Chapter 1: Poolside Sparks

The late afternoon sun dipped low over Palawan, its golden light glinting off the surface of the infinity pool. James sat on a cushioned lounger beneath the shade of a white umbrella, a half-empty San Miguel in hand and a thin sheen of sweat beginning to gather at his temples. He had arrived two days ago, his first trip to Indonesia since retiring in April. The hotel—perched just above the beach, with palms swaying gently all around—was perfect. Peaceful. A little indulgent. Exactly what he’d needed.

But he hadn’t expected her.

Melena.

She emerged from the water like a scene stolen from a film: slow, unhurried, her dark hair slicked back and glistening, droplets running down her neck, over her chest, and tracing the contours of a body that stopped him mid-sip. Her swimsuit was barely there—black, string-tied at the hips and behind her neck, hugging every curve as if tailored to her alone. She caught him looking. Smiled. Then walked directly to the lounger beside his.

“Hi,” she said, her voice soft but warm, almost teasing. “You’re not hiding from the sun, are you?”

He chuckled, flustered. “Maybe just pretending I can handle it.”

She laughed at that—genuine and bright—and sat down, towelling off her legs with slow, absent strokes that only drew his attention more. Her skin was a warm, golden brown, the kind that spoke of island roots and sun-soaked days, and her figure was nothing short of arresting—slim waist, shapely hips, toned thighs. She shifted her weight, crossing her legs, and James found himself grateful for the table that separated them.

They talked. For hours.

Melena, it turned out, was a nurse on a much-needed break. She was from Manila but had travelled to Palawan alone to relax, reset. There was a quiet confidence to her, a way she held his gaze just a little longer than necessary, smiled when he grew bashful, and brushed his arm as they laughed over stories about travel mishaps and strange local food.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon and the lanterns around the pool flickered on, James felt that familiar tension in his chest—part excitement, part nerves.

“I’ve really enjoyed this,” he said, gently.

“Me too,” she replied, her eyes holding his. “So ... what now?”

“Dinner?” he offered, a little too quickly. “If you’d let me.”

She tilted her head, lips curving with mischief. “Alright, James. I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven.”

At exactly 7:00 p.m., James stood in the hotel lobby, wearing pressed linen trousers and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves casually rolled. He had shaved, applied a touch of cologne, and even polished his loafers, though it had been years since he’d done all three at once. He felt good. Nervous, but good. His eyes scanned the open space as the elevator chimed.

When the doors opened, time stalled.

Melena stepped out slowly, gracefully, and for a moment, James forgot how to breathe.

She wore a deep red dress—silk, or something that moved like it. The neckline dipped into a subtle V, drawing attention to her delicate collarbones and the smooth swell of her breasts. The fabric clung to her waist and hips like it had been sewn onto her body, tapering into a high slit that revealed one flawless leg with each stride. Her hair was loose now, cascading in soft waves over her shoulders, and she wore a shade of lipstick that made her full lips even more irresistible.

But it was her eyes—dark, smouldering, and fixed entirely on him—that held him captive.

She walked toward him with slow, confident steps, the heels of her sandals clicking softly on the tile. She paused just a step too close, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of jasmine and coconut oil.

“Well?” she asked, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Do I pass?”

“You ... look stunning,” James said, his voice hoarse, reverent. “I feel underdressed.”

She laughed softly, then reached up to straighten the edge of his collar with a touch that lingered just a second too long. “You look very handsome, James.”

There was silence then—not awkward, but charged. A hum between them, subtle and rising. The kind of tension that hung in the air before a storm. Her fingers brushed his arm as they walked side by side toward the restaurant, and he let his hand rest on the small of her back just long enough to feel the smooth heat of her skin through the fabric.

She didn’t pull away.