118
The next morning came draped in golden light and a hush that settled over everything, as if the world itself held its breath. Yalda rose earlier than she expected to, the faint rustle of curtains and the scent of strong coffee drifting in from the suite’s private kitchen.
She stretched, her limbs pleasantly heavy from a night spent in Ioannis’s arms, and for a moment she allowed herself to linger there, in the warmth, in the quiet, in the newness of being with him.
He appeared minutes later, coffee mug in hand, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled. He looked effortlessly regal even now, as if he hadn’t just woken but existed in a state of constant calm and control. “We’ll be leaving soon,” he said, voice low, his accent thickened slightly by sleep. “It's time we head to the villa.”
She simply nodded.
The car ride was silent for the most part, but not uncomfortable. She sat beside him in the backseat, her head lightly resting against the window as trees blurred by.
The scenery changed gradually, lush hills, olive groves, winding roads framed by towering cypress trees, and eventually, high stone walls peeking out behind iron gates. It wasn’t until the driver turned onto a private road that she realized they were almost there.
“We're almost there?” she asked, her voice soft.
“Indeed.” Ioannis replied. “I don’t come often, but it’s been waiting patiently."
She smiled.
When they arrived, she was awed.
The estate stood proudly on a hilltop, framed by wild roses and quiet grandeur. It wasn’t ostentatious, but it didn’t need to be. The villa was made of grey stone, its exterior worn smooth by time and softened by ivy climbing up its facade.
Tall arched windows caught the morning sun. Statues stood along the perimeter of the garden like silent guardians in marble. A fountain carved with the likeness of two dolphins stood in the center of the courtyard, water spilling from their mouths in steady arcs into a wide basin lined with lilies.
The grounds were beautifully kept, neatly trimmed hedges, lavender bushes swaying in the breeze, gravel paths winding between olive trees and benches tucked beneath arches. It looked like a castle from a fairytale, except more intimate, as though someone had built it not to impress, but to feel safe.
Yalda stepped out slowly, eyes wide.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, unable to stop herself.
Ioannis said nothing for a moment. He just watched her take it in, his expression unreadable. Then he murmured, “Come inside.”
The inside was even more surprising.
Where she had expected cold stone and sparse, impersonal furnishings, she found warmth. Honeyed light pooled on the floors, filtered through high, arched windows dressed in gauzy white curtains.
Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, polished but aged. The floors were warm wood under her sandals, and the air smelled faintly of orange blossoms and something richer, cedar, perhaps.
The furniture was simple but elegant: leather sofas, carved armchairs, linen cushions, brass lamps, bookshelves stuffed with titles in Greek, English, French. A small fire crackled in the hearth, though it wasn’t cold enough to need it. Everything felt... lived-in, but not by someone specific.
"It's...." She trailed off not knowing how to put it.
"Tall and strong on the outside, but cozy on the inside?" He supplied.
She chuckled but nodded. Indeed, it definitely was.
She wandered deeper into the villa, down a quiet hallway with framed paintings of old ships and sprawling coasts. Everything was tasteful, masculine, restrained. But there was something missing. Something absent.
No shoes by the door. No jewelry boxes left open on counters. No stray scarf tossed over a chair.
No sign of Maria. It was like she had never lived here at all.
The question burned on her tongue, and she tried to swallow it back. But curiosity had always been her flaw. And in this house that echoed with silence, the absence spoke louder than words.
“Did she live here?” Yalda asked finally, her voice barely audible. “Maria?”
Ioannis turned from where he’d been adjusting a painting frame. His back stiffened for the briefest moment. Then he nodded.
“She did. For about two years.”
Yalda’s brows furrowed. “It doesn’t look like it.”
“That’s because she never really settled in,” he said. “She never felt at home here. She said the place was too quiet, too heavy with history. She was a city girl. She liked lights, noise, people. Here, she always seemed like she was waiting for someone to take her back.”
Yalda walked into the next room, a study, lined with more bookshelves and an old globe in the corner. She ran her hand along a wooden desk. Clean. Too clean. “So she left nothing behind?”
“She made sure of it.” His voice came from behind her, closer now. “When she left, it was as if she was never here.”
There was no bitterness in his tone, just a calm acceptance that made the melancholy even sharper.
Yalda turned to face him. “That’s... sad.”
“It was lonely,” he agreed. "She was lonely here."
Silence stretched between them again, heavier this time. She could feel it settle on her skin.
Yalda dropped onto the edge of the old leather couch, folding her hands in her lap. She didn’t know why it made her ache, the idea of someone living here for years and yet never belonging, of these walls holding someone prisoner. It made the air in the villa feel a little heavier.
She looked up at him. “Why did you bring me here?”
Ioannis came to sit beside her, close but not touching. “Because it’s a part of me. And because... I think you could leave something behind here.”
Her heart fluttered. “Like what?”
“A presence. A feeling.” He paused. “A future.”
He reached for her hand, and this time she let him take it fully, their fingers threading together like they'd always belonged that way.
“I want you here, Yalda. Not just for a weekend or a visit. I want you in my life. And in this place.” His eyes locked on hers, unwavering. “Be my girlfriend.”
Yalda stilled. Of all the things she thought he might say, that one sent her spinning. There had been no grand preamble, no buildup, and yet it was perhaps the most vulnerable thing she’d heard from him.
Her throat felt dry. “You’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”
She searched his face; stern, elegant, yet open in this moment. And she realized she had nothing to fear. He wasn’t asking her to become Maria. He wasn’t trying to fill an old hole with something new. He was offering her space, space to be, to leave fingerprints, to exist fully as herself.
A slow smile curved her lips, small and sure.
“Yes,” she whispered.
And that was enough.
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