‘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 almostfake. 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. Overeverything: the half-zipped dress, the bare stretch of skin along my back, the messy array ofmake-up and hairpins scattered across the vanity. His expression flip flops somewhere betweenI shouldn’t be seeing thisandI 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?’
