CHAPTER EIGHT ARSÈNE

CHAPTER EIGHT

ARSèNE

Three months later, I whisk Grace off to Martha’s Vineyard. A quainter, less glamorous version of Cape Cod. The Hamptons without the shine.

I don’t enjoy Martha’s Vineyard any more than I do the nearest public restroom, but I know that renting a house there makes Grace feel like Michelle Obama.

“My goodness, Arsène, I feel like royalty. What did I ever do to deserve this?” Grace gushes expectedly, cupping her cheeks in faux amazement, twirling in the vast foyer of a dazzling Oak Bluffs mansion.

Managed to become unavailable to me even while living under my roof.

Foolishly, I thought moving Grace in would make us grow closer.

Almost the opposite has been true. Grace works insane hours and doesn’t return home until nine or ten o’clock most days. These past two months alone, she spent half of her weekends in Zurich, working on a complicated merger between two small private banks.

She makes an effort—I’ll give her that. We fuck like rabbits. She makes me breakfast, purchases my favorite ties and cologne, and is diligent about hanging on my arm during formal events.

The dry spell episode in which she bled was a one-off. We’ve been having noteworthy sex since. She has not brought up the anal suggestion again, and I am grateful for it.

She stopped introducing me as her stepbrother and began referring to me as her partner in crime. An unhappy medium between calling me her brother and flat out admitting my dick lives rent-free between her legs.

Manhattan’s financial circles are abuzz with the news that, while waiting for my ban to expire, I’ve decided to move my stepsister in for my own pleasures, and she knows it. What’s more, after years of Grace hammering it into their heads, many people simply think of us as siblings. After all, we do look alike. With our dark hair and eyes.

It is all incredibly messy and, therefore, for me, also exceedingly amusing.

“You deserve this getaway.” I curl my fists inside my front pockets, watching her admiring the imposing columns and wall-to-wall bookshelves. “We barely get to see each other anymore.”

“But when we do, it’s so great. Don’t you think?” She flings her arms around my neck, kissing me.

She rips her mouth from mine before I can kiss her back. “Have I told you how good you look today?” She beams. “Like a brusque king. God, Ars, I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of you.”

She yanks me down the hallway, climbing me like a tree, peeling her clothes off in the process, ready for her first holiday treat. “I’m so glad we’re doing this. I miss you so much whenever we’re not together. I can’t wait to quit this awful job when we get married.” Her mouth is hot and eager on my jaw, making its way down my body. “You’ll buy me a little business to keep me busy, right? A winery or something.”

I snag the back of her neck and slam her against the wall, devouring her mouth in a punishing kiss as our bodies melt together. Heat swirls between us like fire.

“You’re about to get everything your heart desires,” I mumble into her hot skin.

Everything she doesn’t deserve. For the Corbin men have one thing in common—they always know how to choose the wrong woman.

The proposal is a quiet, dignified ordeal. I find it tacky when people ask others to marry them in public settings, where it’s impossible for their significant other to decline.

I take Grace to a nice dinner, buy a fine bottle of wine, and, when we return to the rental house, present her with a mammoth diamond ring.

“My goodness. How unexpected! Is that the Catherine?” she coos, accepts, and gives me a twenty-minute blow job that results in two Tylenols for her jaw afterward.

She is happy. Happy enough to hum, and laugh, and even have a piece of cake for dessert. So happy she kisses me when we take walks on the beach and clings to me, nuzzling my neck, and can’t stop talking about how she wants to start a charity when she quits work.

We are getting married. Mission accomplished. And yet. And yet. I can’t say I’m truly satisfied. I’ve reached the top of Everest, only to find out I can barely breathe up there.

The evening before we go back to New York, I take Grace to a yacht club. She munches on her green salad and wiggles her delicate fingers, letting the engagement ring catch the last sunrays pouring through the glass windows.

Looking at it, I decide that Christian was right about what he said when I took him ring shopping earlier this month. Someone is going to cut off this woman’s finger to get their hands on this piece of jewelry. I make a mental note to buy her a toned-down ring for everyday functions. I would strongly prefer it if all my future wife’s extremities remain intact.

Grace is talking animatedly now. Something about our parents. My eyes keep darting to the ring. It is impossible to look away. It looks uncomfortable to wear. It takes so much space on her bony hand.

This is a statement. One old-moneyed people do not like to make.

I’m so rich I gross myself out. Bow down, you peasant.

This is the kind of piece I’d expect Cardi B to wear. Not a gently bred, private school–educated woman from Scarsdale. But Grace always felt less than. Maybe because her father moved to Australia before she was even born. Maybe because she was made in sin, in secret, in shame, for the sole purpose of hurting my father.

“Arsène, have you been listening to anything I just said?” Grace frowns, snapping me out of my reverie.

I blink, taking a sip of my sparkling water. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. Please repeat that.”

She flushes, looking a little embarrassed.

“I was talking about the will.” She licks her lips, her eyes skittishly moving around the crowded room.

“What about it?”

“Well, now that we’re engaged, maybe it’s best if we write each other into our individual wills. You know, just in case.”

“In case what?” My jaw hardens.

“Anything happens.”

“Define anything.”

Grace tried to kill me at least once in our lifetime (intentionally, unlike what I did to her). Which—call me a hopeless fucking romantic—was once more than your significant other should. It was a long time ago, but I wouldn’t put it past my beautiful, cunning fiancée to try it again.

She is a highly resourceful woman, and I am a very rich man.

She flicks her wrist, chuckling pensively. “I know you’re thinking about that time. That was just a stupid teenage retaliation. I was a kid. Hormonal as hell. Underdeveloped frontal lobe, et cetera.”

“Your underdeveloped frontal lobe is not my concern. Your underdeveloped conscience is.”

She pouts. “That’s not a very nice way to talk to your fiancée.”

I smirk, the back of my fingers brushing her cheek. “Niceness is not a trait we look for in one another.”

“Won’t you even think about that? For me?” Her eyes are two onyx diamonds. “Knowing how much that means to me. The trust, obviously. Not the money. Just the trust.”

It’s not like I have any living family to give my possessions to. If I were to die tomorrow, it is likely Grace will get at least a good portion of everything I own. Along with Miranda, someone I want nowhere near my shit.

Still, it doesn’t take a genius to see Grace’s intentions are anything but pure. We’re both in our thirties, healthy, and in no immediate danger of cashing in our chips.

“No,” I say flatly.

“No?” She blinks, looking genuinely surprised. She is not accustomed to that word, especially from me.

“No,” I repeat. “I don’t intend to think about it.”

“Oh .?.?. well, I understand.” But she doesn’t. Which is why she deflates like a balloon.

“I plan on leaving everything I own to the Planetary Society,” I continue.

She reaches for the pearls on her neck, playing with them. “That’s fine. I .?.?. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Someone give the woman a Razzie Award. She is terrible at playing the innocent part.

“So you can call off the engagement right now,” I urge her, almost tauntingly. “If this is a deal breaker for you.”

She shakes her head, a shriek of laughter bubbling from her throat. “That won’t be necessary. Really, it was only a suggestion. I’m okay with whatever you choose. I’m not marrying you for your money.”

Of course she is. And the worst part is, I know I’m not going to deny her. Test her—sure. But I’ll never follow through. She will get what she wants. I will write her into my will, and vice versa.

“Grace.”

“Yes, my love?” She attempts a weak smile. Fails.

“We’ll visit my lawyer this week and make the necessary changes.”

Her shoulders sag in relief. She smiles—really smiles now—her entire features brightening up, like a flower angled up toward the sun on the first day of spring. I’ve never made her smile like this before.

A rush of possessiveness and desire courses through me.

She is mine. Her bony fingers. Her shrewd eyes. Her black heart. All mine.

“Thank you for trusting me.” She reaches across the table, grabs my hand, squeezes. Her hand is cold and dry. “I love you.”

I promise myself not to drink or eat anything she makes in the future unless she takes a first sip or bite.

“Love you too.”

And I do. I love her. I’m sure of it.

But I also know one thing for sure—a leopard never changes its spots.