9. Aria #2
I felt sick just thinking about it.
"Is Dad interested?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. I could feel it sitting heavy in my stomach.
Mom shook her head. "I tried to convince him. But you know your father. He doesn't see the business case. He thinks the property is too outdated. He doesn’t believe he can make any profit."
Like profit was the only metric that mattered. Like legacy and history and cultural preservation were just inconvenient line items to be crossed off a spreadsheet. Like everything Grandpa had helped to build, everything he'd meant, could be reduced to square footage and profit margins.
I stared at the window, not really seeing the buildings outside. My mind was racing, pieces clicking together faster than I could process them.
I wasn't a businesswoman. I'd never wanted to be one. I'd chosen charity work specifically because I wanted to help people directly, not spend my days analyzing profit margins and negotiating acquisitions and playing corporate chess.
But this... this was different.
This wasn't just business.
"I want to buy it," I heard myself say.
Mom blinked at me. "What?"
"The Kahale Grande. I want to buy it myself."
The words hung in the air between us. I watched her process them, watched her face cycle through surprise, concern, and confusion.
"Aria, honey..." She was using her careful voice now, the one she used when she was trying not to hurt my feelings. "That's a very big decision. Running a hotel is nothing like running a charity. The operational demands, the financial complexity—"
"I know it won't be easy." My heart was pounding but my voice came out steady.
Certain. "But I can learn. I can hire people who know what they're doing.
People who get it." I turned to face her fully.
"Mom, I can't let that hotel fall into the wrong hands.
It means too much. To our family, to the community, to everything Grandpa built. "
She was quiet for a beat. Then, "How would you even afford it?"
"My trust fund."
The answer came easily. Too easily, maybe. Grandmother's money had been sitting there for years, feeling more like an obligation than an opportunity. Like this weight I was supposed to do something meaningful with but never quite knew what.
But this—this felt right. This felt like exactly what it was for.
"That should be more than enough for the purchase and any renovations," I added.
"Aria..." Mom studied me for a long moment. I knew that look—she was doing the math in her head, weighing whether to push back or trust me. Whether to mother me or respect me as an adult.
I held my breath.
Finally, she stood, gathering her purse with careful, deliberate movements. "You're just like your father. When he gets an idea in his head, nothing can shake it loose."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"It's a complicated thing." She pulled me into another hug—gentler this time, less crushing—and pressed a kiss to my forehead. She smelled like jasmine and home. "Just promise me you'll think it through? Talk to people who know the industry?"
"I promise."
I walked her to the door, my mind already spinning ahead. The second she was gone—the second the door clicked shut—I pulled out my phone.
"Priya? I need you to come back. We have work to do."
The rest of the day disappeared into research.
Priya returned within the hour, and together we dove into everything we could find about the Kahale Grande. Property records, financial histories, news articles. I reached out to contacts, made lists of lawyers and consultants who specialized in hospitality acquisitions.
By evening, I had the beginning of a plan. Rough, full of gaps, but real.
Step one: contact Lono Kahale's representatives.
Step two: figure out everything else.
"You know," Priya said, looking up from her laptop, "most people would at least look at the hotel and the books before trying to buy it."
"I'm not most people."
"Clearly." She stretched, her back cracking. "Speaking of things you're avoiding—what time is Sebastian picking you up?"
I'd been so absorbed in the Kahale research that I'd managed to push the date out of my mind entirely. But now it came rushing back. The obligation. The dread. The evening stretched ahead of me like a prison sentence.
I checked my phone. 6:47 p.m.
My stomach dropped.
Oh, God.
The date. The stupid, terrible, why-did-I-agree-to-this date. I'd buried it so deep under spreadsheets and property records that I'd actually forgotten. But now it crashed back like a wave, cold and inevitable.
"He said seven," I said.
"So you have thirteen minutes." Priya was already moving, her hand closing around my arm. "Come on. Let's make you presentable."
"I don't want to look like I tried."
"You also don't want to look like you gave up."
She pulled me toward the bedroom, throwing my closet doors open with theatrical flair. Hangers scraped against the rod as she flipped through dresses.
"What about the blue?"
"Too obvious."
"The black?"
"Too funereal."
"Aria." She spun around, hands on her hips. "You're going to dinner with one of the most eligible bachelors in New York. At least pretend you don't want to stab him with a fork."
"But I do want to stab him with a fork."
"Pretend."
This is torture. Actual torture.
Twenty minutes later—Sebastian could wait, I decided—I stood in front of the mirror while Priya circled me like a proud stylist.
The wine-red dress had come from the very back of my closet.
I'd forgotten I owned it. Simple cut, elegant lines, with a neckline that was suggestive without being revealing.
And my hair—God, Priya had won that battle too.
Down for once, dark curls spilling past my shoulders instead of twisted into my usual bun.
I looked good.
Not that it matters.
But some traitorous part of me registered the way the dress skimmed my waist, the way the color brought out the warmth in my skin.
The intercom buzzed, and Priya practically sprinted to answer it.
"He's here," she announced, bouncing on her toes. "Have fun tonight, okay? And don't come back too early. Or do come back early. Or don't come back at all, if you know what I mean—"
"Priya."
"What? I'm just saying."
"Goodbye, Priya."
I grabbed my clutch, heading for the elevator while her laughter echoed down the hallway behind me.
You can do this. It's just dinner. A few hours. You've survived worse.
The elevator descended, and my reflection stared back at me from the polished doors. I looked calm. Composed.
Inside, my nerves were doing gymnastics.
The lobby doors opened, and I saw him immediately.
Sebastian stood near the entrance, backlit by the city lights glittering through the glass.
Dark suit; navy, maybe charcoal, hard to tell in this light.
No tie. White shirt open at the collar, showing the hollow of his throat.
His hair was slightly mussed in a way that was probably accidental but looked like a stylist spent hours perfecting it.
He straightened when he saw me.
His eyes met mine, then traveled down. Slowly. Taking in the dress, the curves, the bare shoulders.
Don't you dare blush. Don't you dare.
There was a flicker in his gaze when it finally returned to my face. Something that made my breath catch despite myself.
"You look..." He paused. "That color suits you."
I walked past him without responding.
Outside, a black SUV waited at the curb. Sebastian moved ahead of me and opened the door himself, gesturing for me to enter. I slid inside without acknowledging it. Unnecessary. All of this was unnecessary.
He settled in beside me. The car pulled away.
"How was your day?" he asked.
"Fine."
"Did the final numbers come in from the gala?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"They were fine."
I kept my eyes on the window, watching the city blur past. I could feel him watching me. That steady gaze that always made my skin prickle.
"The foundation must be pleased with the turnout," he tried again.
"Mmhmm."
Silence. I counted the blocks. Fourteen more until we hit Tribeca, if I remembered the restaurant district correctly. Fourteen blocks of this car, this closeness, his cologne filling the small space with something woodsy and warm.
I pressed closer to the window.
"You're going to make this difficult," he said. Not a question.
"I'm going to make this exactly what it is." I finally turned to look at him. "You bought my time. You didn't buy my conversation."
His jaw tightened. I watched the muscle flex beneath his skin.
Good.
The rest of the ride passed in blessed silence. Even when we arrived at the restaurant, I still didn’t speak. It was a nice place, I’d give him that. It was a converted townhouse with no sign on the door. The kind of place that didn't need to advertise.
Sebastian stepped out first and extended his hand to help me from the car. I looked at his hand. I looked at him. Climbed out on my own. His eyes narrowed. I felt a small spark of satisfaction.
Inside, the host greeted Sebastian by name and led us through the main dining room, past white-clothed tables and soft candlelight, and the quiet murmur of wealthy people eating expensive food.
We kept walking, past all of it, through a door at the back into a private room. An empty private room. Just one table, set for two, candles flickering in the silence.
I stopped. "You booked the entire room?"
"I did. Because I wanted privacy for our date."
I turned to stare at him. "This isn't a date."
"It definitely is." He moved past me and pulled out my chair. "I told you it was. I believe my exact words were 'a private dinner at the restaurant of my choice.' This qualifies."
I sat down. Hated that he'd held out my chair. Hated the intimacy of the empty room, the soft lighting, the careful staging of it all.
The waiter appeared with wine. A bottle of something red, presented with ceremony. Sebastian tasted it, nodded, and the waiter poured two glasses before disappearing as silently as he'd come.