Chapter 11
Everett
I text Ricky:
Status?
Which is assistant-code for how’s the shopping outing going with Ariel?
My phone buzzes while I’m pretending to be fascinated by a CAD sketch of a new design for a bottom scraper.
Ricky: Staring at blenders.
What could possibly be fascinating about a blender?
I grin at my screen like a teenager. A replay of yesterday and the night before last flickers through my mind—Ariel chanting my name like it was made of stars as she came undone beneath me, as she rode me into fucking oblivion. I adjust my throbbing cock under my desk and think about spreadsheets.
Me: If you’re done by one, come back. I need your Excel wizardry.
I bury myself in the scraper redesign, widening the throat, softening the edge, baffling to keep silt down.
The office hums with the subtle whir of the air vents, far-off phones, and the faint ping of the elevator—a white noise ocean.
An hour slips by. Then two. When Ricky’s laugh floats down the hall three hours later, the knot between my shoulders loosens like a hand unclenching.
They round the doorway: Ricky, talking with his hands; Ariel, shining with that new-world wonder that makes me feel protective and wildly, stupidly lucky. My pulse kicks, and the air in my office changes, becoming brighter and warmer with her presence.
Kara steps in behind them, a cool breeze of competence. “Have a nice day out, Ariel?”
“Oh, yes,” Ariel says, eyes bright. “Ricky took me to a mall. There are so many things you can buy!”
“Why have you never seen a mall?” Kara asks the question sitting on my tongue.
Ariel lifts a shoulder, choosing every word like a stepping-stone.
“Where I’m from, we don’t really have stores.
A villager might make clothes or jewelry or…
whatever we need. If we wanted a store, we’d leave town—but we didn’t, not often.
I just… became curious about the rest of the world and left.
The world seems so much bigger up here.”
Up here. A tiny compass needle swings in my chest. South? Mountains? A commune with no Wi-Fi? My curiosity gnaws, but the part of me that matters says: It doesn’t matter. She’s here.
Because I’m… happy since she arrived. Lucifer allegedly haunts Screaming Woods, according to the town gossip, and a woman called Wendy lives in a shoe deep in Fable Forest with dozens of kids, so if Ariel told me she’d moved here from Hell, I’d probably ask if she needed a sweater.
“You ready for the family party?” Kara asks, breezing to my desk. “Ariel’s wearing a rather pretty blue dress I think you’ll like. A lot.”
Her eyes sparkle. Translation: I approve. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted that until right now.
“Yeah,” I say, standing, “but, Kara, I want to tell our families the marriage idea is a pipe dream tonight. You deserve a bigger role, but you don’t have to marry me for it.”
Kara tips her head, something like pride flickering in her eyes.
“Good,” she says softly. “About time.” Then, she’s all briskness again.
“All right. I’m stealing Ariel. Hair, makeup, moral support.
Ricky’ll bring her back before we head to your parents’.
Try not to stress-plan a hostile takeover while we’re gone. ”
Ariel glances at me over her shoulder as Kara shepherds her out of my office. That look hits like a fingertip dragged slow down my spine—open, a little shy, and full of a promise I feel in my bloodstream.
“I’ll see you tonight,” she says.
“Yeah,” I manage, which is not what I mean. What I mean is I’m going to fuck you senseless tonight because I can’t breathe right without you in the room anymore.
Then they’re gone. Ariel is swept into Kara’s orbit, with Ricky trailing, already talking about toner versus serum. My office suddenly feels too quiet.
The rest of the afternoon drags and snaps at the same time. I plow through emails I don’t remember sending. I sign off on a procurement request I probably should’ve read twice. I stare at the CAD model of the scraper and see only the curve of Ariel’s mouth.
By the time early evening settles against the windows, most of the floor has cleared out. I head home, shower, and pull on my suit. My phone pings.
Kara: On our way.
I straighten my jacket. I sit. I stand. I debate loosening my collar, then tighten it instead. My pulse is a low, insistent drum in my throat, and I’m suddenly, viscerally aware that tonight I’m walking Ariel into the viper pit that is my family.
The elevator dings down the hall.
Footsteps. Laughter. A lighter, feminine murmur I could track through a hurricane.
The door swings open.
And I forget to breathe because Ariel steps fully into the room.
A fine sheen of heat climbs my throat under my shirt.
Christ, she’s stunning. Her fiery hair tumbles over her shoulders, contrasting perfectly with the cerulean silk of her dress, which hugs her curves, then lets them go.
The blue matches her eyes so precisely that it seems like fate was consulted.
Her makeup lends smokiness to her eyes and a ripe, kiss-bruised sheen to her plump lips.
I want to frame the sight. Want my fingers on the zipper as it whispers down her spine.
I want to ease the straps off one by one, to kiss the warm notch of her shoulder, then lower, following that invisible line the zipper leaves behind.
Want the silk to sigh around her hips and pool at her feet.
Want my palms cupping the lush curve of her ass.
I want her against my door, breath fanning my cheek as I press her wrists above her head and taste the salt-sweet skin of her collarbone.
Want to kneel and smooth my hands up the backs of her thighs, watch goosebumps chase my touch, feel her tremble when I kiss the soft insides of her thighs.
I want to lay her back, slide my hand between those thighs and find the heat I know is waiting for me, tease until she shouts my name—wrecked and hoarse.
Want to sink into her slow and deep and feel her clutch at my shoulders like she’s anchoring us both.
I want. Fuck, do I want!
I blow out a shaky breath. First, dinner. Then, every fantasy I just imagined, taken apart piece by piece with my hands and my mouth until she’s shaking under me and I’m the only thing she can think about.
“We’ll take different cars,” Kara says, choosing not to be collateral damage when I arrive with Ariel.
“Probably wise,” I say, and offer Ariel my arm.
She takes it like the old-world princess of a country I don’t know how to find on any map.
Gravel crackles under the tires as we turn up my parents’ drive. The house rises out of the trees—stone, turrets, blue shutters—a castle that always felt like a suit two sizes too big. Tonight, it feels like a stage.
“Wow,” Ariel breathes. “It’s a whole castle.”
“Generations of overcompensation,” I say dryly. “If my dad gets irate, go to the car. I’ll meet you there after I’ve had my say. I’m done letting him script my life.”
She frowns. “I should be there. With you. If he aims at you, he hits me too. That’s how support works.”
Christ, I love her spine, this blossoming fierceness as she discovers her inner strength. I love… her. Fuck, I love her… and I plan to show her with my mouth, hands, and cock later.
“You’re the reason I’m doing this,” I say, catching her hand.
“Before you, I kept my head down and played along. Since you walked in, I’ve started saying what I mean and drawing lines I should’ve drawn years ago.
You make me plant my feet, make me see what’s important.
Who is important.” I lift her hand and press my mouth to her knuckles. “Trust me.”
Her breath hitches. “I do.”
Relief loosens the tightness in my chest. I brush a curl behind her ear, and she leans into my touch. “Then let’s go, my little water nymph.”
Polished wood, gleaming floors, and brittle laughter greet us inside the house.
The air smells musty, like old money. How did I not see this before?
The sheen that covers the walls, the smiles, the speeches is like cheap lacquer hiding the cracks.
A museum of the life I agreed to; curated, expensive, and so fucking empty.
It hits me in small flashes. Place cards laid out like orders.
My mother’s martini-perfect charm that’s really a script.
My father’s approval measured in balance sheets and obedience.
Kara and I displayed side by side like matching investments.
Me, the agreeable son, polished when required, silent when not useful.
I told myself it was easier this way. Keep the peace. Nod in the right places. Wear the suit even when it never quite fit.
Then Ariel saved me from the lake, and everything had weight again. Color bled back into a world that had become monochrome.
I hear my father’s voice in the next room, and for the first time, I rise to meet it. Decide what I’ll answer and what I won’t.
Ariel’s fingers flex against my palm, a quiet strength at my side. I glance at her, and something steady settles in my chest.
I press a quick kiss to her temple and straighten as a servant appears to announce us. The chandeliers glitter like teeth. My father turns with that conqueror’s smile that he thinks is paternal.
For years, I walked into this room already apologizing. Not tonight.
My mother materializes, martini in hand, the pearls at her throat gleaming under the chandelier.
“Everett, so glad you came, my love. And you’ve brought your…
friend.” The word slides out of her mouth like it touched something unpleasant.
“So this is the girl from the woods who saved you. I suppose I should thank her.”
“She’s right here, Mom,” I say. “Now would be a great time.”
“Gloria!” Kara sings, swooping in with perfect timing to gather my mother like a storm tamer. God fucking bless her.
Mother makes a sound that isn’t a thanks and swivels toward new prey.
In the sitting room, two cousins—snobs professionally and as a hobby—strike identical poses on the sofa. Their eyes flick over Ariel as if the lack of old money is a visible stain.
“That girl from the woods,” one murmurs to the other, performatively loud.
My jaw flexes. I steer Ariel away, annoyance simmering against the need to keep the evening from detonation.
“Dinner is ready,” my father announces, sweeping in with Kara’s parents in tow. His gaze hits Ariel, and his face flushes a shade that means I’m going to need antacids.
Place cards. Of course. Ariel finds herself at the far end of the long table, exiled to Cousin Valley.
I try to maneuver closer; the seating chart herds me two seats from Dad.
Conversation swells and ebbs. When Ariel speaks softly and politely, she’s stepped on twice by Cousin One and by Kara’s mother, who is a delightful woman until you threaten her legacy, and then she’s a chainsaw.
Servants bring platters: meat gleaming, vegetables lacquered, bread whispering steam. Ariel serves herself only from the greens and the basket of rolls. Across the designer linen, my parents exchange a look and a low snicker that hits me like a slap.
“Didn’t think they’d be so awful,” Kara murmurs, leaning toward me, her eyes on Ariel.
“I suspected,” I murmur back, stomach hardening, “but I hoped I could buffer if she sat near me.” I push back my chair. “Are you done?”
“I can be,” Kara says, jaw tight.
Before I can say anything more, my father stands and taps his glass with a fork. The sound shivers through the room.
“Attention!” he booms, radiating patriarchal importance.
“A toast. To my son, who, despite ignoring sound advice, did not die.” Laughter, high and brittle.
He tips the glass in Ariel’s direction as if flicking a coin.
“And to that woman for pulling him out. Nevertheless…” He savors the word.
“It’s time. Everett and Kara are finally announcing their engagement. ”
The world goes very quiet and very loud. Kara inhales. I forget how to. At the far end of the table, Ariel’s fork stills.
“Dad,” I rasp, fury rolling through me at him blindsiding us, “we need to talk.”
“Not now,” he says smoothly, the benevolent autocrat. He extends a small velvet box. “Here. Give this to Kara so everyone can see the moment properly.”
I catch it instinctively as he tosses it at me. The box holds my grandmother’s ring. It’s heavy with bloodlines, expectations, and a history I never wanted.
But it’s not for Kara.
And it’s not for Ariel either—not this one. She deserves a ring I choose, one that carries no ghosts, no boardroom bargains or family crests. Something that belongs only to us.
When I picture it, it’s simple—silver, maybe, with a blue stone that catches light the way her eyes do when she laughs. Something made for her, not inherited from anyone else’s idea of love.
Closing the lid, I set it on the table like it’s radioactive.
“Congratulations!” Cousin One squeals.
The room swarms me, hands and perfume and the sound of champagne. Kara’s parents close in, triumphant. Kara looks at me with a calmness that is ninety percent performance and ten percent burn it down.
My father watches, satisfied as a general who finally maneuvered his pieces into checkmate.
Fuck this.
Sometimes the only way to win a rigged game is to flip the table, and that’s precisely what Kara and I intend to do.