We are laughing when my phone buzzes again and the sound feels like a gun cocking at the back of my neck.
Tick Tock, Princess.
I smile like nothing in the world has teeth and say, mildly, “Another talking dog video from TikTok,” because lying is athing my father taught me and I am, apparently, a very good student when I have to be.
Later, in the dark, I listen to my husband’s breathing change as sleep takes him. I lie with my eyes open and the sea inside my ears and count backwards from a hundred, then a thousand, then the number of days left on a contract I signed with my own hand.
Eleven months and change.The inner voice smooths its nails over my heart.Tick-tock, Princess. How much can you fix before time is up?
Down the hill, a boat engine coughs, catches, putters into the dark. Somewhere a dog barks once and gives up. I turn onto my side and face the man who once kissed me under glass and promised me a world he didn’t have the funds to buy.
“Together,” I whisper at his sleeping mouth, and my throat burns at the truth in it. I want together. I want to stop building clever cages and calling them protection. I want to hand him the truth and let him be angry and trust that he won’t put that anger down as punishment on my body.
In the morning, there will be consequences.
Today, I keep my secrets. Tonight, I keep my place in his arms.
For now, the sea keeps our house afloat.
18
VASSO
The investor lunch in Athens sits on the 21st floor of a five-star hotel, all skyline and sunlight and the indifferent glitter of a city that has reinvented itself so often it no longer apologizes for it. I make a joke about the view; they laugh in the way men with money do when they’re already inclined to say yes.
Between slides and sea bream I let my mind slip backward to an island.
The way my mother kissed Naomi’s cheeks with polite steel and then handed her a knife. The way Naomi salted the tomatoes at the end like she’d been born with that knowledge, stood her ground without theatrics, and told the truth without begging for absolution.
The roof, the stars, the story about my olive-crate raft; the way Ma’s mouth betrayed a smile she thought better of halfway through and let it stay anyway.
It went better than I expected.
In time—Christ, listen to me—in time, the two most important women in my life could find the rope between them and start pulling the same direction again. The thought lands and shudders through me because it isn’t a one-year thought; it’sthe kind of thought that takes root and sends messages down the bones.
I’m halfway through outlining the preservation trust’s timeline when Mara Kincaid slides into the chair at my right with a plate she has no intention of eating. My COO has a talent for arriving at the moment leverage needs backup.
“Vecchio’s warmed,” I say under the room’s hum. “We’ll have the cask ceremony on the island, lighthouse vow program soft-launch by autumn. And the role we discussed—greenlight it.”
Mara’s brows make an interested shape. “Title unchanged?”
“Yes. Chief Experience Architect. Cross-team role, paid from hospitality or partnerships. I’ll send the brief tonight.”
“And the candidate?” She glances, almost idly, toward Naomi at the far end of the table. She’s animated, bright, the camera anchoring to her the way light does to things worth seeing.
“Already in the room,” I say. “As you know.”
Mara’s mouth goes wry. “I’ll start the org chart. Tell her I’m looking forward to toasting her new roles?”
“Sure thing. We’ll have lunch as soon as we—” I break off because Naomi is rising. She touches a board member’s shoulder, excuses herself with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and slips out.
Mara follows the line of my attention, hums. “Go. I’ll charm the pension fund.”
Look at me, eager for every moment alone with my wife.
My skin jumps with boyish thrill as I head for the elevator, hoping for a few minutes alone with her before we have to go corporate again.
The lobby is a cool and elaborate artwork of stone, steel, a vase of lilies making a valiant attempt to smell like innocence. Naomi stands near the windows, thumbs working her phone with a speed that reads less like texting and more like triage.She’s pale under the makeup. Determined around the mouth. A soldier packing a wound.
