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The maze. My grandmother’s pride, my mother’s joy, my childhood playground. “Who tends it now?”

“Damiano Ricci. Remember him? His mom used to cook for the summer parties. Italian family. He’s been taking care of the grounds solely for about five years now. Mostly keeps to himself. Lives out of the old greenhouse. Fixed it up to stay warm.” She pauses. “Bit of an odd duck… unusual… but he sure knows his plants.”

I nod, filing away the information. “I’ll look forward to seeing it tomorrow.”

“He’s usually in the greenhouse around now. Makes all kinds of potions with his herbs.” Her tone suggests disapproval mixed with reluctantrespect. “Some folks around here swear by his remedies.”

My interest perks up despite feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. After years as a human guinea pig—endless clinical trials and experimental treatments, each one supposedly “the miracle” that would fix my broken immune system—I’ve developed a thing for alternative stuff. Not because I’m hopeful—gave that up ages ago—but hey, at this point, why not? Maybe it’s the scientist in me. Or maybe Western medicine has just put me through enough hell.

“Huh,” I smile faintly. “Maybe I should pay him a visit.”

“Rest first,” Mrs. Fletcher says firmly. “Plenty of time for that. You’re here all season. No need to push yourself.”

The whole season. Three months of island time. Dad’s recovery prescription: clean air, family property, distance from “stressful Seattle.” More like, keeping me away from his upcoming wedding to Melissa, his executive assistant. She’s three years younger than me with perfect health and—shocker—never disagrees with anything he says. Pretty convenient how I got shipped off right before all the wedding festivities. Can’t have the sick daughter killing the vibe, right?

Upstairs, my childhood bedroom awaits, transformed from the teenager’s retreat I left behind to a sophisticated guest suite. The walls, once covered in band posters and photographic prints,now wear a tasteful sage green. The twin bed has been replaced with a queen, draped in crisp white linens and a pale blue cashmere throw.

My luggage has already been delivered and unpacked because god forbid I do it myself and waste precious energy. My clothes hang in the cedar-scented closet, organized with military precision: casual wear, sleepwear, and those ridiculous formal outfits Dad insisted I bring “for dinner parties.” Right. Like I’m planning to host fancy gatherings during my island exile. Like anyone would show up if I did.

I open the French doors to the small private balcony overlooking the rear gardens. The maze spreads below, a geometric puzzle of precisely trimmed hedges, the pattern more complex than I remember. At the center, barely visible from this angle, stands a stone gazebo where my mother used to read while I explored the green pathways. Beyond the cultivated grounds, the wild forest begins, dense and dark even in daylight.

Something catches my eye among the hedges. A figure in black, moving through the maze like he owns every inch of it. Even from up here, I can tell there’s something different about him.

The way he moves. Confident.

Knowing exactly where he’s going. Tall, lean, but strong. Not gym-bro strong, but the kind that comes from actual work. It’s almost like the fog gets out of his way as he stalks through it.

He stops at a junction, kneels to examine something at the base of a hedge, then stands with a cutting tool glinting in his hand. His hair, dark as wet earth and falling past his shoulders, is pulled back in a loose knot, revealing his profile as he turns slightly. A pronounced jawline frames his face, severe beneath prominent cheekbones that catch what little light filters through the mist. The sleeves of his black shirt are pushed up, revealing forearms covered in intricate tattoos, dark patterns that from this distance look like twisted vines and ancient symbols against his suntanned skin.

He moves again, his hands quick and precise as they trim a branch, then trace along the hedge with a gentleness that seems... I don’t know, almost intimate? Like he’s talking to them without speaking. His whole body moves with this weird awareness of the plants around him, like he instinctively knows what they need.

I can’t stop staring at him work, totally unaware he’s being watched from above. Just this lone figure, completely in his element in the maze’s controlled chaos.

So that’s Damiano Ricci. The “unusual” groundskeeper who has a way with plants.

Unusual is putting it mildly.

A wave of fatigue slams into me without warning. My body’s favorite party trick. The journey from Seattle has wiped out what little energy I had left. I drag myself from the balcony, shutting thedoors against the endless chill. The bed looks so good right now that I don’t even bother changing out of my travel clothes. I kick off my shoes, pull the cashmere throw over me, and surrender to exhaustion.

Again.

As I drift toward sleep, I swear I can hear my mother’s voice on the wind, whispering to me like she used to: “Be careful, my Briar.”

She always said this island had a way of breaking fragile things. And if there’s one thing I am now, it’s fragile.

Chapter 2

Briar

I wake up completely confused, the light all wrong compared to my apartment back in Seattle. For a second, I have no idea where I am, and my heart starts pounding until I recognize the room. The light’s different now. Evening. The fog outside my window casting a weird pink glow from the sunset.

My body feels heavy, limbs leaden with the particular exhaustion that follows travel. I check my phone. 5:47 PM. I’ve slept for nearly four hours. A text from my father waits on the screen:

Arrived safely? Call when you can.

No “how are you feeling” or “I miss you.” Just checking that his recovery investment made it to the destination without complications. Typical Maxwell Waters tracking his assets. I toss the phone aside without answering. He can wait till tomorrow to confirm his damaged daughter didn’t collapsesomewhere between Seattle and his magical healing island.

The house is quiet save for the distant kitchen sounds—Mrs. Fletcher most likely preparing dinner.