Chapter 323

Vivienne

I watch on TV as the rest of the Hans do their press conference.

There have been a lot of these lately. The campaign is in full swing, and every day brings another event, another photo op, another performance.

Just yesterday I stood beside Damien at a business luncheon. The day before, a gala with Olga. Last week, Damien and I accompanied Bernard Han himself to some high-profile fundraiser.

Luckily, today I didn’t have to.

I sit on the couch, remote in hand, watching the screen with a mixture of longing and dread.

Daphne is there.

She’s perfect, of course. Effortlessly charming in a way the rest of them have to work at.

We haven’t spoken about what happened.

Not really.

Every time she approaches me, I avoid her. Make an excuse. Disappear. It’s cowardly, I know.

I sigh, setting down the remote.

Wow, Vivienne.

Sleeping with your sister-in-law.

What’s worse is I don’t regret it.

Not even a tiny bit.

In fact, I would do it again. And again. And again.

The thought should terrify me. It does terrify me that it doesn’t terrify me. But underneath the fear is something else...something warm and steady and ...right.

I sigh again, running my hands through my hair.

I don’t know what to do.

I can’t avoid her forever. We live in the same house. We’re family. Eventually, we’ll have to talk. Eventually, I’ll have to face her.

But not today.

I stand and head to the kitchen.

Maybe food will help. Or at least, the distraction of preparing it.

*

To avoid spending time with my thoughts, I had to prepare an Eastern-style cuisine that took ages.

Multiple dishes, intricate side dishes, the whole elaborate production. It was exactly what I needed,something so demanding that my mind couldn’t wander.

I got what I wished for. I spent the later morning and the entire afternoon in the kitchen.

I had to learn to prepare Eastern food after the engagement to Damien was confirmed. A year of lessons.

So I learned. And now, on nights like this, my skills are put to use.

Dinner is, as always, filled with talk of politics. Bernard holds court at the head of the table, pontificating about polls and policies and party strategy. Damien nods along, interjecting occasionally, playing the dutiful son. The rest of us are audience.

Olga and I sit in relative silence, eating our food, exchanging the occasional glance.

Sometimes during these dinners, I feel like we’ve been transported back a couple of centuries. But Bernard Han is a stickler for tradition.

I focus on my bowl, on the intricate dance of chopsticks and food. The beef is tender, perfectly seasoned. A small victory.

I lean forward, reaching for another piece.

At the exact same moment, someone else’s chopsticks descend toward the same piece.

I look up.

Dark eyes meet mine.

Daphne.

My heart races.

I pull my hand back, looking down at my bowl. My cheeks burn. I can feel her gaze on me, warm and knowing, but I don’t look up.

Around us, the conversation continues. Bernard is talking about some donor’s demands. Damien is responding. Olga is nodding.

No one notices.

No one knows that my heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

I eat the rest of my meal without looking up.

The second dinner is over, the servants begin clearing the plates. I stand quickly, gathering dishes myself—anything to move, to escape, to stop feeling her gaze on my skin.

I reach for an empty bowl at the exact moment she does.

Skin contact.

The bowl slips from my fingers and shatters on the floor, intricate porcelain scattering into a hundred pieces.

I want to die.

"Oh dear." Olga’s voice, concerned. I’m already bending down, reaching for the shards, needing to fix this, needing to do something—

"It’s my fault." Daphne’s voice, smooth and calm. "I wasn’t paying attention."

I don’t look at her. Can’t. I keep picking up pieces, and a sharp edge finds my finger. Blood wells, bright red.

"Excuse me." My voice is barely a whisper. I stand, clutching my bleeding finger, and flee.

The servants can handle the mess. I can’t handle another second in that room.

*

In my bedroom bathroom, I run my finger under cold water, watching the crimson liquid swirl down the drain. The cut isn’t deep, but it stings. A small pain to focus on instead of the enormous one in my chest.

"Well."

I jump, spinning around.

Daphne is standing in my bedroom bathroom doorway.

"How did you get in here?" My voice is higher than I’d like.

"I knocked. You didn’t answer. The door was unlocked." She tilts her head, those dark eyes taking me in. "I walked in."

"What are you doing here?"

She raises her hand. A bandaid. Just a simple bandaid.

She walks closer slowly, giving me time to retreat. I don’t. Can’t. She takes my injured finger gently, her touch featherlight, and places the bandaid over the small cut with ridiculous care.

My bathroom suddenly feels very small with her in it.

"There," she says softly, pressing the bandaid into place.

But she doesn’t let go of my hand.

Instead, she interlocks our fingers, her thumb tracing slow circles on my skin. I should pull away. Should remind her that anyone could walk in, that the door is unlocked, that this is insane.

She brings our joined hands to her lips and places a kiss on my bandaged finger.

The action says everything.

It’s times like this that I realize she’s tall.When she’s this close, I have to tilt my head back to meet her gaze, and something about that angle makes my heart miss some beats.

She takes a step closer.

Leans down.

My eyes flutter closed, lips parting, every nerve ending screaming in anticipation—

"Vivienne?"

Olga’s voice.

From the hallway.

Close.

We jump apart like teenagers caught behind the bleachers. Only we’re way worse.