When he finally breaks the kiss and pulls back slightly, he studies me, his striking blue eyes gone softer, almost tender… before his lips curl into that slow, smug smirk that makes my chest ache and my body tighten all over again.
“Thailand and Bora Bora it is then,” he murmurs, voice low enough to vibrate through me.
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, sealing the promise, tasting me like he’s not done—like he’ll never be done.
Fuck me… this man will be the death of me.
FORTY-SEVEN
LUCAS
I let out a shaky breath as I slide my debit card across the counter. The sales associate takes it with a smile that’s so perfectly practiced it almost glitters. I recognize it instantly because I’ve worn that exact same mask behind the counter at the café, handing out caramel lattes to rich uni kids who treat the place like their living room. The kind of smile that says I’m here to serve you, and yes, you’re important.
The card reader beeps, loud in my ears, and the screen flashes a number I’ve never seen leave my account in one swipe. My thumb hesitates over the keypad before I force myself to punch in my PIN. If I think too hard about it, I’ll snatch my card back and run.
I’m inside a David Yurman store. My sneakers squeak faintly against a floor so polished I’m afraid I’ll leave scuffs on it. The man helping me is dressed like he stepped straight out of a magazine spread: tailored suit, tie knotted with surgical precision, shoes shining like black mirrors. He sets my card back on the counter with both hands, like it’s part of some quiet ceremony, and then begins to package the bracelet.
It’s almost hypnotic, watching him. The way the bracelet disappears into a velvet-brown pouch, then slips into a glossy brown-and-white box with the brand’s name pressed into thelid. A ribbon—perfect, impossible to replicate—ties into place. Then the box is lowered into a matching bag, handled like it contains something far more important than jewelry.
My stomach twists. I just bought a bracelet for a man. For my man. And it wasn’t on the card he added me to, the one he insists I use when I “need” something. This came straight from my debit card. My money. My choice. Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m vibrating out of my skin, because there is no universe where I thought I’d spend over two grand on a single piece of jewelry for myself, not to mention anyone.
I’ve wanted to give Alex something for months now. Something that was mine to give. He gives me so much it’s dizzying—more clothes than I can count, sneakers and shoes that still have the tags on them because I can’t bring myself to wear them out, bracelets and necklaces tucked into boxes in my drawer in his closet. He even tried to buy me another watch after the Chanel one, until I begged him to stop because I’m not a watch person. I don’t know where he thinks I’m wearing all these things.
“Would you like to include a note with your gift?” The sales associate asks, his voice warm, in the way expensive places train their staff.
My fingers twitch. “Uh… yeah.”
He slides a small cream-colored card toward me, the store’s logo embossed in gold at the top. There’s even a matching envelope. My reflection stares up from the glass counter as I grip the pen, and suddenly, the blank space feels suffocating.
What the hell do I even write? Thanks for all you do for me. You make me feel seen? I love you?
I swallow, pen hovering. My hand shakes just enough that the tip scratches against the card. I write slowly, deliberately, keeping it short, because anything more would feel too much forme, and I might straight up burst out in tears with the emotions going through me.
When I’m done, I slip the card into the tiny envelope, my chest tight. The associate takes it without a glance, tucking it neatly into the bag.
The bag is placed in front of me, its sleek ribbon catching the light. I reach for it slowly, like it might vanish if I’m not careful. I’ve barely stepped out of the store when my phone buzzes with a text.
Maksim:Yo, are you done? I’m close.
I type back a quick 'yeah' and toss in a thumbs-up before sliding the phone into my pocket. A quiet sigh escapes me. He’d texted earlier, saying he wanted to hang out.
That’s… new.
We’ve never spent time alone together. Not that we don’t get along—we do, in our own strange way. He’s at the penthouse often, usually just to annoy Alex and toss a few jabs my way. Other times, when Davika drags me out for one of her spontaneous restaurant-hopping sprees, he tags along.
Maksim is the spoiled little brother who knows exactly how far he can push and somehow always manages to get away with it. Alex pretends to be irritated, but I can see through it—the subtle shift in his voice when he’s scolding him, the way the corners of his mouth threaten to soften. That’s not irritation. That’s affection in disguise.
Not that Maksim makes it easy. He’s perfected the art of pushing Alex’s buttons just to watch him react. I remember Alex once muttering, “I have no idea why Mom had to give birth to you seven years after me. You’re just a menace.” Maksim had lit up like it was the best compliment of his life.
I’m not sure how close Maksim and Anton are. Then again, I’ve barely spoken to Anton myself. He’s… intimidating. Alexsays he’s calm, quiet, not one to socialize much, and that I’ll “get along with him soon”. I doubt it. Every time Anton fixes me with that handsome, unreadable stare of his, my first instinct is to run for the hills.
Just as I’m standing outside the store, I hear it—that low, throaty growl of an engine.
The kind of sound that doesn’t just pass by unnoticed, it demands attention.
Heads turn down the street, and then I see it.
An Aston Martin. Jet black. Top down. Sunlight glinting off its paint so flawlessly polished it could double as a mirror and probably blind someone if they looked too long.
