Chapter 2

...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.

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