Chapter 2
TWO
Chantal
They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Nobody ever mentions her other lifelong bestie—luxurious getaways to tropical places like the Maldives.
From the moment I step off the seaplane onto the dock at Velaa Private Island, I close my eyes and bask in the feel of the warm, salt-kissed ocean air.
Whoever invented the Maldives deserves a Nobel Peace Prize. Maybe two.
Turquoise water stretches out to the horizon, such a vivid blend of green and blue it doesn’t even look real. The sky is boundless, without a cloud for miles, only the bright sun and its rays.
Then there’s the white sands that serve as a stark contrast to both the open sky and waters. Millions upon millions of tiny little grains so pure and perfect they resemble diamonds.
A smile comes to my face.
Fitting I’d find both of my besties in one place.
I’m already composing my captions for social media.
Paradise found
Way too basic. Half my followers would post the same cliche line.
Sun, sea, and the man who knows how to treat a woman right.
Closer, but still needs something.
I’ll workshop it once I have the actual photos. The lighting here is going to be incredible, and I need to see what I’m working with before I commit.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Greg says from beside me, sliding his sunglasses into place as we wait for the resort’s private water taxi.
I blink and glance over at him, remembering I’ve got a whole boyfriend at my side. “What thing?”
“The face you make when you’re composing one of those social media posts in your head.”
“Me?” I gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to my chest. “I make absolutely no such face, Gregory.”
The corner of his mouth lifts into what’s not exactly a smile, more a vague look of amusement. Close enough to count in my book.
It’s as animated as my lovely boyfriend gets.
Gregory LaMalfa is fifty-three years old, with a full head of white hair, and is the definition of old money.
His granddaddy’s granddaddy’s granddaddy was loaded all the way back when Italy was known as the Kingdom of Italy and America itself was barely thirteen colonies.
His cash is long and his reputation far and wide.
He’s broad-shouldered, with a face lined with dignified wrinkles and a closet of designer suits. For our vacation, he’s opted for linen—a basic beige button up and the breezy trousers to match.
He’s got some swag for an older, rich Italian guy, and he knows it.
Which is exactly my type.
I loop my arm through his as the resort’s gleaming water taxi rounds the dock. “Okay, confession. I was composing a caption.”
“Yes, I know, Chantal. That’s why I pointed it out.”
“In my defense, the perfect caption has to go with the perfect photos. What else does paradise justice?” I tease.
“Mmm,” he hums.
Which isn’t the playful, back-and-forth couple’s banter I was hoping for, but I let it go.
I let go of a lot of things around men like Gregory LaMalfa.
We’ve been together almost four months. More than enough time for me to understand that Greg operates on his own radio frequency.
His phone is a near-permanent extension of his hand, his mind perpetually half-elsewhere, running numbers and closing deals and doing whatever it is that wealthy Italian hedge funders do when they’re theoretically on vacation.
I made peace with it a long time ago.
Growing up with a state senator for a dad who was steeped in politics 24/7 taught me well.
Powerful men are like giant redwood trees—inflexible and immovable, and if you expect to be in their company, you better be willing to make some concessions.
…because most of the time?
They damn sure won’t.
But the quality ones will make sure you’re always good. They’ll always take care of you—financially speaking—and that’s what matters most at the end of the day.
Besides, everybody knows men of a certain age have their quirks. A particular moodiness settles in around the early fifties that might as well be branded as male menopause.
It has the word men in it for a reason.
The attendant steps forward to take our luggage, and as Greg and I board the water taxi and the island comes into full view ahead of us—lush and white-sanded and gleaming in the afternoon sun—I decide that whatever mood swings Greg has will be worth it.
I refuse to let anything ruin my time on this island.
Nothing but good vibes on this vacay.
The resort is even more stunning up close. Think five-star posh luxury meets tropical oasis in the sun.
The main building sits at the heart of the small island like the crown jewel it is—open-aired and breezy, with exposed wooden beams, clean lines, and massive windows.
All-white everything seems to be the theme.
The private villas themselves extend out over the lagoon on either side, held up by stilts and connected to the main island by individual walkways. Each one looks like its own floating tropical palace, offering a full view of the turquoise waters at all times.
Our guest relations manager waits for us as we disembark from the water taxi. Half her face is obscured by her sunglasses, the other half plastered with a wide smile.
Amara greets us, promptly introducing herself and then launching into an overview of the resort. We follow a pace behind her, my head on a swivel.
I make sure to ask questions about the important stuff—you know, the available spa treatments, the shopping on the island, and food, obviously.
Amara chuckles as she patiently answers each one, even teasing Greg about getting a facial. I laugh along despite the stiff nod he gives and uninterested hmmm sound he makes.
For that joke alone, she’s officially become my favorite person I’ve met today.
The villa is, without question, gorgeous.
Three sides of floor-to-ceiling glass panels open up to a panorama of the ocean. The private deck with a daybed and loungers extends out over the water. Steps lead directly into the lagoon below; the surface shimmering like it’s been dusted by magic.
Inside, warm wood and white linen make up the bedroom; the king-sized bed piled with more pillows than two people could ever reasonably use. A soaking tub is positioned before a window on the other side of the room as if fine art on display.
I stand in the middle of it all and press both hands to my cheeks.
A resort attendant materializes with a bottle of Billecart-Salmon rosé sweating in an ice bucket and two crystal flutes. I accept mine with a giddy squeal.
“To us,” I say, turning to Greg and holding up my glass.
He pockets the phone he’s spent most of the tour fiddling with and picks up his flute. Amara and the attendant have stepped away, finally giving us a moment alone in our villa.
“Yes, to us,” he says. He brings his glass to mine with a gentle clink. “That seems reason enough to celebrate.”
“This place is somehow even better than the pictures.”
His eyes gleam with rare humor. “I thought you’d feel that way.”
I take my first sip of champagne and sigh contently. It’s bubbly and sweet, tasting exactly like the beginning of a week I intend to spend being completely, unapologetically indulgent.
Reaching for my phone again, I take a photo of the flute held against the turquoise in the backdrop. Then a few more with me smiling and holding up my flute.
Greg watches me, his expression vague enough I can’t tell whether he’s entertained or resigned.
“Ooh, this is the one,” I announce, reviewing the photo. “Beautiful.”
“The view or the woman?”
It takes me a second to grasp what he means, but once I do, I cut him a quick smile. “The view. The woman goes without saying.”
He chuckles, the same low and restrained laugh I’ve come to expect from him. Men like Greg don’t do full-bellied laughs. It’s much too undignified.
No difference to me.
I was six the last time I heard Dad give a laugh that sounded like anything other than rehearsed and impeccably timed.
In these kinds of circles, everything is a performance. Everything is staged.
You just have to know your role and play the part.
Something I’ve learned to do well as I step to Greg practically with hearts in my eyes and slide my hand up his broad chest.
A purring noise starts up from my throat as I sip more champagne and decide to remind him I’m his young, sexy, carefree girlfriend for a reason.
“What do you say we lose the clothes and check out that tub?”
One of his thick white brows lifts in interest only to be interrupted by the buzz against his hip. His phone is going off from inside the pocket of his linen pants.
Just like that, the interest is gone, replaced by a clenched jaw and darkening blue eyes. He cuts a quick look at the screen.
“Give me a few minutes,” he says, turning and heading onto the private deck.
I watch him go and pour myself another glass.
Fine.
I have an entire bottle of Billecart-Salmon rosé and the most beautiful view in the world. I’ve survived a lifetime of neglect in exchange for luxury as a means of distraction. A few more minutes is nothing.
By early afternoon, I’ve given up on Greg. I’ve relocated to the white-sand beach with my Missoni bikini, my Celine sunglasses, and absolutely zero intention of doing anything productive for the foreseeable future.
I’m a thicker girl, so some assume I wouldn’t have the confidence to wear a two-piece, but what they don’t know is Chantal Banks has always been proud of her curves.
I know I look good, fat ass, not-so-flat belly, and the thighs to match.
As Queen Bey says, thique.
I swing my box braids over my shoulders and take my time applying some La Mer SPF.
I’m blessed with enough beautiful melanin not to be fried under the sun, but you can never be too careful. Anything to prevent wrinkles and prolong the inevitable Botox most women in my circle get.
The water washes up on the shore at such a slow pace you’d think it was also on vacation. But I’ve quickly learned that’s everything in the Maldives.
It’s peak leisure in every way.
I stretch out on the lounger, sunglasses shielding my eyes, and turn my face up toward the warmth of the sun.