The robe smells like her. I bring the collar to my nose and inhale deeply, letting the scent of her wash over me. My body responds immediately, heat pooling low in my belly at the memory of her beneath me, of her lips parting at my command, of the soft sounds she made.
“Fuck,” I whisper as I head outside with my coffee.
The kiss wasn’t even the most reckless thing. I told Ruby everything. Everything. About Elena, about my father, about London, about grief and loss and survival—all the things I keep locked away.
Why? Why her? Why now, after all this time of careful distance?
I’ve known powerful women, brilliant women. I’ve had them in my club, in my bed, in my life. None of them have ever breached my defenses like this. I’ve mastered the art of keeping people at exactly the right distance—close enough to touch, but never close enough to wound. Until Ruby.
My phone vibrates against the table, and I glance at the screen. It’s my mother. I almost let it go to voicemail, as I often do, but something stops me, some lingering effect of last night’s confessions, and I answer instead.
“Mom?”
“Athena?” She sounds surprised, as if she didn’t expect me to pick up. It’s been weeks since we’ve spoken in real time, our relationship maintained through brief texts and missed calls. “Sweetie, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Just watching the sunrise.” I switchto Greek automatically, the language of my childhood flowing effortlessly despite the years away. “How are you? How’s your back? Are you still seeing that physical therapist I arranged?”
She makes a dismissive sound. “Stop fussing. That’s my job, not yours. My back is fine. The doctor says I’m as healthy as someone twenty years younger.”
“You’d say that even if you weren’t,” I counter.
“And you’d worry either way,” she replies.
“True.” I smile. “How’s Demetria?”
“Your sister is your sister. She’s driving me crazy with her new boyfriend—another artist, can you believe it? As if the last three weren’t enough trouble.”
I laugh. “Let me guess—tattoos? Motorcycle? Lives in his mother’s basement?”
“Worse! He’s French! And he’s moving to New York and wants her to go with him.” She clicks her tongue in disapproval, the sound so familiar it causes an unexpected pang of homesickness. “But that’s not why I’m calling, sweetie.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve decided to visit you. Next week.”
I nearly choke on my espresso, the hot liquid burning my throat. “Next week? Both of you?”
“Yes, Demetria and me. It’s been seven months, Athena. Seven months since you visited. If you won’t come to us, we’ll come to you.”
A complex mix of emotions washes over me—joy at the prospect of seeing them, anxiety about the timing, and a mild panic at having them in my space. “That’s…that would be wonderful,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with enthusiasm. “I’ll arrange the Presidential Suite at the Olympus for you.”
“No.” My mother’s voice brooks no argument. “Absolutely not. When you lived at the Olympus, that was one thing. But now you have a home, so we’re staying with you.”
My mind races through implications, complications, objections. My club. The comings and goings at all hours. The security measures. The risk. The fact that below my beautiful home lies a secret that would shock my traditional Greek mother to her core. The fact that they simply cannot stay with me.
“Mom,” I begin carefully, “the Olympus would be far more comfortable?—”
“Don’t you want us in your home?” She sounds hurt. For all her strength, my mother has always been sensitive about our relationship, about the distance—both physical and emotional—that I’ve put between us.
“No! No, of course that’s not it,” I say quickly. “You’re always welcome in my home, always. I’m looking forward to it.”
And I am, despite everything. It’s been too long since I’ve seen them, hugged them, shared a meal with them. Video calls are a poor substitute for my mother’s embrace. For the connection to my roots that I’ve neglected since I moved to Vegas.
“Good,” she says, satisfied. “We arrive on Tuesday. I’ll text you the charter details.”
After we hang up, I sit very still, watching as shadows retreat across my lawn. Tuesday. Less than a week to figure out how to reconcile my two lives. Can I close the club? That wouldn’t be right. The members contract states that they have access Thursday to Sunday, no exceptions. How many lies will I have to tell? How many truths can I afford to reveal?
An idea flashes through my mind, absurd anddesperate—I could buy or rent another property, stage it as my home—and I actually consider it for a moment. I have the resources, the connections. But the deception would be massive, unsustainable. I’m overthinking this. Or not thinking clearly at all. Too much has happened, too many emotions have been stirred up. Between Ruby and now this, I need to take a step back and clear my head.
