Vivian

Chapter 2 :

My parents' living room looked like something out of an

Architectural Digest spread. Tufted settees sat at right

angles to carved wood tables; porcelain tea sets jostled

for space next to priceless tchotchkes. Even the air smelled cold

and impersonal, like generically expensive freshener.

Some people had homes; my parents had a showpiece.

"Your skin looks dull." My mother examined me with a critical

eye. "Have you been keeping up with your monthly facials?"

She sat across from me, her own skin glowing with

pearlescent luminosity.

"Yes, Mother." My cheeks ached from the forced politeness of

my smile.

I'd stepped foot in my childhood home ten minutes ago, and I'd

already been criticized for my hair (too messy), my nails (too

long), and now, my complexion.

Just another night at the Lau manor.

"Good. Remember, you can't let yourself go," my mother said.

"You're not married yet."

I held back a sigh. Here we go again.

Despite my thriving career in Manhattan, where the event

planning market was more cutthroat than a designer sample sale, my parents were fixated on my lack of a boyfriend and, therefore,

lack of marital prospects.

They tolerated my work because it was no longer fashionable

for heiresses to do nothing, but they were salivating for a son-in-

law, one who could increase their foothold in the circles of the old

money elite.

We were rich, but we would never be old money. Not in this

generation.

"I'm still young," I said patiently. "I have plenty of time to meet

someone."

I was only twenty-eight, but my parents acted like I would

shrivel into the Crypt Keeper the second midnight struck on my

thirtieth birthday.

"You're almost thirty," my mother countered. "You're not getting

any younger, and you have to start thinking about marriage and

kids. The longer you wait, the smaller the dating pool becomes."

"I am thinking about it." Thinking about the year of freedom I

have left before I'm forced to marry a banker with a numeral after

his last name. "As for getting younger, that's what Botox and

plastic surgery is for."

If my sister were here, she would've laughed. Since she

wasn't, my joke fell flatter than a poorly baked soufflé.

My mother's lips thinned.

Beside her, my father's thick, gray-tipped brows formed a stern

V over the bridge of his nose.

Sixty years old, spry, and fit, Francis Lau looked every inch the

self-made CEO. He'd expanded Lau Jewels from a small, family-

run shop to a multinational behemoth over three decades, and a

silent stare from him was enough to make me shrink back against

the couch cushions.

"Every time we bring up marriage, you make a joke." His tone

seeped with disapproval. "Marriage is not a joke, Vivian. It's an important matter for our family. Look at your sister. Thanks to her,

we're now connected to the royal family of Eldorra."

I bit my tongue so hard the taste of copper filled my mouth.

My sister had married an Eldorran earl who was a second

cousin twice removed from the queen. Our "connection" to the

small European kingdom's royal family was a stretch, but in my

father's eyes, an aristocratic title was an aristocratic title.

"I know it's not a joke," I said, reaching for my tea. I needed

something to do with my hands. "But it's also not something I

need to think about right now. I'm dating. Exploring my prospects.

There are plenty of single men in New York. I just have to find the

right one."

I left out the caveat: there were plenty of single men in New

York, but the pool of single, straight, non-douchey, non-flaky, non-

disturbingly eccentric men was much smaller.

My last date tried to rope me into a seance to contact his dead

mother so she could "meet me and give her approval." Needless

to say, I never saw him again.

But my parents didn't need to know that. As far as they were

concerned, I was dating handsome trust fund scions left and right.

"We've given you plenty of time to find a proper match these

past two years." My father sounded unimpressed by my spiel.

"You haven't had a single serious boyfriend since your last…

relationship. It's clear you don't feel the same urgency we do,

which is why I took matters into my own hands."

My tea froze halfway to my lips. "Meaning?"

I thought the important news he'd alluded to had to do with my

sister or the company. But what if…

My blood iced.

No. It can't be.

"Meaning I've secured a suitable match for you." My father

dropped the bombshell with little to no warning or visible emotion.

"It took quite a bit of work on my end, but the arrangement has

been finalized."

I've secured a suitable match for you.

The fragments from his declaration blasted through my chest

and nearly cleaved my outward composure in half.

My teacup clattered back onto its plate, earning me a frown

from my mother.

For once, I was too busy processing to worry about her

disapproval.

Arranged marriages were common practice in our world of big

business and power plays, where marriages weren't love

matches; they were alliances. My parents married my sister off for

a title, and I'd known my turn was coming. I just hadn't expected it

to come so…so soon.

A bitter cocktail of shock, dread, and horror sluiced down my

throat.

I was expected to enter a lifetime contract after "quite a bit of

work" on my father's end.

Just what every woman wants to hear.

"We've let you drag your feet too long, and this match will be

enormously beneficial for us," my father continued. "I'm sure you'll

agree once you meet him at dinner."

The cocktail turned into poison and ate away at my insides.

"Dinner? As in, tonight's dinner?" My voice sounded distant

and strange, as if I was hearing it in a bad dream. "Why didn't you

tell me earlier?"

Being ambushed with news of an arranged marriage match

was bad enough. Meeting my future fiancé with zero preparation

was a hundred times worse.

No wonder my mother was being even more critical than

normal. She was expecting her future son-in-law as a guest.

My stomach lurched, and the possibility of expelling its

contents all over my mother's prized Persian rug inched closer to reality.

Everything was happening too fast. The dinner summons, the

news of my engagement, the impending meeting—my mind

whirled from trying to keep up.

"He didn't confirm until today due to…scheduling

complications." My father smoothed a hand over his shirt. "You'll

have to meet him eventually. It doesn't matter whether it's tonight,

a week, or a month from now."

Actually, it does matter. There's a difference between being

mentally prepared to meet my fiancé and having him thrown in my

face with no warning.

My retort simmered on low, destined never to reach a full boil.

Talking back was strictly verboten in the Lau household. I was

beholden to its rules even as an adult, and disobedience was

always met with swift punishment and sharp words.

"We want to move things along as quickly as possible," my

mother jumped in. "It takes time to plan a proper wedding, and

your fiancé is, er, particular about the details."

Funny how she was already calling him my fiancé when I

hadn't met the man yet.

"Mode de Vie named him one of the world's most eligible

bachelors under forty last year. Rich, handsome, powerful.

Honestly, your father outdid himself." My mother patted my

father's arm, her face glowing.

I hadn't seen her this animated since she scored a seat on the

Boston Society Wine Auction's planning committee last year.

"That's…great." My smile wobbled from the effort of keeping

itself intact.

At least my match probably had all his teeth. I wouldn't have

put it past my parents to marry me off to some decrepit billionaire

on his deathbed.

Money and status came first; everything else came a distant

second.

I took a deep breath and willed my mind not to spiral down that

particular path.

Get it together, Viv.

As upset as I was at my parents for springing this on me, I

could freak out later, after I got through the evening. It wasn't like I

could say no to the match. If I did, my parents would disown me.

Plus, my future husband—my stomach lurched again—would

be here any minute, and I couldn't make a scene.

I wiped a palm against my thigh. My head felt dizzy, but I clung

to the mask I always wore at home. Cool. Calm. Respectable.

"So." I swallowed my bile and forced a light tone. "Does Mr.

Perfect have a name, or is he known only by his net worth?"

I didn't remember everyone who'd been on Mode de Vie's list,

but the people I did remember didn't inspire much confidence. If

he—

"Net worth by strangers. Name by select friends and family."

My spine stiffened at the deep, unexpected voice behind me. It

was so close I could feel the rumble of words against my back.

They slid over me like sun-warmed honey—rich and sensual, with

a faint Italian accent that made every nerve ending tingle with

pleasure.

Heat slipped beneath my skin.

"Ah, there you are." My father rose, a strangely triumphant

gleam in his eyes. "Thank you for coming at such short notice."

"How could I pass up the opportunity to meet your lovely

daughter?"

A hint of mockery tainted the word lovely and instantly washed

away any budding attraction I had to a voice, of all things.

Ice doused the heat in my veins.

So much for Mr. Perfect.

I'd learned to trust my gut when it came to people, and my gut

told me the owner of the voice was as thrilled about the dinner as I

was. "Vivian, say hello to our guest." If my mother beamed any

harder, her face would split in half.

I half-expected her to prop her cheek on her hand and sigh

dreamily like a schoolgirl with a crush.

I pushed the disturbing image out of my mind before I lifted my

chin.

Stood.

Turned.

And all the air whooshed out of my lungs.

Thick black hair. Olive skin. A slightly crooked nose that

enhanced rather than detracted from his ruggedly masculine

charm.

My future husband was devastation poured into a suit. Not

handsome by conventional means, but so powerful and

compelling his presence swallowed every molecule of oxygen in

the room like a black hole consuming a newborn star.

There were generically good-looking men, and there was him.

And, unlike his voice, his face was eminently recognizable.

My heart sank beneath the weight of my shock.

Impossible. There was no way he was my arranged fiancé.

This had to be a joke.

"Vivian." My mother disguised her rebuke as my name.

Right. Dinner. Fiancée. Meeting.

I shook myself out of my stupor and summoned a strained but

polite smile. "Vivian Lau. It's a pleasure to meet you."

I held out my hand.

A beat passed before he took it. Warm strength engulfed my

palm and sent a jolt of electricity up my arm.

"So I gathered from the multiple times your mother said your

name." The laziness of his drawl played off the observation as a

joke; the hardness of his eyes told me it was anything but. "Dante

Russo. The pleasure is all mine."

There was the mockery again, subtle but cutting.

Dante Russo.

CEO of the Russo Group, Fortune 500 legend, and the man

who'd created such a buzz at the Frederick Wildlife Trust gala

three nights ago. He wasn't just an eligible bachelor; he was the

bachelor. The elusive billionaire every woman wanted and no one

could get.

He was thirty-six years old, famously married to his work, and

up until now, showed no intention of giving up his bachelor

lifestyle.

Why, then, would Dante Russo of all people agree to an

arranged marriage?

"I would introduce myself by my net worth," he said. "But it

would be impolite to categorize you as a stranger given the

purpose of tonight's dinner."

His smile didn't contain an ounce of warmth.

My cheeks heated at the reminder he'd overheard my joke. It

hadn't been malicious, but discussing other people's money was

considered uncouth even though everyone secretly did it.

"That's very considerate of you." My cool reply masked my

embarrassment. "Don't worry, Mr. Russo. If I wanted to know your

net worth, I could Google it. I'm sure the information is as readily

available as the tales of your legendary charm."

A glint sparked in his eyes, but he didn't take my bait.

Instead, our gazes held for a charged moment before he slid

his palm out of mine and swept a clinical, detached gaze over my

body.

My hand tingled with warmth, but everywhere else, coolness

touched my skin like the indifference of a god faced with a mortal.

I stiffened again beneath Dante's scrutiny, suddenly

hyperaware of my Cecelia Lau-approved tweed skirt suit, pearl

studs, and low-heeled pumps. I'd even swapped out my favorite

red lipstick in favor of the neutral color she preferred.

This was my standard uniform for visiting my parents, and

judging by the way Dante's lips thinned, he was less than

impressed.

A mix of unease and irritation twisted my stomach when those

dark, unforgiving eyes found mine again.

We'd exchanged only a handful of words, yet I already knew

two things with gut certainty.

One, Dante was going to be my fiancé.

Two, we might kill each other before we ever made it to the

altar.