He's taken off the navy shirt. He's wearing only a thin white undershirt, so light that it catches the moonlight and becomes almost translucent. The fabric clings to his shoulders, his chest, the defined lines of his arms. His silhouette is stark against the glass doors behind him.
I stop breathing.
For a moment, I just look. Not because I want to. Because I can't help it. Because the desert sky and the turquoise water and the man standing there in the half-darkness feel like something out of a painting I shouldn't be allowed to see.
Then he turns. Looks directly at me.
I freeze.
He doesn't wave. Doesn't smile. Doesn't acknowledge me at all except for that one look—cold, distant, evaluating. Then he steps back into his suite and closes the door.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
---
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall. The air conditioning hums. The sheets are cool and white. Everything is beautiful and I have never felt more alone.
My phone buzzes.
Leo: You never said if you were okay. Just checking.
I look at the message for a long time. Then I type: I'm exhausted. Long day. But I'm okay. Really.
He replies: Okay, get some sleep. Text me tomorrow.
I set the phone down. I walk to the sliding glass door and step onto my own balcony.
The desert sky is infinite. The stars don't care about Damon Blackwood or his cold eyes or the way his shoulders looked in that thin white shirt. The stars don't care about Pippa's hands on his arm or the bills I can't escape or the brother I'm trying to save.
They just burn. Quiet. Distant. Unbothered.
I lean against the railing and let the silence hold me.
"I'm looking for an exit
But I'm lost inside my head
I'm sitting here just staring at the wall again."
The lyrics drift through my mind, soft and tired. I close my eyes.
Defiant, I tell myself. You're defiant. You're going to survive this.
But underneath it, deeper than I want to admit, there's something else. Resignation. Exhaustion. The quiet understanding that tomorrow will be the same as today, and the day after that, and the day after that.
Three months.
I open my eyes and look at the stars one more time.
Then I go inside, close the curtains, and lie down in the dark.