The email subject line glowed like forbidden fruit on Hannah’s meticulously organized screen: "The Last Resort – Unlimited Love, Unlimited Healing."

She leaned back in her executive throne, Italian leather, because of course, and crossed her legs, the slit in her pencil skirt revealing a suggestive sliver of thigh. At 46, Hannah was a woman who had mastered the art of being unfairly attractive. High cheekbones, a collarbone that could cut glass, and the kind of hips that made younger men stutter when she walked into a room. Success clung to her like expensive perfume, and she wore it with the effortless grace of a woman who always got what she wanted.

Except for one thing.

Her son.

Andrew—her beautiful, stubborn, impossible boy—hadn’t called her "Mom" without sarcasm in three years. Their fights were legendary: CEO versus college kid, ice queen versus firebrand. The last screaming match had ended with him slamming the door so hard a framed photo of them at his high school graduation actually fell off the wall. (She’d kept it facedown on her desk ever since.)

But then... this. The Last Resort.

The website was slick, seductive. "Strained marriage? Warring siblings? Estranged son who looks at you like you’re a corporate dragon hoarding emotional gold?" (Okay, that last part wasn’t verbatim, but Hannah felt seen.) "We guarantee reconciliation."

A place where the ultra-rich went to fix what money couldn’t buy.

Hannah’s finger hovered over the "Book Now" button. A suite for two. Seven days in the Caribbean. All-access passes to whatever psychological sorcery they practiced behind closed doors.

She smirked. Perfect.

Andrew would hate it.

Andrew slouched in the chair across from his mother’s desk, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His hoodie, fraying at the cuffs, was a direct violation of her office dress code, if he cared, which he didn’t. He flicked his gaze around the room—the glass walls, the stupid modern art, the framed Forbes cover of Hannah smirking like she invented success.

Hannah sat perfectly composed, legs crossed, one stiletto dangling just slightly, her blazer revealing the barest hint of cleavage, hypnotic, if you were anyone but her son.

She slid an envelope across the desk. "Here."

Andrew stared at it. "What is it?"

"A trip."

He scoffed. "What, is this your way of bribing me to visit more?"

Her lips thinned. "It’s a reservation. Private jet. Seven nights in the Caribbean. Don’t pretend you’d say no to that."

Andrew flipped open the envelope, luxury resort brochure, plane tickets in his name. His brow furrowed. "I have finals soon."

Hannah waved a hand. "Rescheduled. I spoke to your dean."

His jaw tightened. "Jesus—"

"Pack light," she said smoothly, ignoring him. "The weather’s perfect this time of year."

He squinted at the brochure. The Last Resort – Where Paradise Meets Renewal. Photos of beaches, spa treatments, palm trees.

Andrew exhaled sharply. "Fine. Whatever. Thanks, I guess."

Hannah sipped her whiskey, watching him. "You’re welcome."

The lobby of The Last Resort was all marble floors and vaulted ceilings, the air thick with the scent of hibiscus and money. Andrew dragged his duffel bag across the tile, still sun-drunk from the flight, still pissed about whatever weird guilt trip his mother was pulling now.

"Name?" the concierge asked, smiling like she’d never met a problem a green juice couldn’t fix.

"Andrew. Rhodes."

Her manicured fingers flew across the keyboard. Then paused. "Ah! You're with Mrs. Rhodes!"

Andrew blinked. "Uh. No."

A cool voice sliced through the air behind him. "Yes. He is."

He turned, and there she was.

Hannah stood under the crystal chandelier like it was her personal spotlight. Designer summer dress clinging to every untouchable curve, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. The queen in the fucking flesh.

Andrew’s stomach dropped. "What the hell?"

She didn’t flinch. "You didn’t think I’d just send you alone, did you?"

"Yeah! Actually, I did!" His voice bounced off the marble. A few guests glanced over. Hannah’s smile stayed frozen, diplomatic, but her nails were digging into her clutch.

Andrew shoved the brochure at her. "This some kind of sick vacation hostage situation?"

Hannah inhaled, sharp, controlled. "It’s a retreat. For families."

"Oh my God—"

"For broken ones." The words slipped out.

Andrew froze.

Hannah’s perfectly painted lips parted, like she was as surprised as he was. And then, just for a second, one terrifying, electric second, her armor cracked.

She looked at him. Not as the CEO. Not as the woman who rearranged his life with a phone call. Just as... his mother.

"We used to be best friends," she said softly.

The lobby noise faded.

Andrew swallowed. He could still remember her reading to him in bed, voices for every character. How she’d kiss his scraped knees and whisper "Brave boy" before bandaging them. Then—board meetings. Missed recitals. Silence.

His throat tightened. "Yeah. We did."

Hannah’s eyes glimmered, not tears. Hannah Rhodes didn’t cry. But something close.

The concierge cleared her throat. "Shall I... show you to your suite?"

Hannah straightened. "Yes. Thank you."

Andrew exhaled, fists clenched. But when she walked past him, heels clicking like a countdown, he followed.

The bellhop led them down a long, lush corridor, his crisp uniform contrasting with his uncomfortably knowing smirk.

“Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes,” he said, swinging open the double doors with a flourish, “Your oasis awaits.”

Andrew stopped dead in the doorway.

Hannah’s sharp inhale was the only hint of surprise she’d allow herself.

The suite was all low lights and white linen, a cavernous space built for seduction. A bottle of champagne chilled beside a bowl of strawberries. A balcony overlooking the turquoise sea. And—one bed. One very large, impossibly soft-looking bed.

Andrew turned to the bellhop. “Uh. This is a mistake.”

The man blinked. “No mistakes here. Dr. Voss designs the suites herself. She believes physical closeness accelerates emotional bonding." He gestured to the lack of walls. "Everything by design."

Hannah’s jaw clenched. “There was supposed to be a separate sleeping—”

“Ah!” The bellhop held up a finger. “Dr. Voss believes in removing barriers to reconciliation.”

Andrew snorted. “Who the hell is Dr. Voss?”

For the first time, the bellhop’s smile faltered—like he’d just realized they didn’t know. “You… haven’t heard of Dr. Lillian Voss?”

Hannah crossed her arms, impatient. “Enlighten us.”

The bellhop leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s a genius. A visionary. She’s fixed senators, billionaires—royalty, even. People come here in crisis and leave reborn.” He chuckled. “Of course, her methods are… unconventional.”

Andrew flicked a glance at his mother—her irritation was delicious. Watching the unshakable Hannah Rhodes not get her way for once? Priceless.

“One bed it is then,” Andrew drawled.

Hannah shot him a glare that could melt steel.

The suite was a masterpiece of modern design—which, Andrew was realizing, really just meant zero fucking privacy.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the Caribbean sunset like it was personally hired to set the mood. A sprawling sitting area, a dining nook, the single bed—and worst of all, a bathroom with no walls. Just elegant frosted glass that did little more than suggest the shapes moving behind it.

Hannah set her Louis Vuitton luggage down with deliberate precision. “This is ridiculous.”

Andrew kicked off his shoes. “Yeah, well. You booked it.”

She shot him a look, Don’t push me, but didn’t argue. Because what was there to say? The brochure hadn’t mentioned anything about architectural exhibitionism.

Silence stretched between them, thick enough to choke on.

Finally, Hannah exhaled. “I’m showering.”

Andrew snorted. “Have fun with that.”

She hesitated, just a second, before turning her back to him.

And then she undid the clasp of her dress.

Andrew immediately became very interested in the minibar liquor selection. But his peripheral vision was a traitor.

The silk slid down her arms, catching at her hips before pooling at her feet.

She was in lingerie.. Black lace, silk straps, the kind of thing that looked obscenely expensive just existing near skin.

Andrew gripped the tiny whiskey bottle in his hand like he wanted to strangle it.

Nope. Not looking. Not a thing.

He heard the soft click of her heels coming off.

His jaw tightened.

Hannah stepped toward the glass bathroom and paused.

“Andrew.” Her voice was sharp. “Don’t watch.”

He scoffed. “I wasn’t—”

She turned just slightly, enough that he caught the bare curve of her back, the dip of her waist, the shadows hinting at everything else—

Andrew spun around so fast he nearly knocked over a lamp.

Behind him, the shower turned on.

Steam fogged the glass.

And Andrew did not look.

He definitely didn’t stare at the blur of her figure through the haze, the arch of her neck as she tipped her head back under the water, the faint outline of her hands sliding over wet skin—

Nope.

Andrew had taken his shower—eyes carefully averted from the still-damp glass, from the lingering warmth of her expensive shampoo in the air—and now stood at the foot of the absurdly oversized mattress like a soldier assessing enemy territory.

Hannah was already on her side, the left. She sat propped up against the headboard, typing on her phone with ruthless efficiency, a silk robe belted tightly around her waist.

Andrew slid under the crisp white duvet, turning his back to her, putting as much distance between them as physically possible. The mattress might as well have been the Atlantic Ocean.

Silence.

The kind that prickled.

Then—movement. The soft rustle of fabric. He felt the dip of the bed as Hannah shifted, settling in.

Andrew held his breath.

His spine was a steel rod. His hands clenched into fists against his chest.

And yet somehow—somehow—his traitorous brain noticed things it shouldn’t.

The whisper of silk sliding off skin.

The faint, floral scent of her body lotion.

The way the sheets sighed as she stretched her legs out, long, toned, impossibly graceful, before going still again.

Andrew squeezed his eyes shut.

Nope. Not thinking about that.

He counted the seconds.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then—

Hannah turned off the lamp.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

Andrew exhaled.

For the next eternity, they lay there like two opposing magnets, their bodies unconsciously observing an invisible demilitarized zone. Hannah stared at the ceiling, acutely aware of every rustle of fabric, every too-loud breath. Once, when she shifted her legs, the sheets whispered against her skin—

"Christ, could you not?" Andrew gritted out.

Hannah stilled. Then, with deliberate pettiness, she stretched her legs out luxuriously, letting the silk glide over her skin.

"No."

He made a sound like a stepped-on mongoose.

But he didn’t leave.

And neither did she.

There was a knock at the suite door—sharp, imperious—before it swung open without invitation.

"Good morning!"

Andrew nearly fell off the bed.

Standing in the doorway, arms outstretched like a deranged Moses parting the Red Sea, was a bewigged, septuagenarian woman with the posture of a ballet dancer—and absolutely no clothing whatsoever.

Hannah sat bolt upright, gripping the sheets to her chest. "Excuse me—"

"Dr. Lillian Voss," the woman announced, strolling in as casually as if she were wearing a pantsuit.

Andrew had braced himself against the headboard, his face caught somewhere between horror and bewildered admiration. "What the hell—"

"Ah-ah!" Lillian wagged a finger. "No negativity before noon. It's scientifically proven to give you cellulite." She paused, glancing down at herself. "Well. More cellulite."

Hannah, who had faced down hostile boardrooms and media scandals without blinking, looked genuinely rattled. "Why are you naked?"

Lillian sighed, as if explaining gravity to a toddler. "Clothes are barriers, darling. Emotional scaffolding. You can't build intimacy while hiding behind cloth." She plucked a grape from the untouched fruit bowl on the table and popped it into her mouth. "Now. Up. Questionnaire time."

Andrew looked pleadingly at his mother. "Mom. Please tell me we're not doing this."

Hannah opened her mouth—then hesitated. Her eyes flicked to Lillian, who was now examining Andrew with the keen interest of a scientist dissecting a strange new specimen.

"...What does the questionnaire entail?" Hannah asked carefully.

Lenore grinned. "Oh, you know. Childhood traumas. Sexual fantasies. Whether you prefer to be on top or—"

"Okay!" Andrew practically vaulted from the bed. "Yeah, no, we’re leaving—"

But Lillian was faster and plopped herself directly onto the bed between them, sitting cross-legged like a particularly enlightened Buddha.

"We’re not leaving."

And somehow, they didn’t.

Andrew, who was now actively trying to look at the ceiling, the floor, the wall—anything but the very naked woman in front of him—muttered, "I feel like I’m in a nightmare."

Dr. Voss laughed, a rich, throaty sound. "Good! That means we’re getting somewhere." She clapped her hands together. "Now. Let’s talk."

She reached into the air, as if plucking an invisible notepad from the ether, and began.

"Question one: If you could describe your relationship in one word, what would it be?"

Hannah, without hesitation: "Complicated."

Andrew, at the same time: "Toxic."

Dr. Voss nodded sagely. "Ah, so we’re already in agreement. That’s a good sign."

Andrew, incredulous: "How is that a good sign?!"

Dr. Voss ignored him. "Question two: When was the last time you felt truly seen by the other?"

Silence.

Hannah’s fingers twitched. Andrew’s jaw tightened.

Dr. Voss, undeterred, leaned forward. "No, no, don’t look at each other. Look at me. I’m the one who’s naked here. The least you can do is engage."

Andrew, through gritted teeth: "I’m trying very hard not to engage with that."

Dr. Voss cackled. "Oh, I like you. You’re prickly. Like a little cactus." She turned to Hannah. "And you. Ice queen. When was the last time you let him see you as something other than your highness?"

Hannah’s expression flickered—something raw, just for a second. "I don’t know."

Dr. Voss nodded. "That’s an answer. That’s progress." She clapped her hands again. "Question three: If you had to choose between never speaking to each other again or being forced to share a studio apartment forever, which would you pick?"

Andrew, immediately: "Never speaking again."

Hannah, at the same time: "Studio apartment."

They both blinked, surprised.

Dr. Voss, delighted, flopped onto her back between them, starfishing across the bed. "We’re getting somewhere, guys!"

Lounging across the bed like a sunbathing deity, when Dr. Voss asked the question, softly this time, without her usual mischief.

"What did you want from each other... before it all went wrong?"

The air in the suite thickened. Hannah, who had spent her life wielding silence like a weapon, found herself speaking first.

"I wanted him."

Andrew looked at her—really looked—for the first time in years.

Her fingers tightened on the sheets. "Before anything else. Before the company, the money, the reputation. Andy was the first thing I ever wished for without knowing how much it would ruin me to have it."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Do you know how absurd that is? I have never failed at anything. If I want it, I take it. I own it. But you…"

Her voice wavered. "The second they put you in my arms, I thought—this is it. This is the thing that will destroy me. Because suddenly, there was something I couldn’t control. Something I could lose."

Andy’s breath caught.

"We were best friends," she whispered. "You used to climb into my bed every night. You’d hold my hand in public like you were proud of me. And somewhere along the way, I…"

Her perfect posture crumpled. "I miss you."

Dr. Voss, uncharacteristically still, had tears streaking down her face.

Andy’s throat worked. When he spoke, his voice was ragged.

"All I ever wanted was for you to see me. Just me. But you were always ten steps ahead, and I was just… failing to catch up."

A tear splashed onto his clenched fist. "I thought if I got perfect enough, I’d finally earn the version of you that smiled when I walked into a room."

Hannah made a wounded noise. "Oh, Andy—"

"Don’t." He swiped at his face angrily. "Don’t act like you didn’t know."

"I didn’t," she choked. "God, how could I not see—"

Dr. Voss interrupted them—not with words, but with a soggy, snotty gasp as she full-on sobbed, flopping onto her stomach between them.

"Beautiful," she wailed into the mattress.

Dr. Voss clapped her hands, and the lights lowered to a sensual, amber glow.

Andrew immediately went rigid. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," Dr. Voss purred, spinning back to face them with delight. "Clothes off, both of you."

Andrew choked on his own spit. "What?"

Dr. Voss grinned, unbothered by their twin looks of horror.

Hannah's grip tightened on her wine glass. "With all due respect, Doctor, that seems unnecessary."

Dr. Voss waved her off. "Please. I’ve seen a thousand jitters like this. You two barely look at each other, let alone touch." She gestured between them. "Clothes are just armor keeping you as strangers."

Andrew swallowed hard. He shot Hannah a what the fuck look.

Hannah returned it with a subtle shake of her head—play along.

Andrew wanted to strangle something. Preferably the decorator who thought frosted glass bathrooms were chic.

Dr. Voss clapped. "Shirts first! We’ll ease into vulnerability like adults, not bashful teenagers."

Then, through gritted teeth, Hannah reached for the hem of her blouse.

Andrew's eyes bugged. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"Whatever it takes to get my husband back," she snipped, yanking the silk over her head in one irritated motion. Her lace bra gleamed pearl-white in the low light.

Andrew whipped around to face the wall.

Dr. Voss sighed. "Andy-boy, if you don't turn around this instant, I'm making you sit in her lap."

"OH MY GOD—"

"Facing forward," Hannah added helpfully, reaching behind herself to unclasp her bra with effortless grace. If Andrew hadn't already been halfway to summoning an exorcist, the sight of his mother casually letting expensive lingerie slither to the floor might have finished him.

Dr. Voss nodded approvingly. "Now you."

Andrew's hands flew to his belt buckle like it were electrified. "I—no—this is—"

"Andrew."

Something in Hannah's voice made him freeze. When he dared peek, she was standing ramrod straight, arms crossed under bare breasts in what might have been defiance if not for the pink creeping up her throat.

She swallowed visibly. "We have to do this, please."

Dr. Voss clapped giddily. "THAT'S THE SPIRIT!"

Twenty agonizing seconds later—during which Andrew became intimately familiar with every thread in the carpet—they stood facing each other in nothing but skittish silence.

Hannah stared fixedly at a point over his left shoulder. Andrew studied the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe. Between them, Dr. Voss beamed with pride.

"There!" she announced, slapping Andrew's bare shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. "Now was that so—"

The minibar chose that moment to auto-dispense ice with a cheerful clink.

All three jumped.

"—horrifying," Andrew finished weakly.

Hannah took a deep breath. Several, actually. Then, with the dignity of a queen being dethroned at gunpoint:

"Are we done, doctor?"

Dr. Voss grinned. "Oh honey. We haven't even started."

She clapped her hands together. "Alright, kittens. On the bed. Lotus positions—deep breaths. We’re going to move through this."

They obeyed, stiff-limbed, putting distance between them—too much distance. The space yawned like an uncrossable canyon.

"Closer," Dr. Voss purred.

Andrew shifted forward...