“Considering I’m actively surveilling her father on your request, it’s partly my business.” Ice clinked in the background. “Be careful, Dante. You can either have Vivian or you can have her father’s head on a platter—figuratively speaking, of course. You can’t have both.”
The shower stopped running, followed by a beat of silence and the opening creak of the bathroom door.
“I’m well aware. Keep looking.” I hung up right as Vivian stepped out in a cloud of steam and sweet-smelling fragrance.
Every muscle tensed.
Objectively, there was nothing indecent about her silk shorts and top. It was the same outfit she’d worn in the kitchen during our snack night, only in black instead of pink.
Unobjectively, it should be outlawed. All that exposed skin couldn’t be good for her. Never mind the fact we were in tropical Bali; the outfit was a hypothermia case waiting to happen.
“Who were you talking to?” Vivian loosened her hair from its bun and ran her fingers through the dark strands. They cascaded down her back, begging me to wrap my fist around them and see if they were as soft as they looked.
My jaw muscles flexed. “Business associate.”
I’d stayed up late the past three nights so I wouldn’t have to share the room with Vivian while we were both awake. She was always asleep when I came in, and I was always gone when she woke up.
We didn’t have that option tonight.
Apparently, Vivian wasn’t in the mood for card games with my family either, so we were stuck in the same room. Awake. Half dressed. Together.
Fuck my life.
“On Thanksgiving?” Vivian smoothed body lotion over her arms, oblivious to my torture.
I should’ve stayed in the damn living room.
“Money doesn’t rest.” I turned my back to her and pulled my shirt over my head. The air conditioning was on full blast, but I was burning up.
I tossed the shirt over the arm of a nearby chair and faced her again only to find her staring at me with wide eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed.” I cocked an eyebrow at her visible horror. “I sleep hot, mia cara. You wouldn’t want me to roast to death overnight, would you?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she muttered, setting her lotion back on the dresser. “You’re a grown man. One night of sleeping with your clothes on won’t kill you.”
Vivian’s eyes dropped to my bare torso before she quickly looked away, her cheeks red.
A knowing smirk worked its way onto my mouth, but it quickly faded when we turned off the lights and climbed into bed, making sure to stay as far apart as possible.
It wasn’t enough.
The California king was large enough to host a small orgy, but Vivian was still too close. Hell, I could be sleeping in the bathtub with the door closed and she’d still be too close.
Her scent stole into my lungs, blurring the usually crisp edges of my logic and reasoning, and her presence burned into my side like an open flame. The murmurs of our breaths overlapped in a heavy, hypnotic rhythm.
It was half past eleven. I could reasonably wake up at five.
Six and a half hours. I could do this.
I stared at the ceiling, my jaw tight, while Vivian turned and tossed. Every dip of the mattress reminded me she was there.
Half-naked, close enough to touch, and smelling like an apple orchard after a morning rainstorm.
I didn’t even like apples.
“Stop it,” I ground out. “Neither of us will get any sleep if you insist on moving around like that all night.”
“I can’t help it. My brain is…” She blew out a breath. “I can’t sleep.”
“Try.” The sooner she fell asleep, the sooner I could relax.
Relatively speaking.
“What great advice,” she said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. You should start a Dear Dante column in the local newspaper.”
“Were you born with a smart mouth, or did your parents buy it for you after their first million?”
Vivian let out a sardonic breath. “If my parents had their way, I wouldn’t say anything except yes, of course, and I understand.”
A twinge of regret softened my aggravation.
“Most parents want obedient children.” Except mine, who don’t want children at all.
“Hmm."
It struck me that Vivian knew more about my family dynamics than I did hers, which was ironic considering she was the more open one in our relationship. I rarely discussed my parents, both because the gossip mills churned overtime and because my relationship with them was nobody’s business, but there was something about Vivian that pulled reluctant admissions and long-buried secrets out of me.
“Are your parents upset we’re not celebrating Thanksgiving with them?” I asked.
“No. We’re not big on the holiday.”
Of course. I knew that.
More silence.
Moonlight spilled through the curtains and splashed liquid silver across our sheets. The A/C hummed in the corner, a quiet companion to the thunder rumbling in the distance. The sense of an impending rainstorm snuck past the windows and soaked the air.
It was the type of night that lulled people into drowsy disclosures and deep sleeps.
For me, it had the opposite effect. Energy buzzed like a live wire under my skin, heightening all my senses and setting me on edge.
“How much did your family change after your father’s business took off?”
We’d touched on the topic after our engagement shoot, but she hadn’t gone in depth about it beyond the arranged marriage expectations.
Since neither of us could sleep, I might as well try to get some intel out of Vivian. Plus, the conversation kept my mind off other, more impure thoughts.
“A lot,” she said. “One day, Agnes and I were attending public schools and eating school lunch. The next, we were at a fancy private academy with gourmet chefs and students showing up in chauffeured limos. Everything changed—our clothes, our house, our friends. Our family. At first, I loved it because what child wouldn’t love dressing up and having new toys? But…”
She drew in a deep breath. “The older I got, the more I realized how much money changed us. Not just materially, but spiritually, for lack of a better word. We were new money, but my parents were desperate to prove we were just as good as Boston’s old-money elite. There’s a difference, you know.”
I knew. Hierarchies existed even—especially—in the world of the rich and powerful.
“The desire for validation consumed them, especially my father,” Vivian said. “I can’t pinpoint the exact turning point, but I woke up one morning and the funny, caring man who’d carried me on his shoulders when I was a little girl and helped me build sandcastles on the beach was gone. In his place was someone who would do anything to reach the top of the social ladder.”
If she only knew.
“I’m not complaining,” she continued. “I know how lucky I am to have been raised with the money we had. But sometimes…” Another, more wistful breath. “I wonder if we would’ve been happier had Lau Jewels stayed a tiny shop on a side street in Boston.”
Jesus. An unfamiliar ache settled in my chest.
She and Francis shared the same blood. How could they be so damn different?