And God help me, I meant it.
But suddenly, it feels like less of a fight for survival and more of a forewarning ofmysurrender.
8
NAOMI
Two weeks later, breakfast is a study in composure and quiet knives.
We’ve wined and dined every donor, trustee, and dilettante who can nudge the preservation project. Rhode Island ballrooms, bay-view boardrooms, yacht decks slick with money, smiles, photographs, perfectly calibrated touches.
Now Vasso says we “let the work marinate,” which is billionaire for sit still and see who blinks. I expect a victory lap. I don’t expect the next stage.
He peels an orange for me with surgeon precision, the rind spiraling into a sunlit ribbon that lands on the plate like a flourish. He does this without comment, like the coffee he refills before I can reach the pot, like the linen napkin he tucks nearer my hand when a drip of marmalade threatens silk.
He’s been doing these quiet, domestic edits to my morning more and more, and it’s disconcerting in a way I have no vocabulary for.
“Now the preservation trust part of the milestone is taken care of, we need to move to the next stage,” he says, casual asthe breeze lifting the sheer at the terrace doors. “We leave at the weekend.”
I pause with a segment of orange halfway to my mouth. “For?”
“Our honeymoon. Pack light or don’t pack at all. I’m partial to a no-clothes vacation.”
I laugh, because it’s safer than choking. “We’re not doing a honeymoon.”
He tips his head, amused. “We are.”
“It wasn’t in the contract.”
“It is.” He slides a folder across the table.
My ring flashes in the Rhode Island sun as I flip it open.
His lawyer’s immaculate prose looks back at me:Section 7.2—Public Optics: Parties will undertake reasonable joint travel for press and stakeholder relations, including but not limited to a post-ceremony honeymoon period of not less than fourteen consecutive days with photographic availability.
I scowl at the line someone—me—didn’t read closely enough. “That’s not a honeymoon. That’s a press tour with sunscreen.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
I drop the page, reach for coffee I don’t need. He refills it anyway. “I’m not prepared.”
He peels another curl of orange, voice mild. “Prepared for what?”
“To pretend I’m blissful for two weeks while you parade me around the Amalfi Coast.”
“Greece,” he corrects. “And the coast is hardly a parade. It’s a celebration.”
I spear him with a look. “I didn’t consent to being celebrated.”
“You did,” he says quietly, and taps Section 7.2 with one knuckle. “Besides, my mother’s there in Greece. It’ll seem odd that I’ve married and yet my bride remains behind when I visither without you. You can also meet designers to choose your bridal gown.”
Silence stretches. He lets it. He’s annoyingly good at that.
“What do you want, Naomi?” he asks finally. No edge, just velvet that promises more somewhere down the hall.
The question lands in the echo of that night in the living room—the feel of his belt slipping, the ache I carried to bed like a contraband secret.
My body betrays me before my mouth can pretend. Heat climbs my neck; my pulse trips. His gaze drops to the delicate flutter where my throat gives me away.
