...CHAPTER 1...

...Vivian's POV...

- I can't believe he's here. He never comes to these things, unless it's organized by a friend...

- Did you see that he's overtaken Arno Reinhart in the Forbes ranking of billionaires ? Poor Arnie nearly had a nervous breakdown in the middle of the Jean-Georges* when he found out...

Whispers grew louder in the midst of the Frederick Wildlife Trust's annual charity gala for endangered species. This year, the star of the event is supposedly the piping plover, but none of the two hundred guests, savoring their glass of Veuve Clicquot and caviar cannolis, mention the bird's welfare.

- I hear that his family villa on Lake Como is undergoing a hundred-million-dollar renovation. It's centuries old, so I guess it's about time...

The whispers get louder and louder, accompanied by furtive glances or dreamy sighs. I don't turn around to find out who's getting the usually placid members of Manhattan's high society so excited. I'm not really interested. I'm far too focused on a certain department store heiress wobbling her way to the goodie table on dizzying stilettos. She looks around discreetly before grabbing one of the personalized gift bags and stuffing it into her handbag. As soon as she steps away, I speak into my earpiece:

- Shannon, Code Rose at the goodies table. Find out who she took the pouch from and replace it.

Tonight, each one contains over eight thousand dollars worth of gifts, but it will be easier for me to add the extra cost of her flight to the event budget than to confront the heiress of Denman's stores. My assistant grumbles into my earpiece:

- Tilly Denman? Again? Am I mistaken, or can she afford everything on this table without even seeing the difference in her bank account?

- Yes, but for her it's not about the money. She likes the adrenaline rush, I say. Go ahead. I'll order pudding from Magnolia Bakery tomorrow to make up for your efforts in replacing the cover. And for God's sake, find Penelope, will you? She's supposed to be running the goodie table.

- Ha ha," giggles Shannon, understanding my sarcasm. Okay, I'll take a look at the sleeves and Penelope, but I'm expecting a huge box of puddings tomorrow.

I burst out laughing and shake my head just as the line goes dead. While she takes care of the gifts, I walk around the room, looking for the slightest problem. When I started in this business, I found it strange to work for events to which I would normally have been invited. But I've got used to it over the years, and the income from my services gives me a bit of freedom from my family.

It's not part of the trust fund* my parents are planning to give me, nor is it part of my inheritance. This money is the fruit of my work as an organizer of luxury events in Manhattan. I love the challenge of creating sublime receptions from scratch, especially as rich people love beautiful things. It's a win-win situation.

I make a final check that the sound system is ready for the final thank-you speech when Shannon comes running towards me.

- Vivian! You didn't tell me he was here!" she hisses.

- Who's here?

- Dante Russo!

My worries about the gift bags immediately go up in smoke. I suddenly look up at Shannon and notice her bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

- Dante Russo?

I repeat as my heart beats faster without knowing why.

- But he didn't send his answer back to say he was coming.

- Well, the confirmation rules don't apply to him," she replies, shivering with excitement. I can't believe he's here

- people will be talking about him for weeks!

The whispers from earlier suddenly make sense. Dante Russo, CEO of the Russo Group, a luxury goods conglomerate, rarely attends public events unless he's the organizer, a close friend or an important collaborator. The Frederick Wildlife Trust falls into none of these categories. This man is also one of the wealthiest, and therefore one of the most scrutinized, in New York.

Shannon is right. People will be talking about his appearance at this party for weeks, if not months. - So much the better, I say, striving to calm my frantic heartbeat. Maybe this will advance the cause of the piping plover. My assistant looks at me, rolling her eyes.

- Vivian, nobody cares about..." she grumbles, before pausing and looking around to whisper again. Nobody cares about the piping plovers. I mean, I'm sad they're threatened, but let's be honest, people are here to see and be seen, nothing more. Once again, she has a point. But no matter why they're here, the guests are raising money for a good cause, and these events keep my business going.

- The real topic of the evening," Shannon continues, "is how hot Dante is. I've never seen a guy wear a suit so well.

- Shan, you've got a man.

- What's the big deal? I'm allowed to appreciate the beauty of others.

- Yes, well, I think you've enjoyed the evening enough. We're here to work, not leer at the guests," I reply, pushing her gently towards the dessert table.

- Can you bring back some blueberry tarts? I'm running out.

- You wet blanket," she mumbles before complying.

I try to refocus on the sound system, but I can't help scanning the room, looking for the evening's surprise guest and ignoring the DJ and the 3D image of the piping plover to focus on the crowd gathered near the entrance. People are so tightly packed that I can't see beyond the front row, but I'd bet my bank account that Dante is at the center of their attention.

My suspicions are confirmed when the crowd disperses briefly and I catch a glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders. A shiver runs up my spine. Dante and I belong to close circles, but we've never officially met. From what I know of his reputation, I'd be happy to keep it that way. Still, I can't ignore his magnetic presence as it draws me to the other side of the room. However, an incessant vibration against my hip quickly removes the chills that were running through my skin, diverting my attention from Dante's fan club.

My stomach churns as I pull my phone out of my bag and discover who's calling. I shouldn't be answering private calls when I'm in the middle of an event, but ignoring Francis Lau is simply forbidden. I take one last look around to make sure there are no emergencies to attend to, then duck into the nearest toilet.

- Hello, Father.

After almost twenty years of training, my formal greeting comes naturally. I used to call him "Dad", but after Lau Jewels took off and we moved from our T2 to a mansion in Beacon Hill, one of Boston's most affluent neighborhoods, he insisted I call him "Father". Apparently, it sounds more "sophisticated" and "bourgeois".

- Where are you?" he growls in his big voice. What's that echo?

- I'm at work, so I hid in the bathroom to take your call," I explain, leaning against the sink. It's a fundraiser for the endangered piping plover.

I smile as I hear him sigh heavily. My father has very little patience for the wacky causes people use as pretexts for partying, although that doesn't stop him from going to these parties and donating money. That's what's expected, after all.

- Every day, I learn the name of a new animal in danger," he grumbles. Your mother's on the committee for the protection of I don't know what fish, as if we don't eat seafood every week.

My mother, a former beautician, is now a professional socialite and member of a charity organization.

- Since you're at work, I'll make this quick," says my father. We'd like you to join us for dinner on Friday night. We've got some important news for you.

He may present it as an invitation, but I know it's an order. Suddenly, my smile disappears.

- This Friday?

It's Tuesday and I live in New York while my parents are in Boston. It's really last-minute, even for them.

- Yes," says my father without saying more. Dinner's at 7 p.m. sharp. Don't be late. And he hangs up.

I keep my phone pressed to my ear for a few seconds before lowering my arm. It slips into my clammy hand and nearly falls to the floor before I stow it in my handbag. Funny how a simple sentence can send me into a spiral of anxiety. We've got some important news for you.

Has something happened at the company? Is someone dying or ill? Are my parents selling their house and moving to New York, as they've threatened to do in the past? My brain races, asking a thousand questions and considering a thousand possibilities. I don't have the answer, but I do have a certainty. An emergency summons to the Lau mansion is never a good omen.

...1. sophisticated French nouvelle cuisine, with large bay windows overlooking Central Park....

...2.In affluent English-speaking countries, a sum of money paid by a parent to his or her children when they reach a certain age and/or meet certain conditions....

...Chapter 2...

...Vivian’s POV...

My parents' living room looks straight out of an edition of Architectural Digest. Tufted sofas are placed perpendicularly to sculpted tables, porcelain tea sets vie for space alongside expensive knick-knacks, and even the air is cold and impersonal, like a luxurious air freshener. Some people create their cocoon, while my parents live in an aseptic and impersonal house.

— Your skin is dull, declares my mother, examining me with a critical eye. Do you still get your treatments at the salon every month ?

She watches me, sitting across from me, her skin glowing with a pearly, almost fluorescent tan.

— Yes, Mother, I reply, my cheeks tense from my forced smile.

It's barely been ten minutes since I crossed the threshold of my childhood home, and they've already criticized my unkempt hair, my too-long nails, and now, my skin. A normal evening at the Lau manor.

— Fine. Don't forget, you can't let yourself go, said my mother. You are not married yet.

I suppress a sigh. Here we go again... No matter how successful my career in Manhattan is, where the event planning market is more ruthless than the sales season, my parents are fixated on the fact that I don't have a boyfriend, and therefore no plans for marriage.

They tolerate my work because the idea of an heiress doing nothing all day is no longer in vogue, but they drool at the thought of having a son-in-law capable of further anchoring their name in the elitist circle of old fortunes. We are rich, but we will always remain nouveau riche; at least for this generation.

— I'm still young, I reply patiently.

I have plenty of time to meet someone. I'm only twenty-eight, but my parents act like I'm going to turn into a mummy at the stroke of midnight on my thirtieth birthday.

— You're almost thirty, replies my mother. You're not getting any younger, and you need to start thinking about marriage and children. The longer you wait, the fewer single men there will be.

— But I'm thinking about it!

I constantly think about the year of freedom I have left before being forced to marry a banker whose last name is a series of numbers.

— As for the fact of looking younger, that's what Botox and cosmetic surgery are for.

If my sister were here, she would have laughed. But since that's not the case, my joke falls flat faster than a failed soufflé. My mother pinches her lips. Next to her, my father's thick and graying eyebrows form a severe V.

At sixty years old, sprightly and athletic, Francis Lau perfectly embodies the image of the CEO who succeeded without anyone's help. Under his leadership, Lau Jewels has transformed from a small family shop into a giant multinational in just thirty years. All it takes is for him to give me a look, and I curl up against the sofa cushions.

— Every time we talk to you about marriage, you dodge the subject with your jokes, he said in a reproachful tone. Marriage is not a joke, Vivian. It's an important matter for our family. Look at your sister. Thanks to her, we have a connection with the royal family of Eldorra.

I bite my tongue so hard that a taste of iron fills my mouth. My sister married an Eldorran count who is a second cousin of the queen. Our "connection" with the royal family of the small European country is tenuous, but in my father's eyes, an aristocratic title remains an aristocratic title.

— I know it's not a joke, I retort, taking my cup of tea to occupy my hands.

But it's also a topic I don't need to think about right now. I'm dating and exploring different possibilities. There are plenty of single men in New York. I just have to find the right one. I of course omit to add that while New York has many, the number of straight guys who are not idiots or unstable, nor excessively eccentric, is surprisingly low.

My last date tried to trap me in a séance to contact his deceased mother so she could "meet me and give her approval." Needless to say, I never saw him again. But my parents don't need to know. As far as they're concerned, I'm just going on dates with rich kids and nothing else.

— For two years, we have given you enough time to find a suitable partner, says my father, far from convinced by my spiel. You haven't had a serious boyfriend since your last... relationship. It is clear that you don't feel the same urgency as we do. That's why I took matters into my own hands.

I freeze as my cup is just a few centimeters from my mouth.

— What do you mean? That is to say?

I thought the important news he was referring to was about my sister or the company. And what if... My blood runs cold. No, it's impossible.

— That means I found you a suitable ring.

My father drops his bombshell without any preamble or trace of emotion.

— It required quite a bit of work on my part, but the deal is done. I found you a suitable ring.

Each word of his statement strikes my chest and nearly shatters my apparent composure. I set my teacup down too forcefully on the table, and the clink of the saucer earns me a grimace from my mother. For once, I am too busy digesting the information to care about her disapproval. Arranged marriages are common in our circle of business and power plays, as unions there are not a matter of love but of alliance.

My parents married my sister for a title, and I knew my turn would come. However, I didn't expect it to happen so... soon. A bitter mix of astonishment, apprehension, and horror lodged in my throat. I am expected to commit to a lifelong contract after "a fair amount of work" from my father. That's what all women dream of hearing...

— We've let you drag your feet for too long, and this alliance will be extremely beneficial for us, continues my father. I am certain that you will agree with me once you have met him for dinner.

The bitterness within me turns into poison and eats away at me from the inside.

— For dinner? You mean tonight? I exclaim in a distant and strange voice, as if it were a bad dream. Why didn't you tell me earlier?

Being caught off guard by the news of an arranged marriage is bad enough as it is, but meeting my future fiancé without any preparation is a thousand times worse! No wonder my mother is even more critical than usual. She is waiting for her future son-in-law for dinner.

My stomach churns, and the possibility of its contents spilling onto my mother's favorite Persian rug seems increasingly likely. Everything is happening too fast. The summons for tonight, the news of my engagement, the imminent meeting... My brain is getting muddled as I try to keep up.

— He hadn't confirmed his presence until today because of... certain scheduling complications, explains my father while smoothing his shirt. You have to meet him sooner or later. It doesn't matter whether it's now, in a week, or in a month.

In fact, it is important, precisely. There is a difference between being mentally prepared to meet my fiancé and running into him unexpectedly. My response is boiling inside me, but I know it will never surface. To contradict my parents is strictly forbidden in the Lau household. I am required to follow the rules even as an adult, and disobedience is always met with punishment and severe reprimands.

— We want to get things started as quickly as possible, my mother interjects. It takes time to plan a proper wedding, and your fiancé is... uh... fussy.

It's funny, she already calls him "my fiancé" even though I've never seen him before.

— Lifestyle named him last year as one of the most sought-after singles under forty in the world. He is rich, handsome, and powerful. Honestly, your father has outdone himself, she adds, patting his arm, delighted.

I haven't seen her this enthusiastic since last year when she got us tickets for the Boston Society wine auction.

— It's... great, I declare, as my smile falters after being forced for so long.

At least, I can assume that my fiancé has all his teeth. I wouldn't have been surprised if my parents had married me off to a decrepit billionaire on his deathbed. Money and status are their priorities, everything else is secondary. I take a deep breath and beg my brain not to sink into these gloomy thoughts.

Pull yourself together, Viv. As overwhelmed as I am since my parents' surprise announcement, I will break down later, after enduring the evening. Anyway, it's not like I could say no. If I dared, my parents would disinherit me. And then, my future husband, my stomach churns again, will be here any minute now, I can't make a scene.

I rub my hand on my thigh, I'm dizzy, but I cling to the mask I always wear when I'm at my parents' place. Cool. Calm. Respetable.

— Well... I start before swallowing my bile and feigning a relaxed tone. Does Mr. Perfect have a name or is he only known by the amount of his fortune? I don't remember all the men mentioned by Mode de Vie, but those whose names I recall don't really inspire me with confidence. If...

— By my fortune for strangers. By my name for my close circle and my family.

I tense up, surprised by the deep voice that resonates behind me. His words slide over me like honey warmed by the sun, rich and sensual, with a slight Italian accent that makes me shiver from head to toe. A wave of warmth rushes through my veins.

— Ah, there you are, said my father as he stood up, an oddly triumphant spark in his eyes. Thank you for coming at the last minute.

— How could I miss the opportunity to meet your charming daughter?

A hint of mockery animates his voice when he utters the word "charming," and the budding attraction I had for the tone of his voice, damn it, disappears immediately. My blood runs cold. You're talking about Mr. Perfect. I have learned to trust my instincts when it comes to reading people, and this one tells me that the owner of this voice is as delighted as I am with this dinner.

— Vivian, say hello to our guest, says my mother.

If she smiled more, her face would crack in two. I almost expect her to rest her cheek on her hand and sigh dreamily like a high school girl. I rid myself of that disturbing image before lifting my head. To turn around. And to get up. I'm breathless. Black and thick hair. An olive complexion. A slightly twisted nose that enhances his virile and wild charm rather than detracting from it. My future husband is a masterpiece in a suit.

His beauty is not conventional, but he exudes so much power and attracts attention in such a way that his presence consumes all the oxygen in the room, like a black hole absorbing a new star. There are simply beautiful men, and then there is him. However, unlike his voice, his face is eminently recognizable. My heart sinks in my chest, crushed by my astonishment. Impossible. He can't be my betrothed. It must be a joke.

— Vivian, scolds my mother, trying discreetly to make me react.

Ah yes, the dinner, the fiancé, the meeting. I mentally slap myself to snap out of my stupor and resort to a forced, but polite, smile.

— Vivian Lau. It's a pleasure to meet you, I declare while extending my hand.

He waits a second before squeezing it, then my palm is enveloped by his warmth and an electric current runs up my arm at his touch.

— I had understood, after all the times your mother said your name, he replies in a nonchalant tone, trying to pass off his remark as a joke, but the severity of his gaze tells me it's far from one. Dante Russo, the pleasure is all mine.

Here comes that mocking tone again, as subtle as it is cutting. Dante Russo. CEO of the Russo Group, a Fortune 500 legend, the ranking of the five hundred richest American companies, and the man who set the crowds ablaze at the Frederick Wildlife Trust gala three nights ago.

This is not just any bachelor. He is the bachelor. The elusive billionaire that all women covet and none can obtain. He is thirty-six years old, reputed to be married to his work, and until now, had never shown the slightest intention of ending his solitary life. So, why does Dante Russo, of all the men in New York, accept an arranged marriage?

— I would introduce myself by the amount of my fortune, he continues, but given the reasons for this dinner, placing you in the category of strangers would be inappropriate.

His smile contains not the slightest hint of warmth. My cheeks flush when he reminds me of my earlier joke. It wasn't ill-intentioned, but talking about people's wealth is considered rude, even though everyone does it in private.

— It's very generous of you, I reply in a cold tone to hide my shame. Don't worry about it, Mr. Russo. If I wanted to know the amount of your fortune, I would just have to look it up on the Internet. I am sure that the information is as easy to find there as the stories of your legendary charm.

His gaze sparkles briefly, but he doesn't take the bait. Instead, we stare at each other for a few seconds, tense, before he withdraws his hand from mine and examines me from head to toe with a cold and detached expression. My hand still tingles, but my poor mortal heart freezes under the indifference of this god.

I stiffen again under her gaze and suddenly become aware that I am wearing my "Cecilia Lau Approved" outfit, consisting of a tweed skirt suit, pearl earrings, and low-heeled pumps. I even swapped my favorite poppy red lipstick for the neutral tone she prefers. It's the standard uniform I wear when I visit my parents, and judging by the way Dante's mouth tightens, he is far from impressed. A mix of embarrassment and annoyance knots my stomach as his dark, merciless eyes meet mine.

We barely exchanged a few words, but I already have two certainties: The first is that Dante is my fiancé. The second is that we could very well end up killing each other before even reaching the altar.

...Chapter 3...

...Dante’s POV...

- The wedding will take place in six months, declares Francis.

That gives enough time for preparations without dragging on too long. However, the public announcement should be made immediately. Disgust overwhelms me as he smiles, perfectly hiding the snake he is behind his jovial tone and friendly expression. We moved to the dining room after my arrival, and the conversation immediately turned to the wedding preparations. Obviously, he wants the whole world to know as soon as possible that his daughter is marrying a Russo.

Men like Francis are ready to do anything to climb the social ladder, including threatening me two weeks ago in my own office, shortly after my grandfather's death. Thinking back on it, rage swells in my chest. If I had listened to myself, he would have left New York in a wheelchair. Alas, I am bound hand and foot, at least metaphorically, and until I find a way to untie them, I will have to remain silent. At least, most of the time.

- No, that won't be the case, I reply, gripping my wine glass tighter, imagining instead Francis's neck. No one will believe that I'm getting married so quickly, unless there's a dubious reason. For example, if your daughter were pregnant and we were getting married in a hurry.

My insinuation makes everyone uncomfortable, but I maintain a neutral expression and a bored tone. Restraint is not something that comes naturally to me. When I don't like someone, I make sure the person knows it, but extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures. Francis's lips pinch.

- In that case, what do you propose ?

- One year is a much more reasonable duration.

Never would be better, but that's not an option.

- A year will do the trick then.

It's short enough for Francis to agree, and long enough to give me time to find and destroy the evidence of his blackmail. In any case, I hope so.

- The announcement of our engagement can be postponed, I continue. A month will give us time to come up with a credible story, given that your daughter and I have never even been seen together in public.

- We don't need a month to come up with a story, he retorts.

If arranged marriages are common in high society, the parties involved always make a considerable effort to hide the true reason for the arrangement. Admitting that one family is joining another for reasons of social status or money is considered vulgar.

- Two weeks, he decides. We will make the announcement the weekend Vivian moves in with you.

My jaw tightens and I feel my fiancée stiffen beside me, clearly surprised to learn that she has to live with me before the wedding. That's part of Francis's conditions in exchange for his silence, and I already dread that moment. I hate it when people invade my privacy.

- I am sure your family would also like to announce it soon, Francis continues, emphasizing the word family. Don't you agree ? I hold his gaze until he fidgets in his chair and looks away.

- Let's go for two weeks.

The day of the announcement doesn't matter. I just want to make the preparations as complicated as possible. What matters is the wedding date. One year. One year to destroy the photos and break off the engagement. It will be a huge scandal, but my reputation can handle it. Unlike the Lau's.

For the first time of the evening, I smile. Francis stirs again and clears his throat.

- Perfect. We will work together on the announcement...

- I will write it. Then ?

I ignore his dark look and take another sip of merlot. The conversation turns into a boring enumeration of guests, flowers, and a million other absurdities I couldn't care less about. A stormy anger swells within me, and I no longer listen to Francis and his wife. Instead of working on the Santeri contract or relaxing at Club Valhalla, I'm stuck here, on a Friday night, listening to their nonsense.

Next to me, Vivian eats without saying a word, lost in her thoughts. After a heavy silence, she finally speaks up.

- How was your flight ?

- Very good.

- Very well.

- I appreciate that you took the time to come here even though we could have met in New York. You must be very busy.

I cut a piece of my veal cutlet and bring it to my mouth. Vivian's gaze pierces me as I slowly chew the meat.

- I also heard that the more zeros a person has in their bank account, the less capable they are of conversing, she declares in a falsely sweet tone. Do you confirm this rumor ?

- I thought an heiress like you would know that it's inappropriate to talk about money in polite society.

- I thought an heiress like you would know that it is inappropriate to talk about money in good society.

- The key word being "good."

A faint smile stretches across my lips. Under different circumstances, I might have liked Vivian. She's gorgeous and surprisingly witty, with wisdom-filled brown eyes and a refined figure that no amount of money can buy. But with her pearls and Chanel tweed suit, she's a carbon copy of her mother and all the other uptight heiresses who care only about their status in society. What's more, she's Francis' daughter. It's not her fault she's the offspring of a bastard, but I don't care. Even her beauty can't erase that stain on her pedigree.

- It's rude to talk to a guest like that, I reply mockingly, reaching for the salt.

My sleeve brushes against her arm and I see her tense up.

- What would your parents say ?

It's been less than an hour since we met, and I've already figured out how Vivian works: being perfect, avoiding confrontation and a desperate need for her parents' approval. Bla-bla-bla, what a bore ! Her eyes crinkle.

- They would say that the guests in question must respect social etiquette just as much as their host, including making an effort to hold polite conversation.

- Would they ? Does propriety include dressing like a Park Avenue housewife ? I retort.

Detailing her jacket and pearls. I don't care if women like Cecilia wear such an outfit, but Vivian looks as out of place in these old-fashioned clothes as a diamond in a burlap sack. I don't know why, but it annoys me.

- No, but it clearly doesn't include ruining a pleasant dinner with this kind of behavior, she replies coldly. You should buy yourself some manners to go with your suit, Mister. Russo. As a luxury CEO, you know better than anyone that the slightest lapse in taste can ruin an entire outfit.

Another smile appears on my lips, still discreet, but more insistent. Not so boring after all. However, any trace of amusement goes up in smoke when her mother interferes in our conversation.

- Dante, is it true that all the Russo's get married at the family estate on Lake Como ? I hear the renovations will be completed next summer, in time for the wedding.

My smile disappears and I tense up when she mentions the ceremony again. I look away from Vivian to meet Cecilia's enthusiastic face.

- Yes, I retort curtly. All weddings have taken place at Villa Serafina since the 18th century.

My great-great-great-grandfather had this place built and named it after his wife. Although my family is originally from Sicily, they emigrated to Venice, where they made their fortune in the luxury textile trade. By the time the boom in Venetian trade came to an end, they had diversified enough to continue prospering, and then acquired properties all over Europe. Today, several centuries later, the Russo family is scattered all over the world, in New York, Rome, Paris and Switzerland, but Villa Serafina remains the family estate we hold most dear.

I'd rather drown in the Mediterranean than tarnish this place with the farce that is this wedding. My anger suddenly resurfaces.

- Superb! exclaims Cecilia. Oh, I'm so glad you're soon to be part of the family. You and Vivian are the perfect couple. You know, she speaks six languages, plays the piano and the violin, and...

- Excuse me, I scold, pulling back my chair loudly and interrupting Cecilia. I must leave for a few moments.

At my rudeness, the room falls silent. I don't wait for an answer before turning on my heels, leaving behind a furious Francis, a perplexed Cecilia and an embarrassed Vivian. My anger continues to bubble up inside me, but it subsides a little more as I walk away from them. In the past, I was quick to take revenge on those who attacked me. Never mind the saying that revenge is a dish best served cold. My personal motto has always been to strike fast, strike hard and strike where it hurts the most.

The world is changing too fast for me not to evolve with it. I've always dealt with my problems by reacting harshly to make sure they don't happen again, then moving on. However, the Lau situation requires patience. It's a virtue I'm not familiar with, and I feel cramped, as if in a suit that's too tight. The echo of my footsteps disappears as the marble floor gives way to carpet.

I've visited enough mansions to know where the toilets are, but I walk past them without stopping, choosing instead the mahogany door at the end of the corridor. I turn the handle and discover an office decorated in the style of an English library, with wood panelling, leather furniture and dark green accents. Francis' sanctuary. At least it's not overloaded with gold like the rest of the house.

My eyes were about to bleed, the sight was so awful. I left the door open and entered, taking my time. If Francis doesn't like me searching his office, he can come and confront me. He's not so stupid as to have left the photos lying around in an unlocked room when I was coming tonight. And even if they were here, he would have planned to keep copies elsewhere. I settle into his chair, take a Cuban cigar from the box in his drawer and light it, studying the place.

My anger gives way to reflection. The black screen of the computer tempts me, but I prefer to leave the hacking to Christian, who is already looking for digital copies of the photos. Instead, I focus on a shot of Francis and his family in the Hamptons. My research has taught me that they have a vacation home in Bridgehampton, and I'd bet my brand-new Renoir that at least one copy of the evidence is there. Where else could they be...

- What are you doing ?

The smoke from my cigar obscures Vivian's face, but I can still clearly feel her disapproval. That was quick. I thought I had another five minutes before her parents forced her to come and get me.

- I take a cigar break, retorting with a slow draw. I don't smoke cigarettes, but I do enjoy a good Cohiba.

At least Francis has good taste in that department.

- In my father's study ?

- Obviously, I answer.

A gloomy satisfaction comes over me when the smoke clears and reveals Vivian's grimace. Finally, a trace of emotion. I was beginning to think I was stuck with a robot for the duration of this ridiculous engagement. She crossed the room and took the cigar from my hand, dropping it into the glass of water on the desk, without taking her eyes off me.

- I understand that you're used to doing what you want when you want, but it's extremely impolite to sneak out in the middle of a meal to smoke in your host's office, she declares, her fine facial features taut. Please, join us at the table. Your meal is getting cold.

- That's my problem, not yours, I declare, stepping back. Why don't you take a break with me ? I promise it'll be more pleasant than listening to your mother worry about the wedding flowers.

- Given our interactions so far, I highly doubt it, she retorts.

I study her playfully as she slowly inhales and exhales in a controlled manner.

- I don't understand what you're doing here, Vivian resumes in a calmer voice. It's clear you don't like this arrangement, and you don't need money or a connection to my family. You could have any woman you want.

- Really ? I say. What if it's you I want ?

- It's not, she replies, clenching her fists.

- You underestimate yourself, I say, standing up and walking around the desk to join her.

I stop when I'm close enough to see her pulse beating in her neck. Would it beat faster if I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back ? If I kissed her hard enough to mark her mouth and pulled up her skirt until she begged me to take her ? A wave of heat rushes through my lower abdomen. I have no desire to fuck her, but she's so prim and proper that I'm dying to corrupt her. A deafening silence falls between us as I raise my hand to stroke her lower lip with my thumb. Her breathing becomes anarchic, but she doesn't back down. She gazes defiantly into mine and I take my time exploring the curves of her mouth. It's fleshy, soft and so tempting it's disturbing, compared to the rest of her formal appearance.

- You're sublime, I say languidly. Perhaps I saw you at an event and fell completely under your spell, before asking your father for your hand in marriage.

- I don't know why, but I highly doubt it, she replies as her breath tickles my skin. What deal have you struck with my father ?

The reminder of the deal in question ruins the sensuality of the moment as quickly as it appeared. I freeze, my thumb on her bottom lip, and let my hand fall back, cursing in my head. Tingles cover my skin as the memory of her sweetness etches itself into my memory. I hate Francis for blackmailing me, and I hate Vivian for being his pawn. What the hell am I doing playing with her in this office ?

- You should ask your father, I retort with a cruel, humorless smile. Never mind the details, just know that if I'd had the choice, I wouldn't have agreed to this damn marriage. But business is business, and you... you're just part of the deal.

I conclude my explanations with a shrug. Vivian is not aware of her father's schemes. Francis warned me not to talk to her about it, but I wouldn't have done it anyway. The fewer people who know about the blackmail, the better. He discovered one of my rare weaknesses, and there's no way he's going to inform the rest of the world about it. Vivian's gaze ignites with anger.

- You are a bastard.

- Yes, indeed. Better get used to it, my dear, because I am also your future husband. Now, if you would kindly excuse me... I adjust my jacket with deliberate care, I have to go back to dinner. As you said, my meal is getting cold.

I walk past her, savoring the delicious taste of her indignation. One day, she will wake up and discover that her wish has been granted and our engagement is broken. Until then, I will bide my time and play the game, because Francis's ultimatum is crystal clear : if I don't marry Vivian, my brother will die.