Page 28

My father’s kingdom was built on rot.
And the worst part?
If Ivy finds out before I can explain…
She’ll think I helped build it too.
I send a text to my assistant:Book me a flight home. Tonight.
I grow impatient and tap my phone screen to call her.
“Sir, I just sent you a screenshot. There’s a travel advisory. No planes are flying in or out of the Big Island due to the storm.”
“Can you send my jet?”
A pause.“I’m sorry, Mr. Volcor. FAA’s grounded everything until the weather clears. Nothing can fly in or out until further notice. Not commercial, not private.”
I curse under my breath, ending the call just as I step into the lobby. As I’m wrapping things up, I glance toward the front desk—and there she is.
Ivy.
She’s speaking to the concierge. The windows of the lounge are tinted for privacy, so she doesn’t see me. But I see her. Her profile, her posture, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear while asking a question like she’s trying not to sound too eager.
I wait until she walks off before I approach.
The woman behind the desk greets me with a professional smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Volcor. How can I assist you?”
“The woman who was just here—what was she asking about?”
She hesitates, but I don’t need her to say much.
“She was checking to see if any vacancies had opened up,” she says finally.
“And?” I ask, jaw tight.
“We’re still fully booked, sir. Most of our guests are here for the Global Architecture and Sustainability Conference. We usually have a few vacancies even with a fully booked resort, but with the storm interfering with the systems, everything’s a mess. We won’t have any rooms available for at least another week—likely not until the airport reopens.”
So she was trying to leave. Not the island, just… me.
I nod slowly. “Thank you for your help.”
She smiles politely. “Of course.”
I stand there for a second, debating whether to let her walk farther away from me emotionally, or… try.
I don’t know where this thing with Ivy is going. But I do know what it felt like last night. And I’m not ready to let that go.
Not yet.
“Actually,” I say, turning back toward the desk, “I’d like to order dinner. Room service. For two.”
“Certainly. And any special requests?”
“Yes. Something not on the menu.” I pause, then smirk slightly. “Is it possible to create a custom dessert? Something… surprising.”
She lights up. “Absolutely. Our head chef is world-renowned, and our pastry chef has earned two Michelin stars in France. We’ll make something unforgettable.”
“Perfect. Deliver it at seven.”