Chapter 4
NICK
The scent of her is still on my skin.
I navigate the BMW through midtown traffic, already later than I told Beck I'd be.
My mind is half on the road and half on the woman I left less than an hour ago—Avery, standing in the penthouse entryway with her hair still damp from our shower, rising on her toes to kiss me goodbye.
The softness of her mouth. The way her fingers curled into my lapel like she wasn't quite ready to let go.
Neither was I. If this meeting wasn’t so important, I’d still be with her now.
My phone buzzes in the center console. I glance down at the screen.
Avery: Made it to studio. Miss you already.
The tension I didn't realize I was carrying releases from my shoulders. She's safe. At her studio, surrounded by her paints and her work and the creative solitude she needs. I type back at the next red light: Good. I'll have dinner ready when you get home.
Three dots appear, then her message buzzes back.
Avery: I’ll be sure to bring my appetite. Love you.
I grin at her message and at the innuendo, then text back: I’ll make sure you get your fill tonight. Love you too.
I pocket the phone as traffic clears, but the warmth of the exchange stays with me.
Three and a half weeks until she's my wife.
The wedding preparations have consumed us both.
Fittings, guest lists, the relentless press attention that descended the moment our engagement became public. But today isn't about any of that.
Today is about the gift I've been planning since the week after I proposed.
The offices of Whitmore Maritime Acquisitions occupy the forty-second floor of an understated, exclusive building on the Upper East Side. I pull into the parking garage, hand my keys to the attendant, and take the elevator up.
The reception area confirms what the address suggested: dark wood paneling, maritime paintings in gilt frames, model ships displayed in glass cases with museum-quality lighting. Old money aesthetic, executed flawlessly. The kind of place where discretion isn't just valued, it's the entire point.
Andrew Beckham is already seated in an empty conference room when the receptionist shows me through. He looks up from his laptop, contracts spread before him in neat rows.
"Did someone forget their alarm this morning?" He wryly checks his watch. "At least you made good time."
I take the empty chair next to him. "Sorry, Beck. I was detained."
His mouth curves. "So I gathered. Speaking of which, how’s Avery today?"
He knows about the press assault outside House of Delaire. In general, Andrew Beckham knows everything. He’s been my lawyer for more than a decade and my closest friend nearly from day one.
“She’s all right,” I tell him, then I blow out a low curse. “I don’t know. I hope she’s all right. Those assholes were brutal yesterday.”
Beck nods soberly. “If you need to send me to the front lines on this, you know you only have to ask.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll let you know.” I glance toward the open door to the room. "Where's Whitmore?"
"Stepped out to take a call. Should be back momentarily."
No sooner does he say it than Julian Whitmore enters from the hallway outside.
He moves with the unhurried confidence of a man who's facilitated countless transactions for oligarchs and royalty.
Late fifties, silver hair immaculately styled, Savile Row suit.
His handshake is firm, assessing. I've been sized up by men like him my entire career.
"Mr. Baine. Good to see you again." He settles into the chair across from us, opening a leather portfolio. "Shall we discuss your acquisition?"
He spreads photographs across the polished surface, and my attention sharpens.
The sailing yacht is stunning. Seventy-two feet of classic elegance that makes the modern monstrosities cluttering the Mediterranean look like floating shopping malls.
Wood hull, teak and mahogany gleaming in the photographs, brass fittings polished to mirrors.
Three masts. Clean lines that speak to racing heritage while promising comfort.
Larger than Icarus, my forty-five-footer where I proposed to Avery. But the same essential spirit—a vessel built for the water rather than for showing off.
"Built in 1936," Whitmore says, his voice taking on the reverent tone of a curator discussing a masterpiece.
"Fully restored two years ago by a private owner in Dubrovnik.
Wood hull, copper fastenings, everything authentic.
Modern navigation and safety systems integrated seamlessly.
You'd never know they were there unless you looked. "
I study the photographs, cataloging details. The deck layout would give Avery space to sketch without being in the crew's way. The cockpit is designed for easy handling. We could sail her ourselves for stretches if we wanted privacy. The profile is graceful without being ostentatious.
"And the customizations I requested?"
Whitmore pulls out interior renderings. "The master cabin has been completely redesigned. Larger portholes for natural light. I understand your fiancée is an artist?"
I nod. Avery needs light the way other people need air. Even on our honeymoon, she'll want to paint, to capture whatever moves her. I want to give her a space where she can create.
"Built-in shelving for art supplies and sketchbooks along the port wall.
Warm color palette—creams, natural wood tones, soft gold accents.
The master cabin suite is exquisite, with king-size accommodations and custom woodworking throughout.
" He shows me another rendering: a cabin that looks more like a luxury boutique hotel suite than a boat berth.
"The en-suite has been upgraded with marble and brass fixtures. "
"The library nook?"
"Installed in the main salon, as you specified." Another image: built-in bookshelves flanking a cushioned window seat, brass reading lamps with green glass shades. "Stocked with classic literature. First editions where I could source them."
I can picture Avery there, curled up with a book, afternoon light streaming through the portholes, wearing one of my shirts and nothing else. Reading aloud to me while I trace patterns on her bare thigh. The image settles into my chest, warm and certain.
"The galley has professional-grade appliances," Whitmore continues. "I understand you enjoy cooking."
"I do." I'll make her breakfast on that yacht. Dinners under stars. The kind of meals I never had time for when my life was nothing but work and the hollow pursuit of more.
Beck makes a quiet sound beside me. "You've thought of everything."
"That was the intention." I meet his eyes briefly. He knows what this yacht represents. Not just a honeymoon vessel, but a promise. A sanctuary I can give her away from the cameras, the speculation, the relentless scrutiny that comes with being tied to my name.
"The name," Whitmore says. "You requested Elysium?"
"Yes."
He doesn't ask why, and I don't explain. Elysium—the paradise reserved for heroes in Greek mythology. The place of rest after struggle. It felt right the moment it occurred to me, though I haven't told Avery yet. Haven't told anyone.
"Registry transfer includes renaming rights. She's currently called Aphrodite's Blessing." Whitmore makes a note. "The paperwork is prepared."
"Delivery timeline?"
"Three weeks until customizations are complete. She's in a yard outside Marseille. After that, a delivery crew will deliver her to any port of your choosing. From there, we'll arrange transport to Monaco for your honeymoon departure."
I run the math. Three weeks puts her completion just before the wedding. We fly to Monaco after the ceremony, meet the yacht there, and disappear into the Mediterranean for a month. No schedule. No obligations. Just Avery and open water and all the time I've been desperate to give her.
"Sounds good," I say.
Whitmore leans back slightly, his sales pitch complete but his manner still engaged. "You know, you weren't the only party interested in this vessel."
I look up. "No?"
"Another client of mine put in quite an aggressive bid."
Curiosity gets the best of me. “Who was it?”
Whitmore clears his throat. “Mr. Baine, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge—”
“Sebastian Roth,” Beck says. Both Whitmore and I turn our glances on him and he shrugs. “I’m paid to stay one step ahead of every negotiation.”
I smile, giving him an approving nod. As for the man who tried to scoop up Elysium from under me. Sebastian Roth…
The name registers—a familiar irritant, like a stone in my shoe.
Roth family heir, hotel empire money running back generations.
Smart. Ruthless enough that people call him Savage behind his back, charismatic in the way that makes lesser men underestimate him.
And lately he seems to be circling a lot of the same deals I'm chasing.
We've never been formally introduced, but I know his reputation. He knows mine.
I scowl at this newest attempt to best me. "I’m sure Roth has his own yacht."
"Two, actually,” Whitmore confides. “But he wanted Elysium specifically. Can't say I blame him. She's one of a kind."
Yes, she is. And fuck him for trying.
Satisfaction settles in my chest. I beat Roth to another prize. Not that it matters in any real sense, but there's something satisfying about staying a step ahead of a would-be competitor.
Beck shifts forward. "Not that I’m keeping score, but you also beat him out of that hotel deal overseas about a year and a half ago."
My jaw tightens at the reminder. "Dubai."
"Right. That family property that was going under."
"Should've let Roth have it." My voice comes out flat, weighted by the memory. "I could've handled that situation differently."
Beck knows this story too—the old patriarch who couldn't bear to lose his legacy, the deal that ended with a devastated man lying broken on pavement many stories below me while I stood atop the prize I'd won with the stroke of my pen.
I don't talk about it. Don't let myself think about it, most days.
Whitmore, smooth as ever, redirects. "Well, you’ve certainly made the right decision on Elysium. She'll be the jewel of whatever marina you choose."
I pull myself back to the present and nod in agreement.
Whitmore smiles. "Let's finalize the paperwork, shall we?"
Beck has already reviewed the contract drafts and approved them.
Today we’ll seal the deal. Whitmore slides the contracts across the table to me.
I scan the relevant pages—purchase price, customization costs, transport fees, insurance.
The total is substantial, even by my standards. I don't hesitate.
I take the pen Whitmore offers and sign.
"Congratulations, Mr. Baine." He extends his hand. "Elysium is yours."
We shake, and something settles in my chest. Not the triumph I used to feel closing deals, but a quieter feeling. Anticipation. The knowledge that in a few weeks, I'll watch Avery's face when she sees this yacht for the first time. When she understands what I've built for her.
"I'll have copies made for your records," Whitmore says, gathering the signed documents. "This will take just a few minutes."
He disappears once more, leaving Beck and me alone in the conference room.
"A custom yacht," Beck says. "Library stocked with first editions. Professional kitchen." He shakes his head slowly, but there's warmth beneath the dry delivery. "You've come a long way from the man who thought a weekend in the Hamptons counted as romance."
"Avery deserves more than weekends in the Hamptons."
"She does." He's quiet for a moment. "You both do."
I check my phone. No new messages, but I find myself calculating anyway—four, maybe five hours until she's home. Until I can pull her into my arms and hold her and start counting down the days until I can give her this gift.
Three and a half weeks until the wedding.
Then a month where she's mine completely. No cameras, no obligations, no one demanding pieces of her attention. Just us, the water, and nothing but time to relax and enjoy each other.
I can hardly wait.