By 8:00 PM, the island had transformed. The humid air carried the scent of night-blooming jasmine and salt.
Nyx had retreated to her villa, leaving Linghe with a single instruction: "Dinner at nine. My terrace. Dress for a finale."
Linghe stood before the mirror in his own quarters. He chose a black silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to be provocative, mirroring the "chaos" she had accused him of earlier. He felt a strange, addictive rush. In the film industry, he was the sun—everyone revolved around him. But with Nyx, he felt like a planet being pulled into a black hole—beautiful, terrifying, and impossible to escape.
He walked to her villa, his footsteps silent on the timber path. When he reached her terrace, he stopped.
Nyx was sitting at a glass table, the moonlight reflecting off her sharp, elegant features. She wasn't wearing the designer gowns from before. She was in a simple, oversized white linen shirt—his shirt. Or at least, an exact replica of the one he had worn during the filming of his most famous heartbreak scene.
She was nursing a glass of wine, her eyes fixed on a small, leather-bound notebook.
"You're late by forty seconds, Linghe," she said, not looking up. "I expected better discipline from a man who lives by a production schedule."