2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Fifi waits impatiently outside the third bridal boutique of the day. If she doesn't find something here, I'm walking home.

"Why isn't this place open?" She folds her arms in front of her chest and rocks back on her heels.

"The sign says the hours are from eleven to seven. It's only a quarter of." I check and double-check my watch, wishing today was already over.

No, that's not quite right. Ever since the skiing accident in Switzerland, I'm lucky to be alive, but spending any amount of time with my father's sixth wife-to-be is torture.

A woman holding a coffee cup approaches, tucks her head, and swiftly turns around, returning the way she came.

Yeah, I'd avoid Fifi while she's on a Bridezilla rampage too.

"Did you hear about Duchess Diana and Antony? Can you believe what she did?" Fifi asks, scrolling her phone.

I've learned not to ask questions like, Who is that? and let her have a one-sided gossip session. There's a chance I actually do know who she's referring to but can't remember.

The problem with the gap in my memory is that sometimes I don't know what's simply a lapse in my knowledge or what's rattling around up there, hidden by a kind of fog that's impossible to describe. My one hope is that it someday parts. Someday soon.

"This place better be as good as everyone says. I don't understand why these bridal boutique people can't bring the gowns to me."

"Maybe they worry about damage during transit," I say, pragmatically.

"I'm going to have a word with this woman if she doesn't open up soon."

"Five more minutes, Fifi," I say, doing my best not to grit my teeth.

One of life's cruelest jokes is wearing golden handcuffs. Today's thankless task is helping my stepmother-to-be plan her wedding. Having left this small beach town to obtain my MBA without looking back, I wonder how my life would've turned out had I followed another pursuit. It would help if I could remember.

The break spans roughly six years. I remember everything from before I learned to ride a bike to after my first day of college. What my doctors informally call my "Muscle memory" remained. This includes things that I'd done repeatedly like walking, driving, swimming, and such. But the nuances like conversations, people who I'd met during that period from middle to high school, and feelings I'd experienced remain in the black hole.

Relationships and friendships, my first and last days of high school, prom, and even my first kiss, are lost in there too.

Being here, the question of what I'm missing out on chafes like sand in my shoe. I tug at the collar of my button-down as the Southern California summer sun crests overhead.

Fifi looks up from her phone and follows my gaze toward the beach. "Your father said this is going to be the site of the latest Imperial Paradise resort location. I don't get what the big deal is."

The broad beach with powdery sand and the sparkling water with gently lapping waves close to shore is a stunning setting for a luxury resort. The surfers out beyond the breakers, the restaurants, and the little shops, including this boutique, all have a certain quality that attracts tourists and families. However, they're not the demographic for the proposed billionaire beach property.

The turning of a lock from behind where we're waiting draws an annoyed huff from Fifi. She mutters, "Finally."

The door jingles as the owner opens it, saying, "Good morning."

With one hand turned down and the other on her hip, Fifi waltzes inside and sniffs. "Well, Valerina, a little word of advice. Don't keep your customers waiting."

The woman's big brown eyes widen and her jaw goes slack for five seconds.

Fifi snaps her fingers.

The woman's lips part before she presses them closed and plasters on a smile. "My apologies, Ma'am. Welcome to Valerina's Bridal Boutique. Please tell me a little bit about what you're hoping for on your big day, and I'll do my best to help."

I've come to call this the "Fifi Shake and Bake." I should choreograph a dance to go along with it. Meaning, she shakes people up with her rude abruptness. If they're wise, they serve up sweetness, like baking a cake, to avoid any further trouble.

Unfortunately, with my future stepmother, that's hard to avoid.

The store owner's gaze flits to me and then she casts it down. I follow, wondering what she's looking at, but it's just the marble floor.

"Valerina is my aunt. She retired and left the shop to me." Once more, her eyes dart in my direction and then away, landing on the floor. Brazilian marble, if I had to guess.

In addition to Fifi insisting I help with the wedding, she's also remodeling Dad's Beacon Bank Harbor mansion because she doesn't want a "Trace of his previous wives in the place." Not that Fifi and Dad are ever there—mostly, they travel from property to property all around the world or vacation and go yachting.

Not-Valerina is undeniably pretty with wavy auburn hair, peachy skin, and big brown eyes. But my focus for the last year has been recovery and taking steps "Toward the Imperial mega-corp throne," as my father puts it. He actually has one at his castle in Hungary.

Iver Barton advised me to avoid relationships until he retires and all the legalities are finalized after he turns the corporation over to me. Considering he's on soon-to-be wife number six, I'm not so sure about his relationship advice. On the other hand, his business acumen brought him to the multi-billions.

Fifi circles the room, frowning at the gowns on display while Not-Valerina trails her. "Would you like a drink? We have tea, a mimosa, or sparkling water." Then, in a shaky voice, she goes on an elaborate ramble about the coffee floats served at Pinky's. Clearly, someone got caffeinated this morning.

Fifi declines the offer.

"I'll take the water," I say, sitting down on a white silk sofa with braided upholstery.

"Hmm. I'm not sure how long we'll be." Fifi strides over to me and slides her palm along my cheek and in an odd babyish tone, she says, "My little Finny-Finn must be getting tired of all this shopping."

I grimace and remove her hand. With a tight smile, I say, "Surely we can find something suitable here."

"I don't want to be suitable on my wedding day, Finn. I want to be exquisite." She rounds on Not-Valerina. "I hear you have designs by Bechamel Chartreuse?"

The shop owner tilts her head slightly as if trying to translate Rude into English. "Do you mean Béchamtal Larmachanteau?"

"That's what I said," Fifi snaps. She pretends to be worldly and fancy, but like the rest of my father's wives, she's a gold digger. Yes, including my mother. At least, that's what Fiona says.

" Oui , bien s?r . I mean yes, of course," Not-Valerina replies in perfect French.

Fifi rolls her eyes the same way she does at the housekeepers who often have a language barrier. I want to roll my eyes too but can't take them off the shop owner. She's built like she was once a dancer. The sound of her voice suggests she can sing. And there's something about her that feels familiar.

My father warned me this would probably happen and to guard against tricking myself into thinking everything and everyone might be a key to unlocking my memory.

When she stumbles over the shag throw rug under the glass table topped with an array of bridal magazines, I lunge forward and am about to grasp her arm to steady her, but she straightens.

"I'm okay. I'm not used to wearing these shoes. Before I had the shop, I was doing hair and on my feet all day, so I wore more practical footwear. But I have on these heels because my aunt says you never know when you'll want to get up and dance. Sorry. Rambling. Again." She clears her throat and excuses herself to get me water.

But first, I catch her gaze for the briefest moment. Something floats toward me from afar. It's like a feather in the wind, but I can't grasp it before it sails over the water. She quickly looks away, and I remember what my father told me about not trusting women.

Ironic because he's marrying Fifi at the end of the summer.

Iver Barton is cold, calculating, and some say cruel, but he explained that's how it's done at the top. You can't be soft or thoughtful on the way up. Can't show uncertainty or send mixed messages. He says we have to be fortified with steel, like the Imperial Enterprise luxury resort buildings.

When we learned about the missing parts of my memory, he said I may not get them back, but there is one thing never to forget: be strong and steely to outlast them all.

Yet, this woman's gaze on me wants to wake something up. Something I haven't felt since the accident. I can't match it with any other familiar emotions, which is a game I play with myself, but it's like kindling a fire, spreading warmth through me, and melting the ice Iver insisted I freeze myself inside to be the one to continue the family legacy.

"What's your name, Not-Valerina?" I call across the room. My voice echoes, as if by knowing this detail, I'll navigate through the fog.

"My name?" Her expression falls into shadow.

"I'm Finny-Finn," I say, but my tone has its usual bite to it even though I'm feeling slightly punch drunk. I'll have to work on that. I've only had a cup of coffee today and could use another. A coffee float? Must be all the chiffon and taffeta or whatever these fabrics are called getting to me. Or Fifi. She can take the blame.

"Yeah, I know. Finn Barton." She gives her head a little shake. "I mean, I'm Beatrice. My friends call me Bea."

"Bea," I repeat, feeling an easeful sensation roll over me like warm water.

Iver insisted we keep the accident as private as possible because once word got out, people would try to take advantage of my lapse in memory. Women in particular.

Bea pales and disappears behind a door with a golden handle, presumably to get my water.

Fifi claps her hands. "Even if I find the dress here, the next time I'm in town, it'll be an Imperial Paradise Resort. What does a woman have to do to get decent service?"

My brow furrows. I'd like to remind Fifi to be polite and have some manners, but that'll only stoke her imperiousness.

An hour later, she's tried on several gowns and whips into a frenzy when she convinces herself she's gained half a pound since the gown sizes here don't match up with what she read online.

Bea handles it with patient professionalism, but I glimpse fissures when Fifi tosses a gown on the floor and bellows that she's never eating again.

Come to think of it, I've never seen this stick-thin woman eat, which might be the problem. On the other hand, I cannot ignore the dips and rises of Bea's curves, the smooth surface of her skin, or the light flickering in her big brown eyes.

According to Frank, who tutored me in all things pop culture and relationships, I'm experiencing instant infatuation. The corner of my lip lifts when Bea emerges from the back room with a new measuring tape.

Above Fifi's complaints, I hear my father's voice, reminding me to stay away from women. His choice of fiancée should be a big enough deterrent.

But when Bea's gaze flits to mine as if pleading for my help with Fifi, it doesn't make me swear off women. Not at all.