WRITER'S POV:
Cassius had a meeting.Of course he did. Mysterious men in sharp suits didn't spend entire days watching sea turtles and emotionally avoiding flight attendants. Eventually, even brooding billionaires had to go do... whatever it was mafia executives did. Probably argue about import routes and bulletproof glass thickness."Stay here," he said that morning, already dressed in what Ivy now considered his natural camouflage: all black, perfectly tailored, and morally ambiguous."What am I, a plant?"He didn't even look at her. "Don't open the door for anyone. Don't touch the safe. Don't leave.""Great. I'll just rot in the TV room like a slightly cute skeleton."He paused. "There's room service.""How generous."And then he left. Like she was some mildly interesting puzzle he'd come back to later.---The suite felt quieter without him. Somehow larger. Ivy padded barefoot to the TV area, wrapped herself in the complimentary robe like a small eccentric heiress, and ordered something absurdly overpriced just to feel alive.Then, finally, she did what she hadn't done in weeks: she called Marcie.Her roommate in Georgia picked up instantly, looking like she hadn't slept. Her hair was piled in a messy bun, and her expression went from panic to shriek in 0.3 seconds."Oh my GOD. Ivy?! I thought you died! Were you kidnapped?! Are you in a container ship?!""Hi," Ivy said, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. "I'm alive. Ish."Marcie blinked. "What do you mean 'ish'?""I can't say much. But, um... remember that guy I mentioned? The private jet passenger? Kind of cold and dangerous and maybe very illegal?""Cassius?""Yup.""Tell me everything immediately."---Ivy launched into a half-rant, half-therapy session.She paced the room with her phone in one hand, hairbrush in the other, recounting the towel incident, the shared suite, and Cassius's relentless ability to make her nervous by existing.Marcie gasped. She laughed. She cursed in three languages."He smirked at you?" Marcie screeched. "Ivy, that's mafia foreplay.""Marcie, stop.""I refuse. I'm thriving. This is like Gossip Girl if everyone had knives."Ivy brushed her hair while staring in the mirror. She looked... tired. But not bad. Not broken. Just stuck in a plot she absolutely did not audition for."He's not nice," Ivy said quietly. "Like... he's not even pretending. He's not trying to be charming. It's like he doesn't know how.""And you're into that.""No!" Ivy pointed her brush at the screen. "Maybe. It's complicated. He's complicated."She wandered to the minibar, touched a tiny bottle of something expensive, and then put it back like it might bite."He scares me a little," she admitted. "But also... I feel safer when he's there. Which makes no sense."Marcie narrowed her eyes. "So you're telling me the most dangerous man you've ever met is also the only one who makes you feel safe.""You're judging.""I'm romanticizing. There's a difference."Ivy laughed, a real one this time."Just... keep texting me, okay? If I disappear again, assume I've been eaten by corporate mob sharks.""Girl, if you disappear, I'm showing up with glitter, garlic, and a subpoena."---They ended the call after an hour of Marcie demanding Ivy get her hair done, get laid, or get out—preferably in that order.And Ivy, sitting cross-legged again on the massive sofa with hotel snacks and a growing existential spiral, realized something:She wasn't scared of Cassius.She was scared of what she felt around him.And that was worse.