Thirty-Seven

That night, Lander and I fuck twice. We're hurried and desperate, drunk and stoned, and just short of weird—but in a good way—the way that starts with him eating my ass and ends with my ankles by my ears. The next morning, Lander is gone when I wake up. I relax for a few minutes, luxuriating in the fancy sheets until I check my phone and find an email from my visa case manager at US Citizenship and Immigration Services.

Shit. My father wasn't bluffing—and he works fast.

My case manager has scheduled a meeting in three weeks, which means I have exactly three weeks to lock down a plan for staying in the country. Without my father's sponsorship for the diplomat's visa, my only options are to get a student or work visa…or marry Lander.

I FaceTime Cora and Essie and catch them up on my father and St. Michaels. There's a finality when I speak about my father now. He lives in the past tense, not the present, and I'm perfectly fine with the change. I no longer have a father. But then again, I'm not sure I ever did, not really.

My only regret is that I'll never be able to hurt him. It's primal, but it's there—the powerlessness I've always felt around Vicente Fuentes. I want him to hurt. I want him to feel regret.

I don't know how to make him feel that way.

But right now, the matter of my citizenship is my top priority, and my friends are distraught at the prospect of me leaving DC. Yes, blowing up my life without a contingency plan wasn't my best move, but I can't take it back.

Thanks to Lander, I do have an idea though.

In my cloud, there's a draft of an email. I read it, fighting off the dark memories it evokes. Years ago, when I first wrote this email, it was an exercise in frustration. I figured I'd never send it.

Now, I open my email, copy the draft, and send it to [emailprotected].

Once I go downstairs, I find Lander in the kitchen with Dalton and Everett, looking annoyed.

"Morning. I was just telling Lander he sounds like a cat in heat when he comes," Everett mentions while passing me an empty coffee mug.

"A slutty cat," Dalton chimes in. "A shameless one."

"He does," I agree with a nod, which makes Lander release a betrayed scoff.

I shrug. I mean, he does. He's so ridiculously loud sometimes.

"Traitor," he mutters before turning his glare on his friends. "And fuck you two for listening."

"Listening?" Everett puts down his coffee and cants his head to the side. "I had noise canceling headphones on, and yet…" He gestures at Lander.

Alyssa strolls in through one of the French backdoors. "Morning!" she chirps. "Valeria, honey, how did you sleep?"

On cue, Dalton and Everett snicker simultaneously.

"Really good," I answer, ignoring them. "Thank you for letting me stay here. I can't believe how beautiful this place is."

Alyssa's brow furrows slightly. Not too much due to the Botox, but enough for me to see she's confused. "Oh, honey, it's not our house."

"Is it a rental?"

"It's Lander's house," she explains, tilting her head in his direction.

I whirl around to face Lander, who chooses that moment to cover his face with a long drink from his coffee mug. "I didn't see a single picture of you around," I explain. "And you didn't tell me…"

When he lowers his mug, his expression is even. "I haven't had the nerve to change anything," he replies, shrugging. "I sold the other properties my parents left me, but I don't know…messing with their décor—or lack of—feels weird."

I glance around the kitchen and the faces looking back at me are somber but unfazed. Clearly, I'm not the only one who noticed how little of Lander exists here.

Sighing, Lander weaves around the island to draw me close to him. "Don't look so sad, Valeria. I'm fine. My home is in the Halcyon—with you."

My heart is a puddle on the kitchen floor.

"Fuck, that's a good line," Dalton murmurs.

"Sniper. Right to the soul," Everett agrees.

Lander laughs. "Enough. We shouldn't be moping. It's Sunday funday, which means only one thing…"

Where I come from, Sundays are for church.

In St. Michaels, Maryland, on a historic estate with a bunch of rich boys, apparently Sundays are for power hours: sixty shots of beer in sixty minutes, with a toast for each shot.

To St. Michaels! Shot.

To the Caps! Shot.

Patek Philippe! The Dow! Macallan! Shot. Shot. Shot.

Alyssa lets out a sigh and brings her coffee mug to her lips. "My god," she mutters, lifting her chin at the window. We have a view of the guys and Frank around the fire pit, where the debauchery is unfolding. "Take a nice, long look, Valeria. This is your future."

Outside, Dalton accidentally drops his shot onto the grass—his eighteenth, to be precise. "To boobs!" he bellows, eliciting delighted cheers, before he takes a drink directly from the bottle of beer he's using to pour out shots.

"Frank's keeping up," I observe, noting the older man laughing and looking at ease with the guys. "Good for him."

Alyssa rolls her eyes. "He's a fourth-generation lawyer. His liver is genetically engineered to endure decades of abuse before it fails—but enough about my husband's organs. I'd rather talk about how happy you and Lander look. Must be nice."

Alarmed, I face Alyssa. "You're not happy with Frank?"

"Not always," she admits, sighing. "For the most part, the marriage has been fine. He takes care of me. But he's…well, he's Dalton Franklin Richmond Cavendish the Third. He prioritizes the firm first, and the rest of us have to accept it, whether we like it or not."

"Power does funny things to men."

"Absolutely." Alyssa's gaze never drifts from the window. "I married Frank and became an accessory, not his partner. For ages, I'd wanted to be a sex therapist, but he hated the idea. I think he got me pregnant to keep me busy. No regrets there, obviously. Dalton is my life. The way Frank treated Dalton when he dropped out of law school though…I nearly divorced him. Hell, I nearly murdered him."

My eyebrows have skyrocketed. "I didn't know Dalton went to law school."

"He hated it. You know Dalton. He's like a puppy—all energy. Law wasn't his thing. Banking is a much better fit for him. Anyway, I explained this to Frank, but he'll never let it go. Not having a son to pass on his legacy is his greatest tragedy."

I'm quiet, thinking about the glare Frank sent in my direction when he suggested I did porn. It wasn't judgmental; it was practically territorial.

"Have I scared you off? Don't worry. Lander's different, and I don't say that because I raised him, I say it because it's true." Alyssa reaches over and squeezes my hand. "I promise you—and it's a big promise: That boy is never going to break your heart. I hope you don't break his."

"I would never."

"Good. Because I'd hate to lose you," she replies, giving my hand another squeeze. "Alright, decision time. They have thirty-six shots left. When they're done, should we drag them inside or let them sleep it off on the lawn?"

"Everett would kill us if we interrupted one of his outdoor naps."

"Oh goodness, you're right," Alyssa agrees. "Come on. Let's go eat all the brie and tell them it never got delivered."