Reaper’s Desire

Isabelle

The first thing I do when I sink into the plush leather seat of the first-class cabin is turn off my phone.

Not silent. Not airplane mode. Off.

The screen goes black in my hand, and I feel an intoxicating rush flood through my veins.

Freedom. Or just the illusion of it, really, but right now, I don't care about the difference.

I tuck the phone into my Hermès bag and snap it shut with more force than necessary, like I'm closing a door on my entire life back in New York.

On charity galas and dinner parties and my cold, meddling stepmother. On obligations and smiling at strangers and pretending to be interested in the tenth hedge fund manager flirting with me for the evening.

For the next two weeks, I'm going to be free, whether anyone else likes it or not.

A flight attendant appears at my elbow, all practiced smiles and crisp uniform. "Champagne, Miss Montague?"

I take the flute without hesitation, the glass cool against my palm. "Thank you."

She glides away, and I bring the champagne to my lips, letting the bubbles burst on my tongue.

The cabin is filling up around me—businessmen in expensive suits, a couple speaking rapid Italian, a woman with oversized sunglasses who settles into her seat and immediately pulls out an e-reader.

I catch a glimpse of the book cover on her screen—something with a naked man and a beach, and I smile to myself. Good for her.

I wonder if any of them can see it on me—this wild recklessness that's been building for months.

I'm so sick of life back in New York. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I'm being spoiled, that millions of people would kill to live the life I do.

But most days, all I can think is how confined I feel.

Don't let anyone take pictures of you drinking anything too strong. Don't let that man come over to your apartment. Don't be seen with him. That's not an appropriate friend for you. Buy this dress. Go to this party. Smile. Smile some more.

I take another sip and lean back, closing my eyes.

My phone had been ringing nonstop when I got into the car to go to the airport.

They were all calls from Margot, my father's assistant, her name flashing across the screen with the insistence that I knew meant she'd been instructed to track me down.

I'd let it go to voicemail. Then she'd called again.

And again. By the fourth call, I'd silenced it entirely, watching the notifications pile up with a kind of detached satisfaction.

Miss Montague, your father would like to speak with you about the Vanderbilt gala.

Miss Montague, Vivienne mentioned you haven't confirmed your attendance for the charity luncheon.

Miss Montague, please call back at your earliest convenience.

Fuck the Vanderbilt gala. Fuck the charity luncheon. Fuck all of it.

I open my eyes and drain the rest of my champagne, setting the empty flute on the armrest. Through the window, I can see the ground crew loading luggage.

In a few hours, I'll be in Ibiza. Sun-drenched, hedonistic, beautiful Ibiza, where no one knows my last name and no one cares about the Montague fortune or my father's business dealings or the fact that I'm supposed to be the perfect heiress, poised and polished and present at every tedious event that requires a pretty face and a famous name.

And that's just the first stop on my vacation list.

The thought makes my pulse quicken.

I booked the first flight last night after my month's allowance hit my account, sitting in my bedroom with a bottle of wine and my laptop, scrolling through luxury hotels until I found one that looked expensive enough to satisfy my standards and far enough away to feel like an escape.

I'd requested extra from my father this month, and he'd indulgently given it.

I don't ask often, which probably helped—that, and the fact that he can't tell me no.

The reservation went through with a satisfying ping, and I closed the laptop with a smile that felt almost feral.

I didn't tell anyone. I just packed a bag this morning and left.

By the time they realize I'm gone and haven't shown up at the lunch I'm supposed to attend with Vivienne, I'll be thirty thousand feet in the air.

The thought sends another thrill through me, sharp and sweet.

The engines rumble to life beneath us, and I feel the plane begin to move.

We taxi toward the runway, and I watch the terminal slide past my window, full of people rushing to catch their flights.

Somewhere in that building, someone might be looking for me.

Margot, maybe, if my father finally noticed I wasn't answering.

Vivienne certainly won't come looking for me herself, although my poor father is going to get an earful once she realizes I've vanished for a little while.

God, Vivienne.

My stepmother's face flashes through my mind—those cold blue eyes, the way her mouth tightens when she looks at me, like I'm something distasteful she has to tolerate.

She's never liked me. Not from the moment my father introduced us five years ago, his hand on her waist, his smile wider than I'd seen it since my mother died.

Vivienne had looked at me then the same way she looks at me now: with thinly veiled contempt, like I'm a spoiled child who doesn't deserve the life I've been given.

And maybe she's right.

But I don't care anymore. I think I snapped around the time she caught me smoking out on the balcony at the last gala, and slapped it out of my mouth so hard it left a red mark on my face.

I told my father, obviously, and they got into a huge fight about it.

That was when I realized I needed a fucking break from my life, no matter how rarefied it might be.

I need a fucking vacation. Salt and sun and booze and some good dick. And that's exactly what I'm going to get.

The plane picks up speed, and I grip the armrest as we lift off, the ground falling away beneath us. My stomach swoops, and I let out a breath. We climb higher, the city shrinking below us, and I feel the knot in my chest loosen. I'm free.

For the next two weeks, at least, I'm free.

The flight attendant returns to collect my empty glass, and I order another.

And then another. By the time we level out at cruising altitude, I'm pleasantly buzzed, the champagne warm in my veins, and my thoughts drifting in lazy circles.

I pull out my laptop and open it, scrolling through photos of Ibiza—white sand beaches, turquoise water, clubs that don't close until the sun comes up.

Clubs full of pounding music and hot men.

I close the laptop and lean back, letting my eyes drift shut.

The hum of the engines is soothing, and I let myself sink into it.

I think about the club I'm going to tonight—Amnesia, one of the most exclusive on the island.

I'd looked it up last night, scrolling through Instagram photos of beautiful people dancing under strobe lights, their bodies slick with sweat and their faces lit up, wild and uninhibited.

I want that. I want to lose myself in the music and the heat and the anonymity of it all.

I want to dance with strangers who don't know I'm Jacques Montague's daughter, who don't care about my family's reputation or the fact that I'm supposed to be at some insufferable dinner party in Manhattan right now, smiling politely while old men talk about stocks and Vivienne shoots me disapproving looks across the table.

I want to be no one, just for a little while.

The flight passes in a blur of champagne and half-formed fantasies rolling through my head.

The couple next to me gets into an argument, bitching at each other in low tones, and the woman in the sunglasses falls asleep with her book in her lap.

I doze off somewhere over the Atlantic, my head resting against the window, and wake up to the flight attendant's gentle touch on my shoulder.

"Miss Montague, we'll be landing shortly."

I blink, disoriented, and sit up. Through the window, I can see the island below us, all golden beaches and white buildings, and that impossible blue water. My heart kicks up, and I feel a smile tug at my lips.

Here we go.

—

The heat hits me the moment I step off the plane.

It's not the oppressive, stale heat of New York in summer, but thick and humid, laced with salt and sun.

I breathe it in, letting it fill my lungs, and feel something in me settle.

The airport is smaller than JFK, less chaotic, and I move through it quickly, my heels clicking against the tile as I head toward baggage claim.

I picked out aviator sunglasses and a designer linen midi dress with a deep V that emphasizes my fit figure and perfect breasts to wear on the flight, and I can feel eyes on me as I walk.

I'm used to it. I've been beautiful my whole life, and I know how to use it to my advantage.

My luggage appears on the carousel—two suitcases that I packed in a frenzy this morning, throwing in bikinis and sundresses, tight club dresses, sandals, and high heels. I grab them and head outside, where the driver that I hired to meet me here is waiting.

"Miss Montague?"

"That's me."

He takes my suitcases and leads me to a sleek black car, and I slide into the backseat, grateful for the air conditioning.

The drive to the hotel is short, the roads winding through hills dotted with villas and olive trees.

I watch it all pass by, my sunglasses still on and my fingers drumming against my thigh.

I feel alive. More alive than I've felt in months.