The past few months had been headache after headache. Funeral arrangements, Francis’s blackmail, Luca’s bullshit, the engagement and Europe trip and regular business and social obligations I had to keep up with.
It was nice to sit and breathe for a minute.
“Speaking of my parents, they’d like to meet you,” I said. Introducing Vivian to them was a headache I’d hoped to avoid, though I’d known the chances of fending them off for a year or however long it took to break the engagement were slim. “We’re spending Thanksgiving with them.”
According to Christian’s report, the Laus weren’t big on Thanksgiving, so Vivian shouldn’t be too upset about missing the holiday with her family.
Not that I cared if she was.
“Okay.” She paused, obviously waiting for more information. When I didn’t provide any, she asked, “Do your parents live in New York?”
“A little farther.” I tossed my empty coffee cup in a nearby trash can. “Bali.”
For now. My parents hadn’t spent more than three consecutive months in one place in decades.
Vivian’s mouth parted. “You want us to fly to Bali to meet your parents for Thanksgiving?”
“We’ll be there for a week. We leave the Sunday prior and come back the following Monday.”
“Dante.” She sounded like she was struggling to keep calm. “I can’t just go to Bali for a week with less than two months’ notice. I have a job, plans—”
“It’s a holiday weekend,” I said impatiently. “What are you planning? The Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade?”
She crumpled her bagel wrapper with a white-knuckled hand. “I have to be back that Monday morning for a client meeting. I’ll be tired, jet-lagged—”
“Then we’ll leave Saturday instead.” My parents were the ones who’d insisted we stay a week. Vivian’s work gave me a good excuse to cut out early. “We’re taking my jet, and we’ll be staying at my parents’ villa. It’s not a big deal. We’re going to Bali, for fuck’s sake. Everyone wants to go to Bali.”
“That’s not the point. We should be consulting each other on this type of stuff. You’re my fiancé, not my boss. You can’t just tell me to jump and expect me to jump.”
God, this was tedious. “Considering I’m the one who paid for your shoes and flowers, I think I can do exactly that.”
I knew it was the wrong thing to say the second the words left my mouth, but it was too late to take them back.
Vivian stood abruptly. A breeze blew her skirt around her thighs, and a passing jogger gawked at her until I chased him off with a glare.
“Thank God you showed your true colors again,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “I was beginning to think you were human.” She threw out her cup and wrapper. “Thank you for breakfast. Let’s never do this again.”
She walked away, her shoulders stiff.
Behind his cart, Omar shook his head and frowned at me.
I ignored him. Who cared if that’d been an asshole thing to say? I’d already let my guard down more than I should’ve that morning.
Vivian was the daughter of the enemy, and I would do well to remember that.
I stayed on the bench for a while longer, trying to recapture the magic from earlier, but the peace was gone.
When I returned home, I found a check waiting on my bedside table for exactly one hundred thousand dollars.
CHAPTER 9
Vivian
The flea market was alive with the sounds of haggling and the faint honks of cabs from the neighboring streets. The scent of churros swirled through the air, and everywhere I looked, I saw an explosion of different colors, textures, and fabrics.
I’d been visiting the same market every Saturday for years. It was a treasure trove of inspiration and one-of-a-kind items I couldn’t find in the carefully curated luxury stores, and it never failed to pull me out of a creative rut. It was also my favorite place to visit when I needed to clear my head.
Today, however, it did neither of those things.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the memory of Dante’s mouth on mine.
The firmness of his lips. The heat of his body. The subtle, expensive scent of his cologne and the self-assured weight of his hands on my hips.
Days later, I could still feel the vividness of the moment as clearly as if it’d just happened.
It was infuriating.
Almost as infuriating as how I’d opened up to him over breakfast, only for him to revert to asshole status after a brief, shocking display of humanity.
There’d been a moment when I’d liked Dante, though that might’ve been my loneliness talking.
Contrary to what I’d told him at the photoshoot, there was something unsettling about coming home every day to a silent, spotless house. Our month apart had eased the sting of his words before he left for Europe, and I hadn’t realized how much Dante’s presence electrified the space until he was gone.
“We’ve been to this stall already,” Isabella said.
“Hmm?” I toyed with the fringe on a purple patterned scarf.
“This stall. We’ve been here already,” she repeated. “You bought the pashmina?”
I blinked as the rest of the stall’s contents came into sharp focus. She was right. It was one of the first vendors we’d visited when we arrived.
“Sorry.” I released the scarf with a sigh. “I’m a bit out of it today.”
I’m too busy thinking about my jerk fiancé.
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Isabella’s teasing smile faded when I didn’t return it. “What’s wrong? You normally blitz through this place like hellhounds are chasing us.”
Isabella loved thrifting and joined my Saturday excursions whenever she could. I’d tried to convince Sloane to come once, but the chances of her stepping foot in a flea market were slimmer than a Jimmy Choo stiletto heel.
“I just have a lot on my mind.”
I wanted to tell Isabella about the photoshoot, but there was nothing to tell. Dante and I had touched lips for thirty seconds for a photo. Anything beyond that was hormones and my dry spell talking.
Besides, I wasn’t lying. Between my job, my fraught relationship with Dante, my new social obligations as the future Mrs. Russo, and my miles-long to-do list for the wedding, I was running on fumes.
“We’re almost done,” I added. “I just need to find a gold mirror for Buffy Darlington’s granddaughter’s Sweet Sixteen.”
“I can’t believe we live in a world where there are people named Buffy Darlington.” Isabella shuddered. “Her parents must’ve hated her.”
“Buffy Darlington the Third, to be exact. It’s a family name.”
“That’s even worse.”
I laughed. “Well, name aside, Buffy is the grande dame of New York society and the head of the Legacy Ball committee. I have to impress her, or I can kiss my business goodbye.”
The Legacy Ball was the most exclusive event on the international circuit. It rotated locations every year, and the upcoming ball in May happened to take place right here in New York.