Arielle Westwood didn't believe in fairy tales—she bought out the companies that sold them.
CEO of Westwood Luxe, her empire glittered across continents, but inside her Manhattan penthouse, she existed in silence. Power was her oxygen; control, her religion. Every morning started with tailored routines, calculated deals, and conversations clipped at the edges.
Arielle Westwood didn't believe in fairy tales.
She acquired the companies that peddled them, turned them profitable, and left sentimentality in the boardroom shredder. Dreams were for consumers. Reality—for women like her—was made of spreadsheets, leveraged assets, and marble conference rooms with skyline views.
As CEO of Westwood Luxe, Arielle's empire stretched across continents, but her world was clean, cold, and measured. Inside her Manhattan penthouse—forty-seven floors above the chaos of the city—she existed in a curated silence. Every inch of her space was designed for excellence: minimalist, luxurious, and utterly untouched.
Just like her.
Her mornings began at 4:45 a.m., like clockwork. Cold press juice. A 90-minute session with her personal trainer. Digital briefings read during a ten-minute blowout. Then into her uniform: a couture sheath dress, heels sharpened like weapons, and accessories worth more than some people's annual salaries. Power suited her like second skin, but control?
Control was her oxygen.
The only anomaly in her day came at 6:58 a.m., just as she sipped her matcha.
Halcyon Bay Site Visit – 9:30 a.m.
She blinked. The line on her digital calendar pulsed innocently, nestled between a sustainability fund report and a quarterly investor call. It was Carmen's doing, no doubt. Her chief of operations was annoyingly insistent on "personal investments that made Westwood Luxe look human."
Arielle narrowed her eyes. Halcyon Bay. Some charming coastal town she barely remembered signing off on. A wellness resort. Low-key, eco-conscious, off-brand for her—but Carmen had marked it as a "legacy initiative." The term made Arielle bristle. Legacy was just code for emotional spending.
She almost deleted the appointment.
But something—gut or ghost—made her hesitate. Her finger hovered over the screen, heart ticking slightly faster for reasons she couldn't name.
Maybe she was tired. Maybe the city's perfection had started to feel too sterile. Maybe… maybe she needed to breathe something besides penthouse-filtered air.
Or maybe, a voice whispered, she was running from something she refused to name.
With a sigh, she snapped the tablet shut. "Reschedule the earnings call," she instructed her assistant over voice command. "And call the hangar. We're wheels up in thirty."
She didn't allow herself to think twice. Thinking led to remembering.
And remembering always led to Nina.
The jet sliced through blue skies like it belonged there, Arielle seated stiffly in cream leather. She didn't look out the window—she was never one for scenery. Instead, she reviewed property summaries, sustainability metrics, and a disturbingly cheerful pitch deck Noah Quinn had compiled for the Halcyon project.
His name stood out. He wasn't the typical corporate consultant or portfolio manager. His résumé was oddly blank past 2017. Architecture degree. A few eco-awards. Then...nothing. Like he'd ghosted the industry.
She should've questioned that more. But Carmen had vouched for him. "He gets it," she'd said. "And he doesn't care who you are."
Arielle had smirked at that. Everyone cared who she was.
She leaned back, closing her eyes for a breath, but rest didn't come easily. Not since Nina's death. The case file was still sealed in her desk drawer—polished words disguising the ache beneath. "Unresolved." "No foul play." "Tragic accident."
It wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
She adjusted the bracelet on her wrist—Nina's bracelet—and inhaled sharply. Weakness had no place in her world. She'd built Westwood Luxe from ashes. She could survive anything.
Even a detour to a sleepy town with too much sun and too many feelings.
By the time her stilettos touched the gravel at Halcyon Bay, Arielle's armor was fully intact.
The town was insufferably charming. Coastal winds carried the scent of salt and citrus. Wooden signs advertised hand-poured candles and locally roasted beans. She could already hear Carmen's voice calling it "soulful."
Arielle found it inefficient.
She stepped out of the black SUV with practiced elegance, heels sinking annoyingly into the gravel. She stifled a curse. A man stood waiting just past the parking area, hands in the pockets of worn jeans, sleeves rolled up to muscular forearms dusted with earth.
Noah Quinn.
He looked like he belonged to the land—sun-bronzed skin, faint stubble, hair tousled in that annoyingly perfect way men with too much freedom had. There was an ease about him that grated.
And then he smiled.
Arielle's spine went stiff.
"Coffee?" he asked, holding out a travel mug.
She hesitated.
"I guessed bold," he added. "You looked like someone who'd hate anything mild."
She took it, lips barely twitching. "Accurate."
He didn't look impressed or nervous. He didn't do the usual mental scramble people did in her presence. His eyes met hers—steady, unbothered, warm.
She hated how warm.
"I'm Noah," he said, guiding her toward a path. "Let me show you around."
She followed, annoyed that her gaze drifted to the way he walked—comfortable in his skin in a way she'd never been allowed to be. The cliffs unfolded ahead, wild and magnificent, and beyond them, the sea glittered like someone had spilled diamonds across its surface.
As he spoke—explaining how the gardens would blend into the native ecosystem, how the rooms would use passive cooling and recycled timber—she realized she wasn't really listening to the words. She was listening to the cadence of his voice. Steady. Grounding. Like waves against rock.
He pointed out an orchard being cleared for meditation pavilions. "When the wind moves through here, it sounds like music. Thought we'd let that stay."
"No ROI on a breeze," she murmured.
He grinned. "Not everything is about returns."
She arched a brow. "That's because you've never sat through a shareholder audit."
He laughed. It wasn't polite or forced—it was real.
Arielle didn't laugh back. But something in her cracked open, just a fraction.
By the time the tour ended, and he offered her a bottle of water and a seat on a reclaimed wood bench, she realized something dangerous.
She'd forgotten to check her phone.
She hadn't thought about revenue streams or quarterly projections in almost two hours.
And when Noah turned to her, his gaze brushing over her face like sunlight, she felt something she hadn't in years.
Unmoored.
Not CEO. Not Westwood Luxe.
Just...Arielle.
And it terrified her.