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And whether I watered it or not… it was still there.
I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror—hair wind-tossed, lips a little too pink, a smudge of mascara I hadn’t bothered to fix. I looked like myself. But under it, something was shifting. Something I couldn’t name yet.
I started the car and rolled down the window, letting the breeze rush in. The scent of cut grass and gardenias drifted through the air.
I didn’t turn on the radio.
I didn’t call Damian, even though part of me wanted to.
I just sat there for a moment longer, the car idling under my hands, and let myself feel everything I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
Then I pulled out of the parking lot, sunglasses on, heart tight, and headed back to the guest house.
CHAPTER FIVE
Damian
The sun hit the bay like it knew it was being watched, reflecting just enough shimmer off the water to remind you how expensive this view was.
The Coconut Grove Yacht Club was exactly what it had always been: curated elegance with a side of smug tradition with polished teak decking. The staff wore white polos and navy hats, and the glass doors were so clean you could mistake them for open air. The kind of place where men my age shook hands like they were still auditioning for a board seat, and their wives wore heels too high for grass.
I checked my watch.One-oh-five. Technically late, but fashionably so.
Anthony was already at a corner table on the upper terrace, shaded beneath a broad umbrella and wearing the relaxed confidence of a man who never had to ask for his preferred table twice. One arm was hooked over the back of the chair, and theother curled around a lowball glass, condensation just beginning to slide down the sides.
He looked up and smirked. “You’re lucky. Gabrielle said if I interrupted her lunch with Juliette, I’d be eating blended food for a week. So I gave you a call so we could catch up.”
I slid into the seat across from him, loosening the top button of my shirt. “Twin-sister confidentiality?”
He raised his glass. “Sealed tighter than an NDA.”
“Juliette left me with a few bruises,” I said smoothly. “But not the kind that needed stitches.”
He laughed and flagged down the waiter. “Two of the same,” he told the guy, nodding at his drink. “You need it more than I do.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The heat pressed down heavy this afternoon—sticky, shimmering, the kind that made your collar feel too tight no matter how perfectly pressed your shirt had started out. The club was busy, but not loud. Just the usual collection of quiet power brokers and bored wives, gossiping behind their sunglasses while pretending not to notice who was walking by.
I gave a few nods. Made eye contact with a woman I didn’t recognize, but who clearly recognized me. A smile. Just enough charm to keep the performance going.
Because that’s what this was now—a performance.
I’d learned early on that if you wore confidence like a suit, people rarely asked what you had underneath. So I gave them the version they wanted: tailored, tanned, just the right shade of amused. Not a man who’d just watched one company sink whiletrying to steer another into uncharted waters. Not the guy who'd woken up this morning with a pit in his stomach and a calendar full of meetings he couldn’t afford to cancel.
The drink came. I sipped slowly, like I had all the time in the world.
“How’s Vérité?” Anthony asked, easily, but pointed.
I leaned back. “Holding. The board’s quiet. Valencia sent a bottle of wine after the press release about the Diaz acquisition. I think that was his way of saying ‘well done’ without having to type it.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “So you’re still on his good side.”
“For now.”
He nodded, like he knew exactly how temporaryfor nowcould be.
I kept my posture relaxed. My tone was casual. But the truth was, I hadn’t felt this tightly wound since… well, since the last time I’d watched one of my property deals slide sideways and realized there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.