Chapter Sixteen
EVERETT
I'm awake before the sun.
Not because I'm rested.
Because I'm not.
Because sleeping beside Aria without touching her is its own specific kind of torture, and sometime around three in the morning I gave up pretending otherwise.
I slipped out of bed carefully and left her sleeping in the white sheets, one arm tucked under the pillow, hair fanned across it like she belonged there more naturally than I ever have.
Now I'm standing barefoot in the villa's kitchen in a pair of black lounge pants, waiting for the espresso machine to finish hissing while dawn turns the windows pale blue.
The villa is still quiet.
Just the sound of the sea somewhere beyond the terrace and my own thoughts, which are worse.
I should not still be replaying last night.
Aria in that tiny blue bikini, climbing out of the pool under moonlight like she was trying to end me on purpose.
Water sliding down bare skin. Wet hair slicked back from her face.
The line of her throat when she tipped her head to the side and wrung it out.
The exact shape of her waist when she reached for the towel.
The fact that I watched the whole thing from the study through the glass-paned French doors like some kind of starving man pressing his face to a bakery window.
The villa is too open. Every room bleeds into the next—the study sits just off the main living area behind those damned glass doors, and from inside it I can see half the house.
The kitchen. The terrace. The stretch of pool if I angle left.
Even upstairs offers no real distance when I can hear her footsteps on the tile below.
A terrible setup for a honeymoon.
A worse one for me.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Everly.
Of course.
I answer with, "It's six in the morning in France."
"And good morning to you too, sunshine."
I pour espresso into a white cup. "What do you want?"
"I'm checking on my favorite newlyweds."
"You don't have a favorite."
"I do, actually. Mostly because you're my only current set." A beat. "Also, I thought you should know there may or may not be a photographer hiding in bushes outside the villa in the next two days."
I close my eyes.
"Everly."
"What? The trustees read Seattle society pages. I'm just helping the narrative along."
"You hired paparazzi."
"I prefer curated visibility."
I take a sip of coffee and stare out toward the pale silver line of the sea. "You're running a one-woman campaign against my peace. I'm taking it as a personal attack."
"Good," she says promptly. "I meant it personally."
I can hear papers shifting on her end, keys clicking, probably three assistants moving around her while she terrorizes all of them at once.
"So," she says, "how's it going?"
"Fine."
She goes quiet for half a beat. "That bad?"
"It isn't bad."
"Did you take any of the excursions I had the resort line up for you?"
"No."
"Everett."
"What?"
"The vineyard? The yacht? The museum? Literally anything that makes you look like a man enjoying his honeymoon instead of a CEO being held hostage in linen?"
I glance toward the study, toward the laptop I abandoned there less than ten minutes ago.
"Aria seems happy to sightsee on her own."
That earns me silence.
Then, very carefully, "You sent your bride to explore the French Riviera alone while you sat in your office?"
"She wanted to go alone. Think about how that looks to the board."
"She's your wife. Start there. And second, when in the last five years since taking over this family's empire have you taken a real vacation? Not a business trip with a prettier view. Not a board meeting near a beach. An actual break."
"It's not just a family business," I say. "It's a billion-dollar empire, and it doesn't run itself. You of all people know that. You were running operations for Conrad before I even took over. You know what it takes."
She is quiet for just a second too long.
Then, softer, "I know what it costs too."
I don't answer that.
"You’re going to end up buried with that phone still in your hand if you’re not careful, Everett."
"With any luck—"
"Also." Her tone shifts. Not softer—sharper. The sound of Everly switching from sister to strategist. "Aunt Genevieve called the office yesterday."
My hand stills on the cup.
"She didn’t say anything specific," Everly continues. "Just asked how the honeymoon was going. Very casual. Very Genevieve."
Which means not casual at all.
"She mentioned she’d seen a few photos from the resort area. You at the villa. Aria in town." A beat. "Aria in town alone, Everett."
I say nothing.
"I handled it. Told her Aria was exploring while you wrapped up a deal, which is technically true and also makes you sound like the worst husband alive, so you’re welcome for the spin.
" Papers shuffle. "But I need you to hear me on this. Genevieve is not calling to chat. She’s calling because the board asked her to.
And if the board is asking questions about why your wife is sightseeing solo on your honeymoon, that is a problem I cannot PR my way out of. "
"I’ll handle it."
"You’ll handle it by leaving that office and being seen with your wife. In public. Looking like a man who chose to marry her, not a man serving a sentence."
Another call flashes across my screen.
Sienna.
I frown.
"Everly, I have to go."
"You are not getting off this call that eas—"
I switch over.
"Sienna."
No greeting. No pleasantries.
Good.
"Have you set a time with Pierre yet?"
Straight to the point. Exactly what I expected.
"Not yet."
"You need to." Papers shuffle on her end. "I'm hearing two competitors are making grand gestures, and Pierre is exactly arrogant enough to enjoy all of it before he decides who gets his club."
I lean one hip against the counter. "Define grand gestures."
"One sent a retired Marseille player to pitch, preserving the team's legacy. Another sent Pierre's wife a private case of Bordeaux and a weekend invitation in Saint-Tropez."
"Desperate."
"Effective, maybe." A pause. "Have you reached out to his assistant?"
"Not yet."
"You should. While you're in France, face time matters more than anything on paper." Her tone stays cool, clipped, all business. "I'll reach out to his assistant too and see when his schedule is open."
"I know how to close a deal, Sienna."
"I know you do. I'm trying to keep someone else from closing it first."
Fair.
I let that sit a beat. "Let me know what she says."
We end the call there.
Efficient. Clean. Entirely professional.
Exactly how it should be.
The espresso machine hisses again.
My phone buzzes. Not a call this time. Text.
Jeremy: Board liaison requesting confirmation of the villa booking. Guest names, dates, room configuration. Should I send?
I stare at the message.
Room configuration.
They want to know if we booked one bedroom or two.
Everett: Yes. Send it.
I set the phone face down on the counter and pour another shot of espresso with the distinct awareness that my honeymoon is being audited.
The espresso machine hisses again.
I pour another shot and reach for the cream just as soft footsteps move through the villa behind me.
I look up.
Aria comes out of the bedroom in a white-and-blue sundress, her hair tied back with a bow, leather satchel over one shoulder.
She looks brighter than she has any right to this early in the morning.
It’s not just rest, it’s as if she’s lit from somewhere inside.
Like she woke up in France and remembered she was allowed to want things.
She's humming under her breath.
Actually humming.
I don't think I've ever seen her this happy.
That realization lands hard enough to make me still.
She barely notices me at first. She walks straight to the counter, spots the second cup I poured and forgot about, and reaches for it.
Then she glances at me. "Sorry. Is this yours?"
"Yes."
She pauses with the cup in hand, looking from it to me.
Then, without asking, she reaches for the sugar bowl. I watch her put in one cube, and half of another. She adds a small splash of cream, stirs it, sets the spoon down, and hands me the cup like she's done it a hundred times.
Which, technically, she has.
I take it from her, our fingers brushing against each other. Her eyes flick to mine for half a second, then away.
She adjusts the satchel on her shoulder and moves to the pastry plate.
I should ask what's in the bag. I want to ask what she's painting. Where she's going. Why she looks like this place is waking her back up one breath at a time.
My phone buzzes again.
A text from Sienna.
Pierre's assistant confirmed. Three days. Paris. Dinner for four.
Aria's eyes flick to the screen before I can turn it over.
I look up.
"We have dinner reservations with Pierre and his wife."
She blinks. "Oh. That'll be fun. They're coming here?"
"No." I take a sip of the coffee she doctored for me and set the cup down. "We'll fly to Paris for dinner."
Her brows lift. "Right. We'll just fly to Paris for dinner like that's a completely normal sentence."
The corner of my mouth threatens to move. "It's not a big thing."
"It feels at least a little like a big thing."
"Not unless I land the deal," I say. "Then it is."
She shifts the satchel higher on her shoulder, and studies me for a moment.
"Don't worry, Everett," she says. "I'll play the doting wife."
My gaze catches on her mouth for half a second too long.
"Try not to look too thrilled about it," I say.
That smile touches her mouth again—small, bright, entirely too effective.
"No promises."
I watch her go.
Only when she disappears down the path do I look back at the screen.
Three days from now—my birthday.
The thought lands with all the emotional weight of an invoice.
Birthdays were never really mine. They were markers for my mother. Eighteen. College graduation. Milestones that came with payouts, check-ins, future leverage. Every birthday was less a celebration and more a countdown to whatever she stood to gain once I hit the next mark.
So no, I've never cared much about birthdays.
I lock the phone and set it face down on the counter.
Then I pick up my coffee and walk into the study, stopping just inside the glass doors to look out at the now-empty terrace.
From in here, I can see everything.
The kitchen.
The dining area.
The strip of pool and sea beyond it.
The path she just walked.
Yesterday, choosing this room as an office felt practical. Contained. Efficient.
Now it feels like a glass box.
A place to watch life happen just outside my reach.
I sit down, open the Pierre file, and realize almost immediately that I'm not reading a word.
Because all I can think about is Aria yesterday, coming back through these same doors with paint on her fingers and sunlight on her face and something loose and alive in her expression I hadn't seen in Seattle.
She looked happy.
Not fine.
Not grateful.
Happy.
And that is the problem.
Not that she's beautiful here. She is. Every hour here peels back another layer of the woman she became out of necessity. Underneath is someone brighter. Less careful. The version of her that existed before the accident took everything and told her to live smaller.
It's that she fits.
As if this place reached into her and found the part that had been asleep for years and knew exactly how to wake it.
Seattle makes her sharp with effort. Responsible. Held together with guilt and quiet sacrifice.
France makes her glow.
That should make me happy for her.
Instead it makes me afraid.
The brighter she gets here, the more obvious it becomes that she doesn’t belong in the machinery of my life.
I know what my life does to people.
It turns everything into structure, pressure, obligation, and constant prioritization. What matters most is almost never the soft thing. Never the beautiful thing. Never the person waiting in the next room hoping you'll close the laptop and come sit beside them instead.
If this marriage became real—if the contract fell away and what was left was just us—I know exactly what would happen.
At first I would make room for her.
Tell myself I could protect the light in her.
Tell myself I could keep her separate from the worst of it.
Then the board would need something. The company would need something. My siblings would need something. Some crisis would start bleeding time and urgency, and I’d do what I always do.
I’d work. I’d push hard like I always do. I’d prioritize the crisis over her.
And she’d get quieter. Dimmer. So gradually neither of us would notice until it was done, until it was already gone.
Not out of malice because I wouldn't know how to. Knowing that should make it easier to create distance. It should help me remember that wanting her doesn’t make me good for her.
Instead it only makes the wanting feel uglier… because I do want her.
I want her in this villa with salt in her hair and paint on her hands and that stupid blue dress lifting around her knees in the breeze.
I want her in my bed without having to ration how close I let myself get.
I want her leaning against my kitchen counter humming under her breath and looking at me like I'm something other than a title, a trust clause, and a problem.
And that is exactly why we are a poor match.
Not for lack of attraction or that somehow this marriage could never be real. It’s because it can. Too easily and too fast. I’d be the selfish asshole to let her agree when I know what it would ultimately do to her… what it would do to us.
I lean back in the chair and stare out through the glass toward the sea.
Frame it as logic, I tell myself. That's what I know how to do.
Frame it as long-term risk analysis. Frame it as compassion. Frame it as realism. Anything but the truth. Which is that I’m dangerously close to wanting a future with her. A future with men like me come at a cost.
The glass doors stand between me and the rest of the villa. I can see everything through them. But I'm still in here.
And Aria is still out there, moving toward something brighter than I know how to be part of.
The worst part is, I want to be anyway.