Chapter Nineteen Imani
‘Imani.’
I swear, the way Asher says my name should be illegal. The way he looks, too.
The French sun has no business being that generous to one man. It paints his skin a beautiful soft molten gold, catches the edges of curls of his hair, throws a glow across his jaw that makes him look less like someone I’m supposed to hate and more like someone I could very, very easily fall for.
Maybe I already have.
I open the door before the driver can, desperate for the distraction of movement, but Asher is faster.
He offers his hand as I step out of the car.
His palm is warm against mine as I step down, and when his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, my brain just about short-circuits.
It’s a soft touch but it feels like being struck by lightning in slow motion.
For a heartbeat, maybe two, everything narrows to just him.
He’s close enough for me to see the flecks of hazel in his irises and the faint crease at the corner of his mouth as he fights off a smile.
Then Sloane’s voice cuts through and I come crashing back to reality.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
I blink, startled back into my body, and Asher drops my hand so quickly it’s almost comical.
Sloane rounds the car, sunglasses perched on her head, expression thoroughly unimpressed. ‘Can you two not? Honestly, the eye-fucking is getting out of hand. You do remember you’re supposed to hate each other, right? Or am I the only one still committed to the plan?’
We both take a step back at the exact same time. When had we become so close?
Asher clears his throat and releases my hand. ‘Right. Yes. Can’t stand you.’
I nod. ‘Loathe you entirely.’
Sloane folds her arms. ‘Yeah, I’m not buying it. You’re still smiling.’
I glare at her. ‘I am not.’
‘You are,’ Asher says, a hint of laughter in his voice.
I shoot him a glare that I’m hoping conveys mortal hatred, but from the look Sloane gives me, it probably reads more like hopelessly flustered. Sloane groans and presses her fingers to her temples.
‘You’re doing it again,’ she hisses, then leans closer like she’s about to hug me and murmurs in my ear. ‘People are watching.’
The grand entrance of the hotel is crawling with press and opportunists.
The air is thick with perfume, flash photography, and that distinctive hum of self-importance that follows the filthy rich wherever they go.
Journalists, influencers and shareholders mingle on the marble steps, everyone pretending not to look for the cameras even as they angle towards them.
And then I see her.
Emmy.
Perched at the edge of the crowd in an impeccably pressed linen sundress, phone in hand, pretending to scroll while her gaze slices through the chaos with surgical precision.
Her sunglasses hide her eyes, but I can feel them on me anyway.
When she lifts her phone slightly, the camera conveniently pointed in our direction, I can practically hear the @TrustFundTea caption writing itself:
Vouvalis vs Davies Round… Oh I’ve lost count! The saga continues
I attempt a scowl, but it’s harder than it should be when Asher’s standing close enough that I can feel the heat from his arm. His hand brushes briefly against mine again in that infuriatingly casual way that makes my pulse skip.
I lean towards him, voice low. ‘We should go inside before we end up on @TrustFundTea before the weekend’s even started.’ I tilt my chin towards Emmy, who is now loudly pretending to laugh at something no one said. ‘Maybe meet up later?’
He nods once, jaw tight. ‘Right.’
Then he steps back. I know it’s an act and just part of the choreography we’ve perfected over the last few months, but the sudden distance feels like a door slamming shut.
His expression twists into a dirty look and I pretend like it doesn’t sting.
Voice low, he says, ‘I’ve got a few behind the scenes things to handle now, but I’ll come to your room before the cocktail reception. We can go over the plan then.’
‘Fine,’ I say, forcing my own voice to be terse and clipped in case anyone is listening.
He gives me one last, lingering look and then he turns and disappears into the crowd.
Sloane slips her sunglasses on and sighs dramatically. ‘You two are either going to destroy this merger or get married for real. There’s no in-between.’
‘Not helping,’ I mutter, starting towards the doors.
‘I wasn’t trying to,’ she says brightly.
The suite they’ve given me is on a whole new level.
Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire wall, framing Lake Annecy in all its impossible glory.
The water glitters like liquid turquoise beneath the afternoon sun, rippling with flashes of gold where the light catches.
Snow-dusted mountains rise in the distance, their peaks softened by haze, and for a moment I forget that technically, I’m here under duress.
Almost.
There’s a marble table near the window with a vase of long-stemmed white roses so symmetrical they look almost fake.
Next to them, a silver bucket holds a chilled bottle of champagne, and beside it, a tall glass bottle of sparkling water.
A small envelope rests against the champagne bucket.
It’s made with thick card stock and embossed with Vouvalis Resort’s gold crest. It’s signed:
Welcome, Ms Davies — we’re delighted to have you back with us.
Georgios Vouvalis and the Vouvalis Resorts team.
I’ve very maturely resisted the urge to draw devil horns over the signature.
Anyway, I have bigger things to worry about right now – like the fact that the cocktail reception starts in less than an hour and I’m still standing in front of the mirror half dressed and already on the brink of a breakdown.
The dress I’ve decided on for tonight is one of my favourites.
It’s a black silk slip that manages to toe the line between elegant and dangerous.
It skims over my curves, clings where it should and catches the light in a way that makes the fabric look like liquid ink.
It’s timeless, flattering, and a guaranteed confidence booster.
At least, it’s supposed to be. If only I could actually get into the damn thing.
The zipper is on the back, and I’ve spent the last five minutes struggling to pull it up.
‘Perfect,’ I mutter through gritted teeth as I reach over my shoulder. The zipper slides up about two inches before catching on the lining and refusing to budge.
I glance around for my phone. Sloane’s room is on the other side of the hotel, but I don’t think she’ll have left for the cocktail reception yet.
Imani
SOS. Can’t zip up my dress. Pls help.
Sloane
Lol. Give me 10 mins.
I sigh and keep wrestling with the zipper, muttering under my breath like maybe intimidation or thinly veiled threats will make it cooperate.
It doesn’t. The metal teeth snag halfway up my back and refuse to budge.
I’m halfway through debating whether I can attend the reception wrapped in a towel and a bad attitude when there’s a knock at the door.
‘Finally,’ I groan, adjusting the neckline of my half-zipped dress. ‘Come in.’ I hear the front door open, then the sounds of footsteps padding along the short corridor. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly, I—’
I freeze, because when I look up it’s not Sloane standing in the doorway to my bedroom.
It’s Asher.
He has one hand braced on the doorframe and he looks disarmingly uncertain.
He starts to speak, then hesitates, gaze flicking over me.
Over everything: the half-zipped dress, the bare stretch of skin along my back, the messy array of make-up and hairpins scattered across the vanity.
His expression flip flops somewhere between I shouldn’t be seeing this and I never want to look away.
‘Sorry,’ he croaks out after what feels like an eternity of silence. ‘You said “come in”.’
‘I thought you were Sloane,’ I say weakly.
‘Right,’ he says, clearing his throat. His gaze moves over quickly to some neutral point on the wall, but not before I catch it linger on me for a fraction of a second too long. ‘Should I come back later?’
My stomach does a mortifying little flip. ‘No. I mean, yes—Wait, no. It’s fine. You can stay. We were supposed to talk strategy anyway.’
‘Right,’ he says, though his voice sounds a little less steady than usual. ‘Strategy.’
He clears his throat, looking anywhere but directly at me, which somehow makes the air between us heavier.
‘Okay,’ I say, forcing a bright tone as I cross to the table and pour myself a glass of sparkling water. My dress gapes slightly at the back when I move. ‘What’s the plan?’
He nods, pulling his focus back with visible effort.
‘If we’re going to convince everyone that we can’t be together then we need to lean into the drama more than usual.
Maybe…’ he hesitates, then seems to steel himself and continues on.
‘What if we both flirt with other people tonight? Your father can’t exactly say we’re solid if we’re seen getting cosy with other people, can he? ’
I take a sip to buy time, trying to ignore the way the idea of seeing Asher flirt with someone else makes my stomach turn. ‘So, what, you chat up some other heiress tonight and I laugh too hard at someone else’s jokes?’
He gives me a wry grin. ‘Something like that.’
‘Fine.’ It comes out much harsher than I’d intended.
Asher blinks, then tilts his head just slightly. ‘You okay?’
‘Of course,’ I say, too fast. ‘Completely fine. Flirt away. I’ll find someone equally vapid to laugh with.’
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Do you not want to do this?’
‘Yes,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I do, and I mean it’s not like we have any other choice.’
He studies me for a long moment, the kind that makes me feel like he’s seeing more than I want him to. Then, slowly, he takes a step closer.
‘I didn’t mean…’ His voice drops lower. ‘I didn’t mean that I want to flirt with anyone else.’
I purse my lips. ‘I didn’t—’