Chapter 1: Dust on the Lens

The desert stretched out like a taunt, endless and unyielding, a sea of gold that swallowed the horizon whole. Zara Kade squinted through the windshield of the rattling Jeep, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. The GPS had given up twenty miles back, its smug little voice replaced by a static hum that matched the buzz in her skull. She'd been driving for hours—too many hours—since the last gas station, a crumbling outpost where a sunburned clerk had pointed her toward this godforsaken nowhere with a grin that said good luck, city girl. Now, the sun hung low, a molten disc bleeding orange into the dunes, and she was starting to think she'd been sent on a wild goose chase.

"Voss Desert Resort," she muttered, glancing at the crumpled printout on the passenger seat. "Luxury in the middle of nothing. Right." The assignment from Wanderlust Magazine had sounded glamorous on paper: capture the allure of an exclusive retreat carved out of the wilderness, a place so remote it didn't even show up on most maps. But glamour didn't account for the sweat trickling down her spine or the grit that had somehow worked its way into her boots despite the sealed windows. She'd packed her camera bag, her skepticism, and a lingering bitterness that clung like dust to every thought. This was supposed to be her reset—her chance to prove she could still shoot something worth a damn after the mess with Ethan.

Ethan. The name slithered into her mind uninvited, sharp as a cactus spine. She tightened her grip on the wheel, her knuckles whitening. Six months since she'd walked in on him with that intern—six months since she'd thrown his ring back in his face and sworn off anything that smelled like trust. She didn't need a man, didn't need anyone. Just her Nikon, a paycheck, and a story to tell. This job was her lifeline, and she'd be damned if she let a little sand and solitude unravel her.

A shimmer caught her eye ahead—a mirage, maybe, or the heat playing tricks. But no, there it was: a low, sprawling silhouette rising from the dunes like a fever dream. The resort. It looked almost alien against the barren landscape, its sleek lines and glass walls glinting in the dying light. Palms swayed around it, improbably green, and a ribbon of water snaked through the grounds—an oasis, real or man-made, she couldn't tell yet. Relief washed over her, tinged with a grudging awe. Okay, maybe the clerk hadn't been full of it.

She pulled up to a wrought-iron gate, its intricate swirls half-buried in drifting sand. A keypad blinked at her from a post, and she fished the access code from the printout—7-3-9-1—punching it in with more force than necessary. The gate creaked open, slow and dramatic, like it knew it was the only thing standing between her and a cold shower. She eased the Jeep through, tires crunching over gravel, and followed a winding path toward the main building. Up close, the resort was even more striking: a fusion of modern angles and desert hues, all sandstone and steel, with wide windows that reflected the fiery sky. It was beautiful, she'd give it that—beautiful in a way that made her itch to frame it through her lens.

Parking near the entrance, Zara killed the engine and sat for a moment, letting the silence settle. The heat pressed in, thick and heavy, even with the sun dipping low. She grabbed her camera bag from the back seat, slung it over her shoulder, and stepped out, boots sinking slightly into the sand-dusted pavement. A faint breeze tugged at her dark hair, pulling strands loose from the messy bun she'd thrown together somewhere around mile marker 82. She swiped at her forehead, grimacing at the film of sweat and dust, and made for the glass doors ahead.

They slid open with a soft hiss, spilling cool air over her like a benediction. The lobby was a cavern of luxury: polished stone floors, a chandelier dripping crystals that caught the light like stars, and a long reception desk carved from some dark, gleaming wood. Potted cacti lined the walls, their spines softened by the plush rugs beneath them. It smelled faintly of citrus and something earthy, like rain on dry ground—a scent that didn't belong in a desert but somehow fit. Zara's boots echoed as she crossed the space, her eyes darting over every detail. She'd expected ostentatious, maybe even tacky, but this was… restrained. Tasteful. It annoyed her, how much she liked it.

No one stood at the desk. She dropped her bag onto the counter with a thud, peering around for a bell or a sign of life. "Hello?" Her voice bounced off the walls, sharp and impatient. Nothing. She tapped her fingers on the wood, then leaned over to peek behind the desk—empty. Great. Stranded in paradise with no one to check her in. She was about to call out again when a shadow moved in her peripheral vision.

"Lost already?" The voice was low, smooth, with a hint of gravel that made her spine straighten. She turned, and there he was—leaning against a doorway she hadn't noticed, arms crossed over a broad chest. He was tall, easily over six feet, with a build that suggested he could handle himself in more than just a boardroom. Dark hair fell in a careless wave over his forehead, and his eyes—hazel, maybe, or green, it was hard to tell in the light—fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. A faint stubble shadowed his jaw, and his lips quirked up at one corner, not quite a smile but close enough to make her pulse kick.

Zara bristled, caught off guard. "Not lost," she said, lifting her chin. "Just wondering if this place comes with staff or if I'm supposed to fend for myself."

His almost-smile widened, and he pushed off the wall, strolling toward her with a lazy confidence that set her teeth on edge. He wore a linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and faded jeans that hugged his thighs just enough to draw her eye before she snapped it back to his face. "You're early," he said, stopping a few feet away. "Check-in's not till six."

She glanced at her watch—5:47. "Close enough. I've been driving all day to get here, so forgive me if I'm not in the mood to wait." Her tone was sharper than she'd meant, but she didn't soften it. He didn't look like a desk clerk, anyway—too self-assured, too… something. Owner, maybe? The briefing had mentioned a Rylan Voss, the man behind this whole operation.

He studied her for a beat, those eyes taking her in—dusty boots, wrinkled tank top, the camera bag slung over her shoulder. She felt exposed, like he was cataloging every flaw, and it made her want to snap at him again. Instead, he nodded toward her bag. "Photographer?"

"Zara Kade," she said, offering her name like a challenge. "Wanderlust Magazine. I'm here to shoot your little hideaway."

"Little, huh?" He arched a brow, and there it was again—that half-smile, teasing now. "Guess you'll have to see for yourself if it measures up." He stepped behind the desk, pulling a tablet from a drawer and tapping at the screen. "Zara Kade… got you right here. Suite 12, top floor. Best view in the house."

She didn't thank him. Didn't trust the way his voice wrapped around her name, warm and deliberate. "Great. Key?"

He slid a sleek card across the counter, his fingers brushing the edge of hers as she reached for it. The contact was brief, accidental, but it sent a jolt up her arm—small, electric, and entirely unwelcome. She snatched the card back, ignoring the way his gaze lingered on her hand. "Elevator's that way," he said, nodding to her left. "Need help with your bags?"

"I've got it." She hefted her camera bag higher, then grabbed the duffel she'd left in the Jeep earlier, which she'd dragged in behind her. No way was she letting this guy—Rylan Voss or not—play bellhop. She'd carried her own weight long before she'd landed in this desert, and she wasn't about to start leaning now.

"Suit yourself." He watched her go, and she could feel his eyes on her back as she crossed the lobby, her boots clicking against the stone. The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside, jabbing the button for the top floor. As the doors closed, she caught one last glimpse of him—still standing there, arms crossed, that damn smirk tugging at his lips.

The ride up was quiet, save for the hum of the machinery and the thud of her own heartbeat. She leaned against the wall, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Rylan Voss. If that was him—and she'd bet money it was—he was trouble. Not the loud, obvious kind she'd learned to spot with Ethan, but the quiet, creeping kind that slipped under your skin before you knew it was there. She'd seen it in his eyes, in the way he'd looked at her like he already knew something she didn't.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened onto a hallway lined with soft lights and abstract art—swirls of red and gold that echoed the desert outside. Suite 12 was at the end, its door a slab of dark wood with a slot for her keycard. She swiped it, stepped inside, and stopped short.

The room was a revelation. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall, framing a view that stole the breath she'd just regained: dunes rolling into the distance, the last threads of sunset painting them in hues of amber and violet. A king-sized bed sat against the opposite wall, draped in crisp white linens that begged to be touched. There was a desk, a plush armchair, a minibar gleaming with glass bottles—and beyond a sliding door, a bathroom with a tub big enough for two, its tiles shimmering like mother-of-pearl. It was too much, too perfect, and it made her want to hate it on principle.

She dropped her bags by the bed and crossed to the window, pressing her palms against the cool glass. The desert stared back, vast and indifferent, and for a moment, she let herself feel small against it. This place was supposed to be her escape—a job, not a reckoning. But already, it felt like more. Like the sand had shifted beneath her feet, and she hadn't even started shooting yet.

Her reflection caught her eye in the glass—tangled hair, flushed cheeks, a smudge of dirt on her jaw. She looked like hell, and she didn't care. Or she hadn't, until Rylan Voss had sized her up with that lazy, knowing look. She turned away, digging her phone from her pocket to text her editor: Made it. Place is unreal. Shooting starts tomorrow. No point in mentioning the man downstairs. Not yet.

The minibar called, and she grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with a crack. The first sip was cold, sharp, a lifeline after the dry heat of the drive. She sank onto the bed, kicking off her boots, and let her head tip back against the headboard. Tomorrow, she'd work. Tomorrow, she'd frame this place in her lens and make it hers—sand, glass, and all. But tonight, she just needed to breathe.

And maybe, just maybe, not think about the way Rylan Voss's voice had felt like a brush of heat against her skin.