Dawn slipped quietly through the thin fabric of the luxury tent, painting the tangled sheets in warm gold. Henry Jackson and Isabella Voss lay wrapped around each other, limbs lazy, bodies still humming from the night before. The air carried the faint sweetness of lavender massage oil mixed with something far less innocent—the unmistakable evidence of a night that had absolutely not been wasted.
Outside, birds chirped with cheerful indifference, as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
They were lying.
Henry was the first to stir. His eyes cracked open just as a sharp chorus of muffled shouts and hurried footsteps cut through the morning calm. This wasn't the soothing rustle of wind through trees or the distant clink of breakfast preparations—it was full-blown chaos. The kind that made your stomach tighten before your brain could catch up.
