This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2026 by Robyn Harding

  Cover design by Olga Grlic. Cover images by Getty Images and Shutterstock.

  Cover copyright © 2026 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First Edition: March 2026

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Harding, Robyn author

  Title: Strangers in the villa / Robyn Harding.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2026.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2025043795 | ISBN 9781538774007 hardcover | ISBN 9781538774021 ebook

  Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Novels

  Classification: LCC PR9199.4.H366 S77 2026 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20251121

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025043795

  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-7400-7 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-8054-1 (Canadian trade pbk.), 978-1-5387-7402-1 (ebook)

  E3-20260224-JV-PC-COR

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  SYDNEY AND CURTIS 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  DAMIAN AND BIANCA 25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  SYDNEY AND CURTIS 41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  DAMIAN AND BIANCA 47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  CURTIS AND SYDNEY 54

  55

  56

  57

  BIANCA AND DAMIAN 58

  59

  SYDNEY 60

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Also by Robyn Harding

  For the TWs:

  Jo, Chris, Dirk, Mike, and John

  Thanks for an inspirational trip to Spain.

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  COSTA BRAVA HOUSE FOR SALE

  Catalonia, Spain

  This jewel of tranquility is located on Mount Pení high above the picturesque town of Cadaqués. The property offers stunning views of the town, the sparkling Mediterranean, and the pretty boats floating in the harbor. Though it is less than a three-hour drive to Barcelona, you will feel you live in a private oasis. Surrounded by trees, you will wake each day to the sounds of birds singing and leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. Each day will begin full of joy!

  Built in 1963 in traditional Spanish style, this home has original Spanish tiles and wooden ceiling beams. Natural light floods into the spacious living-dining room through a bank of arched windows. French doors open up to the sunny pool and terrace, perfect for relaxing and sunbathing. Two bedrooms are on the main floor with one bathroom. The house is perfect for a couple, but the downstairs has three more rooms with the potential to be turned into space for a family.

  Does this house need some TLC? Yes, of course. But it is a large plot of land and one of only a handful of properties on the hillside. It offers the utmost privacy and serenity, with a security system for peace of mind. With the right attention and devotion, this could be a truly magical villa. A perfect home to fill with love and happy memories!

  Sydney and Curtis

  1

  It was a remarkably romantic description for a house, especially when one considered the author was a chain-smoking Realtor with a pot belly and an unconvincing dye job. But this is Spain, where the people are passionate and poetic… even the real estate agents, apparently. José Sainz could not have known he was crafting the perfect blurb to entice an American couple to leave their jobs, give up their apartment, and start over in this secluded hillside locale. He couldn’t have known he’d sell this house to a couple desperate to save their marriage.

  Sydney Cleary takes a drag on her cigarette and exhales the smoke into the sluggish morning air. She’s sitting out back next to the kidney-shaped pool, facing away from the house and its lauded arched windows. Her eyes drift over the distant, whitewashed buildings of Cadaqués (pronounced Ca-da-kes, not Ca-dacks, as she and Curtis had called it when they first visited). The Mediterranean sparkles beyond it, small boats bobbing lazily in the bay. The view is stunning, just as José’s ad promised, but it’s wasted on her. The chirping birds and beautiful vistas were supposed to have her waking each day “full of joy.” But as she sits here in her bikini and cover-up, sunlight filtering through paintbrush clouds, Sydney just feels numb.

  “You’ve been through an extremely painful experience,” the couples’ therapist had told her. “It’s not unusual to suffer symptoms of PTSD… Anxiety. Depression. Insomnia.” Sydney had felt so weak, so pathetic. She hadn’t been attacked or raped or bombed out of her house in a war. That was real trauma. But according to the sleek and stylish Dr. Ellen Dwyer, what Curtis had done to Syd had destroyed her sense of safety. Her sense of self. She didn’t know who she was anymore, who they were together. Her entire world had been knocked off its axis. It was going to take a while to get over it.

  The timing of her husband’s betrayal had compounded the pain, amplified it to eleven. Syd’s mom had just passed, and the loss had knocked Syd out of her orbit. Never had she felt so singularly and spectacularly alone, a tiny planet adrift in a vast universe of nothingness. She’d consoled herself that she had a meaningful job, many friends, and her brother, Reid. Most importantly, she had Curtis.

  They’d been together fifteen years, married for twelve. They’d tied the knot when Syd was a baby lawyer, when Curtis’s business was just getting off the ground. They both wanted kids but agreed they would wait until they were more established in their careers, until they’d done some traveling, until they had a bigger apartment… Suddenly, Syd was forty and the window was closing. They tried naturally for a while with no luck, and then they explored their options. The physical, financial, and emotional tolls of pursuing parenthood had felt overwhelming.

  “I’ll go along with whatever you decide,” Curtis said. “But we don’t need kids to complete us, Syd. You and me together… We’re still a family.” His words had warmed her, made her realize that a strong, happy marriage to her best friend was enough for her.

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t been enough for Curtis.

  When it all fell apart, Syd’s family doctor (Ellen was a doctor of psychology, prohibited from prescribing medication in New York) had prescribed a low-dose antidepressant. Ativan, to be taken at night, as needed, helps her sleep. The drugs have taken the edge off the darkness, muted her anger, but Syd wakes late each morning feeling groggy and fuzzy. That’s why she’s out here in her bathing suit at 9:45 a.m. A bracing swim shakes out the cobwebs and makes her feel almost normal.

  Taking a last pull on the cigarette, she stubs it out on the flagstone and drops the butt into the empty jam jar she keeps tucked under her lawn chair. One cigarette a day, that’s all she allows herself. Syd had smoked her way through college and then law school but had given it up after she got married. When her mom died, the cravings returned, but she held strong. Then Curtis ripped her heart out and she caved, smoking over a pack a day. It had been a mindless salve, a habitual crutch. She knows it’s deadly. Wh
en they moved to Spain she vowed to quit. Reducing to one a day is a start.

  As Syd stands and stretches, there’s a crash in the kitchen—a dropped pot or a metal lid. Curtis is making an elaborate breakfast. He does this now, juicing oranges, cutting up fruit, making French toast from thick crusty bread he buys at the bakery in town. He’s always made sure she ate in the morning. Back home, that meant handing her a bagel sandwich as she hurried off to work. But in Spain, he’s upped his game. Part of her appreciates it. Another part of her wants to throw his fancy breakfast across the room and scream: You think café con leche and some fucking eggs will compensate for blowing up my life? But her anger, while understandable, is not productive. She doesn’t need a therapist to tell her that she’s chosen to stay and salvage this marriage. She can’t keep punishing him.

  In these quiet, reflective moments, Sydney wonders why she accepted the arduous task of forgiveness. Does remaining in her marriage mean she’s weak? Or does it mean she’s strong? Everyone back home had an opinion. Staying meant she was a doormat; leaving was giving up on a lifelong commitment after one mistake. She’d blocked them all out and made her own decision. But did she stay because she truly loves her husband? Because she knows their relationship is worth this monumental effort? Or is she simply afraid of being alone so soon after losing her only parent? The reasons don’t matter now. She’s here.

  Moving to the pool, Syd wades into the cool water. It needs to be skimmed—bugs and leaves litter the surface—but the temperature is brisk. The pool is unheated, and given their elevation, it’s still too cold for Curtis until the afternoon. But Syd’s grandparents had a cottage in Ontario. She’s used to swimming in chilly lakes, frolicking in frigid streams. She knows the adrenaline rush of a cold plunge, the improved clarity and mood. She takes a deep breath, is about to go under, when she feels something swish against her legs.

  She startles, splashing at the surface in a panic, legs churning fruitlessly to move her toward the edge. There are venomous snakes in Spain, and she’d been warned to be vigilant. She should have checked the pool for vipers looking for a place to escape the impending heat. But when she looks down, she realizes she’s still wearing her cover-up, the light fabric swirling around her body like seaweed.

  Without removing it, she dives under and swims to the end of the pool.

  2

  Curtis glances out the window to see his wife swimming lengths in her nightgown. This would have been alarming before everything happened—Sydney was a buttoned-up attorney, so capable and put together—but now she’s cloudy and distracted. Some of it’s the medication she takes, some of it’s the depression, and some, according to their couples’ therapist, is her body’s response to the emotional pain Curtis inflicted on her. Sydney’s gone numb to protect herself from future suffering. If she feels nothing at all, she can’t be hurt again.

  Guilt squeezes his heart as he watches his wife climb out of the pool. She’s still so elegant, a cool patrician beauty, but now she looks fragile, brittle, a husk of the vibrant woman she used to be. He did this to her, and he hates himself for it. But she’s given him another chance, and he’s going to fix everything. As Syd reaches for a towel, he realizes she’s wearing not her nightgown but the white gauzy shirt she wears over her bathing suit. Still, he wonders why she didn’t take it off. He knows enough not to comment.

  The toast pops, and he hurries to butter it while it’s still warm. They’re having scrambled eggs today, with blistered tomatoes and fresh-squeezed orange juice. The eggs are fresh, the bread made at a quaint little bakery. He wonders if Sydney tastes the quality like he does, or if his thoughtfully prepared meals are sawdust in her mouth. Some days, she’s fine and everything feels almost normal. Other days, she’s sad, or sullen, or outright angry. But she’s here. And he’s going to make her love him again.

  He hurries outside, where Sydney is wringing out her cover-up, a towel wrapped around her torso. “Brunch is served, m’lady. Do you want to eat inside or outside?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Come in. You’ll get a chill out here.”

  While Syd changes, Curtis sets the table. The dining room is his favorite space, maybe because it needed the least amount of work. Morning sun slips in through the sheer white curtains, warming the terra-cotta tiles. The massive farmhouse table, left here because it’s practically immovable, is a soft timber, etched with the memories of family meals. He sets down cloth place mats, forks, knives, and the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. The scene is idyllic… with only the faintest thrum of discontent under the facade.

  Moving to Spain had been Curtis’s idea. Even with couples’ therapy, Syd was struggling to heal in New York. There were too many reminders, they were too close to the scene of the crime, and Sydney had told too many people what Curtis had done. He knew some of Syd’s friends thought she should leave him. Her brother, Reid, did. Reid had told Sydney to get her own place or move in with him and his husband upstate. Reid was protective, Curtis got that, but he couldn’t force his sister to abandon her marriage.

  Ellen, the therapist, with her blunt bob and fashionable outfits, had insisted they ignore the advice of outsiders, not let shame or judgment drive them apart. Sydney had struggled to shut out the well-meaning chirping, the constant feedback loop. Syd still loved Curtis. He knew she didn’t want to give up on the life they’d built together. And Curtis loved her more than ever. And so, Curtis had made the grand suggestion, an extravagant gesture to show just how committed he was to a fresh start.

  “Spain?” Syd had laughed, incredulous. It had seemed so random. But they’d spent their honeymoon there twelve years ago and had fallen in love with the country.

  “I found a house,” he said, bringing up the listing on his phone. “It’s not far from Girona, above Cadaqués. It needs some TLC, but we can afford it if we sell the apartment.”

  “What will we do for work? How can we just move there?”

  “This place has some property,” he said, passing Syd the phone. “We could plant some grapes. Start a little vineyard. Spain offers a golden visa if you invest in real estate or start a business. And the cost of living is way cheaper than in New York.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Syd countered. “A public defender. I can’t just retire when I’m in my forties.”

  “But they work you to death at the PD’s office. You’re stressed and exhausted. And you’ve always been interested in wine. It’ll take a while to get started, but this could be a new career for you.” His voice had sounded almost childlike with hope. “For us.”

  Syd’s brow had been furrowed with skepticism, but it softened as she scrolled through the photos, saw the potential of the place. He knew she could envision a new kind of life, just the two of them. They could rebuild their relationship in this hilltop home. Syd could see it, too.

  “And I don’t want you to touch your inheritance,” Curtis had added. “Your mom left that money to you, and I think we can manage without it.”

  But they couldn’t, of course. (Has a reno ever come in under budget?) It soon became clear that they’d need more funds. Curtis had wanted to do most of the renovations himself, but there were limits to his skills. They’d had to hire an electrician to upgrade the panel to support the air-conditioning, and a plumber to replace cracked underground pipes from the well to the house. They could live with the chipped countertops and dated cupboards in the kitchen, but the fridge was leaking, and the stove was a fire hazard. And Syd didn’t think she could bear the Spanish heat without fixing the pool, so repairing the crack in the concrete had been a top priority. Starting over, building a new life, was expensive. But it was worth it.

  Syd approaches the table then, her wet hair slicked back, her face free of makeup. Her expression is placid after her bracing swim, and she looks beautiful. Healthy. The May sunshine has kissed her cheeks, and thanks to Curtis’s cooking, she’s gained back some of the weight she’d lost when everything happened. She’d arrived so thin and fragile, and now she’s more robust. More like the strong, self-assured woman she was.