Chapter 20: Ink and Anchor

The desert morning dawned sharp and clear, the sun slicing through the blinds of Rylan's quarters, casting stripes across the bed where Zara lay tangled with him. She woke to his warmth, his arm slung over her hip, his breath steady against her shoulder. Last night's intimacy—slow, deep, soul-baring—lingered in her bones, a quiet certainty that hadn't faded with the light. She shifted, tracing the lines of his face—relaxed in sleep, softer than she'd ever seen—and felt a pang of something fierce, something she hadn't let herself name yet.

He stirred, eyes fluttering open, green and gold catching the sun, and grinned, lazy and warm. "Morning," he murmured, pulling her closer, his lips brushing her forehead.

"Morning," she echoed, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thud beneath. "Sleep okay?"

"Like a rock," he said, his voice rough with sleep, and kissed her—soft, lingering, a gentle echo of last night. She melted into it, the world shrinking to him, but a faint unease gnawed at her—Ethan's shadow, still lurking after yesterday's clash.

They dressed slow, stealing touches—his hand on her back, her fingers brushing his arm—and headed to the lobby, the resort humming with its usual rhythm. Guests milled, staff bustled, and Zara grabbed a coffee from the bar, Rylan beside her, his presence a steady anchor. She was halfway through the mug when a guest waved a tablet at them, voice sharp with excitement.

"Voss, you seen this?" the man called—a wiry guy, mid-forties, glasses perched on his nose. "Article dropped this morning—your place is all over it."

Rylan frowned, crossing to him, and Zara followed, her gut twisting. The screen glowed with a headline: Desert Mirage: The Rise and Fall of a Dreamer's Retreat. Ethan's byline glared beneath it, and her coffee turned sour in her throat. Rylan took the tablet, scrolling, his jaw tightening with every line, and she leaned in, reading over his shoulder.

The piece was slick, biting—praising the resort's sleek design, its oasis charm, then cutting deeper. A phoenix built on ashes, Ethan wrote, Rylan Voss's second act after a failed airstrip venture crumbled under sand and scandal. Sources whisper of mismanagement, lost love, a man running from his past. It twisted Grayson's tale, painted Rylan as a dreamer too broken to rise, and ended with a jab: A luxury facade hiding a hollow core—beautiful, but brittle.

"Son of a bitch," Rylan muttered, handing the tablet back, his voice low, furious. The guest shrugged, oblivious, and wandered off, but the damage hung heavy, guests murmuring, eyes flicking their way.

Zara set her mug down, anger flaring hot. "He's a liar," she said, stepping closer, her hand on his arm. "This is bullshit—twisted half-truths."

"Yeah," Rylan said, but his eyes were distant, his fist clenching. "Doesn't mean it won't stick."

She followed him to his office, the Staff Only door slamming shut, and he paced, tension radiating off him like heat off the dunes. "He's got no proof," she said, leaning against the desk, watching him. "Grayson's bitterness, some old rumors—none of it's real."

"Doesn't have to be," he shot back, stopping, rubbing his face. "People read this, they see cracks—bookings drop, reputation tanks. I've seen it before, after Jenna. One hit, and it's over."

"It's not over," she said, fierce, crossing to him, grabbing his shirt to make him look at her. "You built this—fought for it. Ethan doesn't get to tear it down because he's pissed I moved on."

His eyes softened, just a flicker, and he caught her hands, holding them against his chest. "Moved on, huh?" he said, voice quieter, a tease breaking through the storm.

"Yeah," she said, firm, meeting his gaze. "With you. He's nothing—ink and spite. We're stronger than this."

He exhaled, slow, and pulled her into him, his arms wrapping tight, his chin resting on her head. "You're too good at this," he murmured, and she smirked against his shirt, feeling the shift—the anger easing, their bond holding.

They spent the day in damage control—Rylan with staff, calming nerves, Zara with guests, spinning the article as fiction, her photos a counterpoint of truth. By dusk, the buzz had dulled, the resort still standing, and they retreated to his quarters, the weight of it clinging like sand.

He sank onto the bed, tugging her down beside him, and she curled into his side, her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat. "You okay?" she asked, tracing his jaw, the stubble rough under her fingers.

"Getting there," he said, his hand sliding to her hip, warm and steady. "Thanks to you."

"Don't thank me," she said, tilting up to kiss him—soft, slow, a balm after the day's sting. "Just… stay."

"Always," he murmured, kissing her back, and they stayed like that, fully clothed, the heat banked but present, simmering beneath the quiet. His fingers traced her spine, her hand rested on his heart, and the silence wrapped them, a shield against the world outside.

"Ethan's wrong," she said after a while, voice low, half-asleep. "This isn't hollow. It's real."

"Yeah," he agreed, his lips brushing her hair, and she felt it—the anchor, the trust, the thing they'd built through fire and sand. The article was a shadow, but they were light, and she clung to it, letting the night take the rest.