The Stranger I Married
Chapter 102: Ella-gant

Chapter 102: Ella-gant

The luggage was lined up neatly by the front door, two sleek suitcases and a smaller leather weekender bag—Ella’s, of course, courtesy of Nicholas’s insistence that she "needed" one that matched her energy. (His words, not hers.)

The early morning light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the marble like melted butter. The whole place smelled faintly of coffee, clean linen, and the lemony polish the housekeeper had used the day before.

Nicholas stood in the foyer, impossibly relaxed in a soft navy T-shirt and linen trousers that hugged him just right. He was barefoot, sipping espresso from a tiny cup, watching Ella with unhurried amusement.

She was in the living room, twirling once in front of the hallway mirror.

"Is this too much?" she asked, gesturing to her outfit—a pale-blue dress with delicate straps and a floaty hem that swayed with every step. "I feel like I look like a Pinterest board."

"You are a Pinterest board," he said smoothly, setting his espresso down on the side table. "And no, it’s perfect. You’re perfect."

Ella narrowed her eyes. "You’re just saying that because you picked the dress."

"I am saying that because I picked the dress," he agreed, walking over and taking her hand. "But also because I want to see the Italian sun hit your shoulders in that exact fabric."

She blushed and tried to hide it with a scoff. "You’re annoying."

"And devastatingly handsome."

She groaned. "Let’s just go before you start reciting poetry."

He kissed her cheek, grinning like he was trying very hard not to do exactly that.

They made their way to the private elevator, and by the time it opened into the underground garage, their car was already waiting—sleek, black, and gleaming under the soft lights. The driver stood respectfully off to the side, sunglasses on despite the early hour.

Nicholas opened the passenger door for her himself.

Ella slid into the cool leather seat, already smiling. The interior smelled like cedar and something expensive she couldn’t name, and the windows were tinted just enough to make it feel like a cocoon. By the time Nicholas joined her on the other side, the driver was pulling smoothly out onto the quiet road.

Ella let her fingers trail over the armrest between them before intertwining them with his. "So. Amalfi Coast."

Nicholas turned toward her, one hand still resting on her thigh. "Villa by the sea. You, me, food so good you’ll cry, and absolutely no clocks."

She leaned her head back, exhaling like she was already halfway there. "God. That sounds illegal."

"It’s decadently legal," he murmured. "I checked."

They drove in silence for a while, the city still asleep around them, everything soft and gold. Ella looked over at him occasionally—at the slope of his jaw, the lazy way his fingers tapped against her leg to the rhythm of the song playing low on the speakers.

"You packed sunscreen, right?" she asked after a beat.

Nicholas gave her a look. "I packed four types of sunscreen. Ella. I burn like an English ghost."

She laughed, and he watched her like the sound alone could unmake him.

They arrived at the private jet terminal just as the sky blushed pink across the edges. There were no crowds. No rushing. Just the kind of quiet efficiency that came with power and preference—staff who greeted Nicholas by name, took their bags without a word, and offered espresso shots and fresh orange juice in sleek glasses while they waited.

Ella sipped hers slowly, sitting beside Nicholas on a white leather sofa in the lounge, legs tucked under her. "You really do this a lot, huh?"

"Not like this," he said, without looking away from her. "Not with you."

She glanced down at the drink in her hand, cheeks going warm.

Their jet was ready within ten minutes. Nicholas stood, offering her his hand. "Ready to be ruined for commercial flights forever?"

Ella laughed, letting him pull her up. "I already am."

—

The interior of the jet was understated and beautiful—cream seats, pale wood accents, and windows already framing a sky that looked like it had been painted in pastels. They settled into the long sofa along one side, kicking off their shoes. Nicholas poured them each a glass of champagne from the chilled bottle already waiting in the console.

"To us," he said, handing her one.

"To irresponsible escapes," she said back, clinking her glass to his.

The plane rose steadily into the sky, soft and smooth, and by the time they leveled out, Ella was curled into Nicholas’s side, her bare feet tucked beneath her, one arm wrapped around his middle.

He rested his cheek on her hair. "Tell me something ridiculous."

She thought for a moment. "When I was eleven, I tried to start a candle business and nearly burned down my mom’s kitchen."

Nicholas grinned. "What were they called?"

She groaned. "Don’t make me say it."

"I must know."

She hid her face in his shoulder. "Ella-gant Scents."

He threw his head back and howled. "No, no. That’s genius. I want to relaunch it. We’ll have a coastal collection—Salted Peach, Sun-warmed Linen, Boyfriend in Linen Trousers."

She tilted her face up at him. "I will make a candle called Boyfriend in Linen Trousers. And it’ll smell like smugness and bergamot."

"You love it," he murmured, brushing his lips to hers.

"I do," she whispered against his mouth.

And there it was again—that feeling. Easy. Effortless. Like the rest of the world had gone quiet so they could fall into each other.

They didn’t do much else on the flight. Just grazed on snacks, played a half-hearted game of cards with way too much cheating, and dozed off with Ella stretched across the couch and her head in Nicholas’s lap.

He ran his fingers through her hair the whole time she slept, his other hand lightly curled around her ankle.

And when the captain’s voice finally announced their descent into Naples, Nicholas leaned down, kissed her forehead, and said softly, "Wake up, baby. We’re almost there."

Ella blinked up at him, groggy and flushed. "Already?"

"Your Italian adventure begins now."

She yawned, stretching. "Do I look like someone ready for an Italian adventure?"

He looked her up and down, lazy and fond. "You look like someone who’s about to ruin me with a single twirl on a balcony."

She smiled and curled back into him for just one more minute. "Good. That’s the goal."

The car waiting on the tarmac wasn’t anything flashy, though it could’ve been. Nicholas didn’t do flashy—not when it came to comfort. Instead, it was quiet luxury: pale leather seats, chilled bottled water, and a driver who spoke only when needed. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the scent of sea air and citrus as they pulled out onto the winding coastal road.

Ella leaned against the door, sunglasses perched low on her nose, watching Italy unfold outside the window in a soft, sun-washed blur. Lemon trees passed by in neat rows, little villages nestled into the cliffs, laundry flapping lazily from windows like slow-moving flags.

Nicholas sat beside her with one arm sprawled along the back of her seat, two fingers lightly tangled in the ends of her hair.

He hadn’t said anything in a while, and neither had she.

But it wasn’t silence.

It was stillness.

She turned her head just slightly. "You’re staring."

He didn’t look away. "You’re prettier than the view."

Ella rolled her eyes and leaned into his shoulder. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you like it."

"I do."

They drove for another hour, the road winding tighter as they neared the cliffs of Positano. The sea came into view again—bluer here, somehow. Brighter. Like it had been waiting for them.