CATHERINE’S POV
The reception room on the upper level of the facility had been designed to resemble one of the resort’s more private lounges, the kind wealthy visitors expected to find in exclusive retreats scattered across the Maldives.
Tall windows overlooked the ocean past the cliffs. At this hour, the glass reflected only the interior lights and the darkening sky.
The room smelled faintly of polished wood and sea air drifting in from the vents, a carefully constructed illusion of normalcy that masked what lay beneath the island.
Marcus Draven stood near the window when I entered.
He did not turn immediately. His broad shoulders remained squared toward the ocean, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his reflection faintly visible in the glass.
Even in his stillness, an undercurrent of barely restrained energy radiated from him—a volatile mix of impatience and command.
Only when the door closed behind me did he speak.
“You took your time.”
