Billionaire Escaped to a Remote Island, Not Guessing the Resort Host Would Become His One True Love
Escape to Isa Delvinoto
Isaiah Stone clenched the edge of the helicopter door as the ocean stretched endlessly beneath him. His jaw was tight and his heart was pounding with something dangerously close to desperation.
“Sir, we’re approaching Isa Delvinoto,” the pilot said through the headset. “Ten minutes.”
He didn’t respond, just gave a nod and stared out the glass. The island looked tiny from up here, a speck of green in a sea of blue.
It was the only place no one would find him. There would be no board meetings, no investors, and no headlines about his family’s betrayal.
There would be no cameras and no lies. He was done with New York and done with the Stone name for now. He just wanted to disappear.
When the helicopter touched down on the private helipad behind the resort, Isaiah stepped out into the thick, humid air.
The silence here was loud. There were no horns and no phones, just wind, waves, and the faint scent of hibiscus.
Then he saw her. A woman in cut-off shorts, a white linen shirt knotted at the waist, and a messy ponytail stood at the edge of the landing pad.
Her skin was sun-kissed. Her hands were tucked into her back pockets like she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Isaiah Stone?” she asked, lifting one brow.
He tensed. “Yeah.”
She smiled. “Welcome to Isa Delvinoto. I’m Nola Avery. I run the resort while the owner’s away.”
He paused. She didn’t stammer over his name, didn’t fawn, or glance at his watch or shoes.
She just stood there, calm and grounded. It was like she hadn’t just met the man Forbes called the coldest billionaire in America.
“You’re the host?”
“Yep,” she said, already turning toward the path. “Come on, I’ll show you your villa.”
He followed her down the stone trail flanked by hanging lanterns and palm trees.
“You always greet guests in flip-flops?”
“Only the ones who look like they need a good kick in the ego,” she tossed back without looking at him.
He blinked, then let out something that might have been a laugh. It felt foreign.
The villa was tucked into the cliffs with views of the ocean. It had an infinity pool that looked like it spilled into the horizon.
She handed him a welcome drink and a key card.
“Don’t worry,” she said casually. “No one’s going to ask for selfies here. Most people don’t even know this place exists.”
“That’s what you wanted, right?”
His eyes met hers. “How do you know what I wanted?”
“Just a guess,” she said. “The helicopter, the sunglasses, the jaw clench. A guy like you didn’t come here for the happy hour specials.”
He watched her leave. The sway of her walk was as confident as her words.
For the first time in weeks, his mind didn’t immediately drift to lawsuits or betrayal. It stayed with her—Nola.
The next morning, he found her barefoot in the sand setting up chairs for a beach yoga class.
“You work here every day?” he asked, hands in his pockets.
She looked up. “It’s a small team. I do what needs doing.”
“You run the resort and set up yoga mats?”
“You asking for a resume or a session?”
He hesitated. “What if I want to talk instead?”
She tilted her head. “Then talk.”
He sat beside her in the sand. The waves rolled in slowly, and the heat was not yet sharp.
He didn’t even realize he was talking until the words were already coming out.
“My father sold my company behind my back. My brother leaked it to the media. I didn’t know who to trust, so I left.”
Nola didn’t react, didn’t gasp, or pity. She just nodded slowly, looking out at the water.
“Family can mess you up worse than any stranger.”
“You know something about that?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “My dad bailed when I was nine. Mom worked three jobs. I grew up cleaning motels, not staying in them.”
He looked at her again, really looked. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you,” she said, standing. “Most billionaires don’t help reset beach chairs.”
He frowned. “I’m not—”
Then he stopped. “Wait, you knew?”
“You think I don’t recognize Isaiah Stone? You bought half of Manhattan.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“Because I don’t care,” she said simply. “You’re just a guy on a beach here.”
He stared at her as she walked away again. For the second time in two days, he couldn’t stop watching.
Later that afternoon, he found her again. This time she was at the bar loading a crate of limes.
“Nola.”
She looked up, brushing hair from her face. “You’re persistent.”
“I want to know more about you.”
She leaned her hip against the counter. “Why?”
“Because you’re the first person who’s looked at me like I’m not a billionaire or a headline.”
“You looked at me like I’m human.”
She paused, then said quietly, “Maybe because you finally started acting like one.”
They spent the next few days like that. They were talking, walking, and arguing over who made the better mojito.
She was blunt, bright, and never afraid to call him out.
Somewhere between a snorkeling trip and a late-night conversation on a hammock, something shifted.
On the fifth night, he cooked for her. It wasn’t fancy: grilled fish, salad, and wine.
He did it himself. There was no chef and no staff, just him with shirt sleeves rolled up, barefoot on the villa patio.
“You’re full of surprises,” she said, sipping the wine he picked.
“You’re the surprise,” he said quietly.
Their eyes locked. Then he kissed her, slow and deliberate, with the ocean crashing behind them and the stars watching overhead.
She didn’t pull away. He pulled her into his arms, his hands in her hair.
For once, nothing else mattered. It was not his name or his past, just her.
When they finally pulled apart, her hands stayed on his chest.
“Isaiah, don’t say it was a mistake,” he whispered.
“I wasn’t going to,” she said, her voice rough. “I was going to say I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”
