Chapter 1: Camila
CHAPTER 1 "Looks like you didn't put those glow-in-the-dark condoms to use," I said, disappointment lacing my words. Juliette met my crestfallen stare with an amused expression. "Sorry, Camila. It was our first date. Where did you even get those condoms?" "At last month's neon skate party," I replied. I had hoped the party would inject some excitement into my monotonous life. While it hadn't quite achieved that, it had at least provided me with a bag of delightfully lurid party favors that I had distributed among friends. Since I had imposed a self-proclaimed man ban, I had to live vicariously through them, but they weren't exactly cooperating. Juliette furrowed her brow. "Why were they giving out condoms at a skate party?" "Because those parties always end up turning into massive orgies," I explained. "I even saw someone using one of those glow-in-the-dark condoms right in the middle of the ice rink." "You're joking." "Not at all." As I replenished the garnishes, I absentmindedly straightened the glasses and tumblers. "It was quite wild. Although, I must admit, some of the things I witnessed left me traumatized for a good week afterward..." I continued rambling, only half paying attention to my actions. After bartending at the Valhalla Club for a year, a members-only establishment catering to the world's elite, my work had become second nature. It was six o'clock on a Monday evening, a prime time for happy hour at most places, but a slow period at Valhalla. This was when Juliette and I caught up on our weekends and indulged in gossip. I was only working here until I finished writing my book and became a published author, but having a coworker I genuinely liked made the job more bearable. Most of my previous colleagues had been creeps. "Did I tell you about the guy who streaked with a flag?" I exclaimed. "He was always one of the participants in those orgies." "Uh, Isa," Juliette interjected, her voice filled with panic. However, I was too caught up in my storytelling to stop. "Honestly, I never thought I'd witness a glowing penis at—" A polite cough cut me off. A dignified cough, belonging to someone who was definitely not our laid-back manager or one of the security guards taking a break. And they had just overheard me talking about glowing penises. Damn it. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Forget finishing my manuscript; right now, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. Unfortunately, no such luck occurred, so after a moment of wallowing in humiliation, I straightened my posture, forced on my best customer service smile, and turned around. My mouth froze, unable to complete its upward curve. It was as if the page had stopped loading. Because standing less than five feet away, looking bemused and far more attractive than anyone had the right to be, was Paul Long. Esteemed member of the Valhalla Club's managing committee, heir to a multibillion-dollar media empire, and the man who always seemed to appear during my most embarrassing moments, Paul Long. A fresh wave of mortification washed over me. "I apologize for interrupting," he said, his tone neutral, giving no indication of what he thought about our conversation. "But I would like to order a drink, please." Despite my overwhelming desire to hide under the bar until he left, I couldn't help but feel a flutter in my chest at the sound of his voice. It was deep, smooth, and velvety, accompanied by a British accent so posh it put the late Queen's to shame. It coursed through my veins like a potent whiskey. My body warmed. Paul arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, and I realized I had been so captivated by his voice that I hadn't responded to his request yet. Meanwhile, Juliette, the traitor, had vanished into the back room, leaving me to fend for myself. She would never receive a condom from me again. "Of course," I cleared my throat, attempting to alleviate the thickening tension. "But I'm afraid we don't serve glow-in-the-dark gin and tonics."Not without a black light to make the tonic glow, anyway. He stared at me, his eyes void of any recognition. It was as if I was speaking an alien language. I struggled to find the right words to explain myself, to divert his attention from the embarrassing memory that threatened to surface. I had to steer the conversation away from my current predicament. I really needed to learn to keep my mouth shut about certain things at work. "Never mind," I quickly interjected. "Do you want your usual?" Paul, always predictable, ordered his scotch, neat. He was more consistent than a Mariah Carey holiday song. "Not today," he replied nonchalantly. "I'll have a Death in the Afternoon instead." He lifted his book, revealing the title scrawled across its worn cover - For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway. "Seems fitting." Death in the Afternoon, a cocktail invented by Hemingway himself, was a simple blend of champagne and absinthe. Its iridescent green color resembled that of a glow-in-the-dark substance. I narrowed my eyes, unsure if it was a coincidence or if he was intentionally messing with me. He maintained his inscrutable expression, meeting my gaze head-on. With his dark hair, sharp features, and perfectly tailored suit, Paul embodied aristocratic sophistication. His British stoicism added to the allure. Despite knowing him for a year, I hadn't been able to crack his mask, and it frustrated me more than I cared to admit. "One Death in the Afternoon, coming right up," I finally said. As I prepared his drink, Paul settled into his usual spot at the end of the bar, extracting a notebook from his coat pocket. My hands moved mechanically, but my attention was divided between the glass and the man absorbed in his reading. Occasionally, he would pause, jot something down in his notebook, and then continue. This wasn't an uncommon sight. Paul often came to read and drink alone before the evening rush. What was unusual was the timing. It was Monday afternoon, three days and two hours before his usual Thursday evening arrival. He was breaking his pattern. Paul Long never broke pattern. Curiosity mixed with a strange breathlessness as I approached him with his drink. Juliette was still in the supply room, and the silence between us grew heavier with each step. "Are you taking notes?" I asked, placing the cocktail on a napkin and stealing a glance at his notebook. It lay open beside his novel, filled with neat, precise black writing. "I'm translating the book into Latin," he replied, flipping the page and scribbling another sentence without lifting his gaze or touching his drink. "Why?" I couldn't help but ask, my voice laced with disbelief. "It's relaxing," he stated matter-of-factly. I blinked, convinced that I had misheard him. "You find translating a five-hundred-page novel into Latin by hand relaxing?" "Yes. If I wanted a mental challenge, I'd translate an economics textbook. Translating fiction is reserved for my downtime." He spoke with such casualness, as if it were a common hobby like throwing a coat over the back of a couch. I stared at him, lost for words. Sure, I knew that wealthy people indulged in peculiar hobbies, but usually, they were fun eccentricities like hosting extravagant weddings for their pets or bathing in champagne. Paul's hobby was just plain boring. A slight twitch at the corners of his mouth revealed his amusement. Embarrassment washed over me as I realized I had fallen for his teasing. "You're messing with me." "Not entirely. I do find it relaxing, though I'm not particularly fond of economics textbooks. I had enough of those at Oxford," he finally admitted, meeting my gaze directly. My pulse quickened, and I couldn't help but be captivated by his beauty up close. His thick black hair framed features that belonged to the golden age of Hollywood.His chiseled cheekbones cascaded down to a square jaw, creating a perfect harmony with his sculpted lips. Behind his glasses, his deep brown eyes glinted, adding an intriguing allure to his already captivating features. Without those glasses, he would have exuded a cold and intimidating perfection, but with them, he became approachable, human. Of course, his scholarly pursuits and family's media empire didn't exactly scream approachability either. As he reached for his drink, a tingling awareness coursed through my spine. Though he didn't touch me, the heat radiating from his body brushed against mine, leaving an indelible mark on my senses. "Camila." "Hmm?" I found myself pondering why Paul even needed glasses in the first place. With his wealth, surely he could afford laser eye surgery. Not that I was complaining. He may be a bit dull and rigid, but he possessed a certain appeal... "The gentleman at the other end of the bar is trying to get your attention." Reality snapped back into focus, jolting me unpleasantly. While I had been lost in my thoughts of Paul, new customers had arrived. Juliette, our bartender, was busy serving a well-dressed couple while another club member patiently waited. Damn it. Hastily, I made my way over, leaving Paul with an amused expression behind. For the next four hours, Juliette and I worked in tandem, navigating the bustling crowd during Valhalla's happy hour. The club limited its membership to a hundred individuals, so even on the busiest nights, it paled in comparison to the chaos I had experienced in downtown dive bars. However, these patrons required a different kind of attention and care, their egos demanding constant stroking. By the time the clock approached nine, I was ready to collapse, grateful for my shorter shift that night. Yet, I couldn't resist stealing occasional glances at Paul. Usually, he would have left the bar after an hour or two, but there he was, still engrossed in conversation with the other members as if he had nowhere else to be. Something felt off. Setting aside the timing, his behavior today deviated from his usual patterns. The more I observed him, the more signs of trouble I detected: the tension in his shoulders, the furrow between his brows, the forced smiles. Perhaps it was the shock of witnessing him deviate from his schedule, or maybe it was my way of repaying him for not getting me fired for my inappropriate behavior (i.e., discussing sex at work) on countless occasions. Whatever the reason, it compelled me to bring another drink over to him during a lull. The timing was perfect; his conversation partner had just departed, leaving Paul alone at the bar once again. "A strawberry gin and tonic. On the house," I offered, sliding the glass across the counter. It was a spontaneous creation, meant to lift his spirits even if it came at my own expense. "You seem like you could use a pick-me-up." He raised an eyebrow in question. "You're off schedule," I explained. "You never deviate from your schedule unless something's wrong." The raised eyebrow transformed into a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a sight that unexpectedly caused my heartbeat to falter. It's just a smile. Get a grip. "I didn't realize you paid such close attention to my schedule," he said, his voice carrying hints of laughter. A flush of heat spread across my cheeks for the second time that night. This is what I get for trying to be a Good Samaritan. "I don't make a habit of it," I replied defensively. "You've been coming to the bar every week since I started working here, but never on a Monday. I'm just observant." I should have stopped there, but my mouth had a mind of its own. "Rest assured, you're not my type, so no need to worry about me hitting on you." That part was true. Objectively, I recognized Paul's attractiveness, but I preferred my men with a bit more roughness around the edges. He was as straight-laced as they came.Despite knowing the consequences, fraternizing with club members and employees was strictly prohibited. I had no intention of repeating past mistakes and disrupting my life for a man, thank you very much. But that didn't stop my treacherous hormones from fluttering every time he came into view. It was beyond annoying. "Good to know," he said, a glimmer of laughter dancing in his eyes as he brought the glass to his lips. "Thank you. I have a weakness for strawberry gin and tonics." My heart didn't skip a beat this time, it stopped entirely, if only for a moment. A weakness? What does that mean? "It means nothing," a voice grumbled in the back of my mind. "He's referring to the drink, not you. Besides, he's not your type, remember?" Oh, shut up, Debbie Downer. Now my inner voices were bickering with each other. I didn't even know I had more than one inner voice. If that wasn't a sign that I needed sleep instead of another night agonizing over my manuscript, I didn't know what was. "You're welcome," I finally managed to say, a bit late. My pulse thumped in my ears. "Well, I should-" "Sorry I'm late." A tall, blond man slid into the seat next to Paul's, his voice as brisk as the chill in the late September air. "My meeting ran over." He glanced at me briefly before turning back to Paul. Dark golden hair, navy eyes, and the bone structure of a Calvin Klein model. Stephen Barnes, the king of Wall Street. I recognized him instantly. It was hard to forget a face like that, even if his social skills could use some work. Relief and a nagging hint of disappointment washed over me at the interruption, but I didn't wait for Paul's response. I quickly made my way to the other side of the bar, despising how his remark about a "soft spot" lingered in my mind like it held some deeper meaning. If he wasn't my type, then I definitely wasn't his. He dated women who sat on charity boards, spent summers in the Hamptons, and matched their pearls to their Chanel suits. There was nothing wrong with any of that, but it simply wasn't me. I blamed my exaggerated reaction on my self-imposed dry spell. I was so starved for touch and affection that a wink from one of those half-naked cowboys in Times Square could probably make me giddy. It had nothing to do with Paul himself. For the rest of the night, I avoided returning to his side of the bar. Fortunately, working a half shift meant I could leave early. At five minutes to ten, I transferred my remaining tabs to Juliette, bid my goodbyes, and retrieved my bag from the back room without even glancing at a certain billionaire with a fondness for Hemingway. As I left, I could have sworn I felt the burning gaze of dark eyes on my back, but I resisted the urge to turn around. Ignorance was bliss. The hallway was quiet and deserted at this late hour. Exhaustion tugged at my eyelids, but instead of rushing toward the exit and the comfort of my bed, I turned left toward the main staircase. I should have gone home to meet my daily word count goal, but I needed inspiration first. I couldn't focus with the weight of a blank page clouding my thoughts. Words used to flow effortlessly from my fingertips; I wrote three-quarters of my erotic thriller in less than six months. But when I read it over, I despised it and scrapped it to start anew. Unfortunately, the creativity that fueled my initial draft had disappeared along with it. These days, I was lucky if I managed to write more than two hundred words in a day. I ascended the stairs to the second floor. During working hours, club employees were prohibited from enjoying the club's amenities. However, since the bar stayed open until three in the morning, the rest of the building closed at eight. I wasn't breaking any rules by visiting my favorite room for some much-needed decompression. Still, my footsteps were light against the plush Persian carpet. Down, down, past the billiards room, the beauty room, and the Parisian-style lounge, until I arrived at a familiar oak door. The brass knob felt cool and smooth as I turned it open. Fifteen minutes. That's all I needed. Then I would go home, wash away the day, and write. But as always, time slipped away once I sat down. Fifteen minutes turned into thirty, then forty-five, and I became so engrossed in my work that I didn't notice the door creak open behind me. Not until it was too late.
Chapter 2: Paul
CHAPTER 2 "Please spare me the agony of watching you indulge in Hemingway for the umpteenth time," Stephen remarked, eyeing my book with disdain. I glanced up from the pages, meeting his gaze. "You've never actually witnessed me reading Hemingway." My eyes shifted towards the bar, only to find Camila attending to another customer, leaving behind a gin and tonic in her absence. Strawberries floated idly in the drink, their vivid red color clashing against the bar's earthy tones. Normally, I steered clear of sweet drinks, preferring the harsh burn and amber hue of scotch. But this particular flavor had a soft spot in my heart. "Fine, but if you change your mind, I have strawberry-flavored condoms. Magnum-sized, ribbed for your--" My apologies for the interruption, but I'd like to order another drink. Gin and tonic. Strawberry flavored. Reluctant amusement washed over me as I recalled the horror on Camila's face. I had disrupted her conversation about condoms with her friend Avery at last year's fall gala, and the memory remained vivid in my mind. In fact, all our interactions were etched into my memory, whether I desired it or not. Camila had stormed into my life like a tornado, botching my drink during her first shift at Valhalla, and had remained in my thoughts ever since. It was maddening. "I haven't witnessed you reading him in person," Stephen said, snapping me out of my thoughts. He toyed with his lighter, flicking it on and off, despite not being a smoker. It seemed to serve as a personal talisman. "But I can imagine you holed up in your library every night, buried in Hemingway." A smile broke through my turbulent mood. "Do you spend a lot of time imagining me in the library?" "Only to contemplate how sad your existence must be." "Says the workaholic who spends most nights in his office." It was a miracle that his wife, Alessandra, had put up with him for so long. She was a saint. "It's a nice office," Stephen replied, flicking the lighter again. "I'd be there right now if it weren't for your call. What's so urgent that you demanded I rush here on a Monday night of all nights?" I had requested, not demanded, but I let it slide. Instead, I packed my pen, paperback, and notebook into my coat pocket and got straight to the point. "I received the call today." Stephen's bored impatience vanished, replaced by a glimmer of intrigue. "This early?" "Yes. Five candidates, including myself. The vote is in four months." "You always knew it wouldn't be handed to you on a silver platter," Stephen said, tapping the spark wheel of his lighter. "But the vote is merely a formality. You'll undoubtedly win." I made a noncommittal sound in response. As the eldest child and the expected heir to the Long Corporation, the expectation of becoming CEO had loomed over me my entire life. However, I was supposed to take over in five to ten years, not in four months. A wave of apprehension washed over me anew. Mia Long would never willingly relinquish power this early. At just fifty-eight years old, she was sharp, healthy, and adored by the board. Her life revolved around work and incessantly nagging me about marriage. Yet, it had undeniably been her face on the video call that afternoon, informing me and four other executives about our candidacy for the CEO position. No warning. No details other than the date and time of the vote. I absentmindedly ran my hand along the smooth glass of the gin and tonic, finding solace in its curves. "When will the news go public?" Stephen asked. "Tomorrow."For the next four months, all eyes would be fixed on me, waiting for any sign of weakness. But I had no intention of faltering. I possessed an unwavering control that would ensure my success. There were technically five candidates vying for the position, but it was clear that it was mine to lose. Being a Long certainly played a role, but it was my track record as president of the North America division that truly spoke volumes. My leadership had yielded the highest profits, the fewest losses, and the most groundbreaking innovations. Of course, not everyone on the board agreed with my decisions, but their dissent did little to shake my confidence. While I wasn't concerned about the outcome of the vote, there was something unsettling about its timing. What should have been a career highlight was tainted by a sense of unease. Stephen, ever the opportunist, seemed to be calculating the market's response. He didn't seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm. In the past, I would have turned to Daxton for solace, releasing my worries in the boxing ring. However, since his marriage, prying him away from Avery for an impromptu match proved to be as difficult as taking a bone from a dog. Perhaps it was for the best. Daxton would see through my composed facade, while Stephen only cared about facts and figures. If it didn't impact the markets or expand his bank account, he simply didn't care. As Stephen delved into his predictions, I reached for my drink. Just as I finished the last sip of gin, a burst of laughter caught my attention. My gaze drifted past Stephen's shoulder and landed on Camila, engaged in conversation with a cosmetics heiress near the end of the bar. Whatever she said elicited a genuine smile from the normally aloof socialite, and the two leaned in, their heads close together like old friends sharing secrets. Every so often, Camila would punctuate their conversation with animated hand gestures, resulting in another one of her infectious laughs filling the room. The sound resonated within me, warming my chest more than any alcohol could. With her striking purple-black hair, mischievous smile, and a tattoo adorning the inside of her left wrist, she stood out amidst the sea of billionaires. Not because she was a bartender in Valhalla, a place known for its opulence, but because she radiated a light that defied the dark, traditional atmosphere. "We don't serve glow-in-the-dark gin and tonics here," I thought, a fleeting smile playing at the corners of my lips before I suppressed it. Camila was everything I typically avoided in an acquaintance—bold, impulsive, and lacking in propriety. Her penchant for discussing sex in the most inappropriate settings was evidence of that. And yet, there was something about her that drew me in, much like a sailor drawn to a siren's call. It was a dangerous allure, but her beauty made it almost tempting enough to risk it all. "Does Daxton know?" Stephen interrupted my thoughts, his attention now focused on his phone as he answered emails. The man worked longer hours than anyone I knew. "Not yet," I replied, observing as Camila finished her tasks at the register and exchanged words with the other bartender. It seemed her shift had come to an end. A flicker of disappointment stirred within me, undeniable and unshakeable.I had managed to keep my distance from Camila for nearly a year, fully aware of the perilous destiny that awaited those who succumbed to the enchanting melodies of sirens. Following her was the last thing I should do. And yet... "A strawberry gin and tonic. On me. You look like you could use the pick-me-up," she offered, her voice laced with an irresistible charm. Damn it. "Apologies for cutting the night short, but I just remembered I have an urgent matter I must take care of," I hastily interjected. Rising from my seat, I retrieved my coat from beneath the counter. "Shall we continue our conversation later? Tonight's drinks are on me." "Sure. Whenever you're free," Stephen replied, seemingly unfazed by my abrupt departure. He remained fixated on whatever had captured his attention, even as I closed our tabs. "Good luck with the announcement tomorrow." The absent-minded clicks of Stephen's lighter followed me halfway across the room until they were swallowed by the escalating noise of the bar. As I stepped into the hallway, the door closed behind me, and silence enveloped me, save for the soft rhythm of my footsteps. I wasn't certain what I would do once I caught up with Camila. Despite our shared acquaintances—her best friend Avery being married to Daxton, one of my close friends—Camila and I were not friends ourselves. However, the news of my promotion to CEO had thrown me off-kilter, as had her unexpected yet thoughtful gift. People offering me things without expecting anything in return was a foreign concept to me. A wistful smile danced upon my lips. What did it say about my life when a simple complimentary drink from a casual acquaintance became the highlight of my evening? Ascending the stairs to the second floor, my heart remained steady, despite the faint voice urging me to turn and flee in the opposite direction. I was acting on a hunch. She might not even be there, and it was certainly not my place to seek her out if she was. But my usual restraint had frayed beneath a more pressing need for distraction. I needed to address this inexplicable desire, and if I couldn't decipher what was happening with my mother, then I had to unravel what was happening within myself. What was it about Camila that held me captive? Tonight, that might be the easier question to answer. During our post-conference call, my mother assured me that she was fine. There were no health issues, no blackmail, just a simple desire for change. If it were anyone else, I would have taken her words at face value, but my mother was not one to act impulsively. It went against her very nature. And I didn't believe she was lying; I knew her well enough to detect any deception, and during our conversation, she displayed none. Frustration knitted my brow. It simply didn't make sense. If it wasn't her health or blackmail, then what could it be? A disagreement with the board? A need to unwind after decades of leading a multi-billion-dollar corporation? An extraterrestrial takeover of her body? Lost in my thoughts, I failed to notice the gentle strains of a piano drifting through the corridor until I stood directly in front of its source. She was here after all. My heart skipped a beat, so faintly and fleetingly that I almost didn't register the disturbance. The frown on my face melted away, replaced by curiosity, then astonishment as the whirlwind of notes fell into place, and recognition dawned upon me. She was playing Beethoven's "Hammerklavier," one of the most formidable pieces ever composed for the piano. And she was playing it flawlessly. A cool surge of shock swept the breath from my lungs. Rarely had I heard the "Hammerklavier" performed at its intended speed, and the stunning realization that Camila surpassed even seasoned professionals eradicated any reservations I may have had about seeking her out. I had to witness it for myself. After a brief moment of hesitation, I closed my hand around the doorknob, turned it, and stepped inside.
Chapter 3: Paul
CHAPTER 3 Chapter 3 Paul The piano room exuded a grandeur that matched the rest of the club, its opulence evident in the cascading drapes of rich velvet and the soft glow of golden sconces against the deep rose walls. Center stage stood a proud Steinway grand, its polished black curves kissed by a blanket of moonlight, gilded silver. Seated before it, her back turned to me, Camila's fingers danced across the keys with a speed that left me breathless. She had reached the final movement of the sonata. A bold trill marked the beginning of the first theme, which twisted and stretched, defying expectations over the next two-hundred-something measures. And then, silence—a momentary intermission before the gentle hum of the second theme filled the air. Soft, haunting, dignified... But soon, the first theme crashed back in, its rushing notes overpowering the quieter existence of its successor. The two themes intertwined, their opposing natures creating an inexplicable beauty as they climbed higher and higher... And then, a plunge—a free-falling grand finale that descended off the cliff in a magnificent splash of double trills, parallel scales, and leaping octaves. Throughout it all, I stood there, my body frozen, my pulse pounding at the sheer impossibility of what I had just witnessed. I had played the same sonata countless times. But never had it sounded like this. The final movement was meant to be heavy with sorrow, a draining twenty minutes that had earned it mournful acclaim from critics. Yet, in Camila's hands, it had transformed into something uplifting, almost joyful. Sure, her technique wasn't flawless. She leaned too heavily on some notes, too lightly on others, and her finger control still needed refinement to bring out all the melodic lines. Despite all that, she had achieved the impossible. She had taken pain and turned it into hope. The last note hung in the air, breathless, before gradually fading away, leaving behind a profound silence. The spell that had held me captive finally broke. I took in a deep breath, but when I spoke, my voice sounded rougher than usual. "Impressive." Camila visibly tensed at the sound of my voice. She spun around, her face filled with alarm. As soon as she recognized me, her body relaxed slightly, only to stiffen again a moment later. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone guarded. Amusement tugged at the corners of my mouth. "I should be asking you the same question." I chose not to reveal that I had discovered her secret visits to the piano room months ago. It had been a chance encounter one night when I had stayed late in the library and stumbled upon her sneaking out, guilt etched on her face. She hadn't noticed me, but I had heard her play multiple times since then. The library was adjacent to the piano room, and if I sat near the dividing wall, I could catch faint melodies drifting through the air. They had become an oddly comforting accompaniment to my work.However, tonight marked the first occasion where I had the pleasure of hearing her perform something as intricate and demanding as the "Hammerklavier." "We're permitted to utilize the room outside of regular hours if no one else is present," Camila asserted, a defiant tilt to her chin. "Which, I suppose, there now is." Her confidence faltered, and her brows knitted together in a tight V. She made a move to stand, but I shook my head gently. "Stay. Unless you have other plans for the evening." A flicker of involuntary amusement danced in my eyes. "I hear neon skate parties are all the rage these days." A crimson blush crept across her cheeks, but she raised her chin and leveled me with a dignified glare. "It's impolite to eavesdrop on other people's conversations. Don't they teach you that at boarding school?" "On the contrary, that's where the most eavesdropping occurs. As for your accusation, I'm not entirely sure what you mean," I responded, my tone mild. "I was merely making an observation about current nightlife trends." Logic cautioned me against further engagement with Camila. It was inappropriate given her employment and my role at the club. Moreover, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that she posed some sort of danger—not physically, but in some enigmatic way I couldn't quite pinpoint. Yet, instead of heeding my better judgment and leaving, I closed the distance between us, allowing my fingers to graze over the piano's ivory keys. They still retained the warmth from her touch. Camila eased back into her seat, though her eyes remained watchful as I approached her side. "No offense, but I can't envision you in a nightclub, let alone anything neon." "I don't need to partake in something to comprehend it," I replied, pressing a minor key and letting the note signify a shift in conversation. "You played admirably. Superior to most pianists who dare to tackle the 'Hammerklavier.'" "I sense a 'but' at the end of that statement," she quipped. "But you were overly aggressive in the beginning of the second theme. It's meant to be lighter, more subdued." It was not an insult; rather, it was an objective assessment. Camila arched an eyebrow. "Do you believe you can do better?" A surge of adrenaline coursed through me, igniting a familiar flame within my chest. Her tone straddled the line between playful and challenging, but it was enough to unleash the floodgates of my competitive nature. "May I?" I nodded towards the vacant bench. She gracefully slid off the seat, allowing me to take her place. I adjusted the bench height, my fingers thoughtfully grazing the keys once more. This time, I chose to play only the second movement, as I had been practicing the "Hammerklavier" since childhood. I had insisted my piano teacher bypass the easy pieces and guide me through the most challenging compositions instead. Without the first movement as a prelude, it was difficult to immerse myself fully, but muscle memory carried me through. The sonata concluded with a grand flourish, and a satisfied smile tugged at my lips. "Hmm," Camila responded, seemingly unimpressed. "I believe mine was better." My head snapped up, caught off guard. "Pardon me?" "Apologies," she shrugged. "You're undoubtedly a skilled pianist, but there's something missing." The sentiment was so unfamiliar and unexpected that I could only stare, my response lost somewhere between astonishment and indignation. "I'm lacking something," I repeated, too flabbergasted to conjure up an original retort.Graduating at the top of my class from both Oxford and Cambridge, excelling in tennis and polo, and fluently speaking seven languages were all accomplishments I wore like badges of honor. At the tender age of eighteen, I even founded a charity to support the arts in underserved communities. With such an impressive resume, I was on track to become one of the youngest Fortune 500 CEOs. But in those thirty-two years of existence, no one had ever dared to suggest that I was lacking something. The worst part was, upon closer examination, she was right. Sure, my technique was flawless. I hit every note with precision, but there was a void where the emotions should have resided. Her rendition of the piece had been filled with ebbs and tides of sentiment, while mine lacked any trace of it, leaving behind a cold and sterile beauty. Playing alone, I had never noticed this deficiency, but after witnessing her performance, the contrast was glaringly obvious. My jaw clenched, a sensation unfamiliar to me. I was accustomed to being the best, and the realization that I wasn't, at least not when it came to this particular song, bothered me to no end. "What exactly do you think I'm lacking?" I asked, my tone even though my mind was overrun with thoughts. Mentally, I made a note to replace tennis with Stephen for piano practice until I resolved this issue. I had never settled for anything less than perfection, and this would not be an exception. Camila's cheeks dimpled, as if she took immense pleasure in my discontent. Normally, that would infuriate me, yet her mischievous grin almost coaxed a smile out of me before I caught myself. "The fact that you don't know is part of the problem," she replied, taking a step towards the door. "You'll figure it out." "Wait." Without thinking, I stood up and grabbed her arm. In that split second, we both froze, our eyes fixated on where my hand encircled her wrist. Her skin felt soft to the touch, and the flutter of her pulse matched the sudden acceleration of my heartbeat. A heavy silence, charged with tension, enveloped us. As a proponent of science, I didn't believe in anything that defied the laws of physics, but it felt as if time itself had slowed down, each second trapped in thick molasses. Camila visibly swallowed, a tiny movement that shattered the illusion and allowed reason to regain control. Time resumed its usual pace, and I let go of her arm as abruptly as I had grasped it. "My apologies," I uttered, my voice stiff. I did my best to ignore the lingering tingle on my palm. "It's fine." Camila touched her wrist, her expression distant. "Has anyone ever told you that you speak like an extra from Downton Abbey?" The question caught me off guard. "A... what?" "An extra from Downton Abbey. You know, that show about the British aristocracy in the early twentieth century?" "I am familiar with the show," I replied, slightly offended. I wasn't completely oblivious. "Oh, good. Just thought I'd mention it in case you weren't." Camila flashed another bright smile. "You should try to loosen up a bit. It might help with your piano playing." For the second time that night, words eluded me. I stood there, trying to comprehend how my evening had taken such an unexpected turn, until the door closed behind her. It wasn't until I was on my way home that I realized I hadn't thought about the impending CEO vote or its timing once since I heard Camila in the piano room.
Chapter 4: Camila
CHAPTER 4 Chapter 4 Camila Levi's voice echoed through the phone, his words mingling with my frustration. The page in front of me remained stubbornly blank, a stark reminder of my writing struggles. I groaned inwardly, regretting my decision to answer his call. It was too early for this conversation, even if it was six in the morning in California. Levi, always the early riser, seemed unaffected by the time difference. I imagined him in his pristine office, multitasking effortlessly as he spoke. Meanwhile, I struggled to roll out of bed before nine, my mind still tangled in the events of last night. Last night's encounter with Paul had been strange, unsettling even. I had hoped it would provide some inspiration for my manuscript, an erotic thriller that explored the dangerous liaison between a wealthy attorney and a naive waitress turned mistress. But the words refused to flow. And now, my brother's voice continued to drone on. "Are you listening to me?" Levi's tone held a mix of exasperation and disapproval. I sighed, the heat from my laptop seeping into my skin. I needed to find a way to fill the empty white space on the page without actually writing more words. "Yes," I replied absentmindedly, selecting all the text and increasing the font size to an absurd thirty-six. The page looked less daunting now, but it was just an illusion. Levi's voice pierced through my concentration. "You said you finally consulted a doctor about a sense of humor implant. It's experimental technology, but the situation is dire." I couldn't help but smirk at his attempt at humor. Levi had never been one to find anything funny, hence the need for a sense of humor implant. But his concern for me was genuine, even if his delivery lacked finesse. "I'm serious, Isa," he continued, brushing off my attempt at levity. "We're worried about you. You've been in New York for years, living in some rat-infested apartment and working at a bar—" "The Valhalla Club isn't just some bar," I interjected, my pride swelling at the reminder of the arduous interviews I had endured to secure my bartending position. "And my apartment is not rat-infested. I have Monty, remember?" I glanced over at Monty's vivarium, where my pet snake lay curled up, blissfully unaware of the chaos brewing in my life. How easy it must be to sleep soundly without the weight of expectations and sibling judgments. Levi plowed ahead, ignoring my defense. "You're still stuck on that book of yours. Maybe it's time to reconsider. Come back home, find a different path. We could use your help at the office." The bitterness rose within me, threatening to choke me. The thought of wasting away in some office cubicle was suffocating. Yes, my progress with the manuscript had been slow, but abandoning my dreams to appease Levi's suggestion felt like a betrayal of my own potential. The idea for the book had struck me two years ago, sparked by an argument I had witnessed in Washington Square Park. The heated exchange between a man and his illicit lover had ignited my imagination, and I had eagerly shared my plans to write and publish a thrilling novel with anyone who would listen. But the words that poured out of me were far from the shimmering masterpiece I had envisioned. Instead, they were rough and unpolished, like lumps of coal. I had deleted them all, left with nothing but blank pages. "I don't just want to be an author; I need to be an author," I asserted, my voice tinged with determination. "I'm still exploring the story." Despite my current frustrations, there was something magical about creating new worlds and losing myself within them. Books had always been my escape, and I refused to give up on my dream of publishing one. I wouldn't succumb to a life of mundane office work. Levi's disapproval mingled with his exasperation. "Just like you wanted to be a dancer, a travel agent, and a daytime talk show host? You're not fresh out of college anymore, Camila. You're twenty-eight. It's time to find some direction." The bitterness congealed into a dry, sour sludge, weighing heavily on my tongue. But I refused to let it consume me.Levi's words lingered in my mind, taunting me with their certainty. While my brothers had all found their paths in life, I remained adrift, aimless and uncertain. The weight of my own perceived failure bore down on me, suffocating any semblance of confidence. But then, in a desperate attempt to prove myself, I blurted out a lie. A lie about being almost done with my book. The words slipped past my lips before I could catch them, leaving me trapped in a web of deceit. Levi's skepticism oozed through the phone line, questioning the truth behind my claim. Unspoken doubts slithered into the conversation, poking and prodding at the holes in my declaration. And there were plenty of them. The truth was, I was closer to setting up a colony on Mars than finishing my book. I tried to salvage the situation, grasping at straws. "I had a breakthrough at Avery's wedding," I stammered, desperately hoping for a shred of believability. "The Italian air, it was so inspiring." In reality, the only thing the Italian air had inspired was an excessive amount of champagne and a pounding hangover. But I kept that revelation to myself, clinging to the threads of my fabricated success. Levi, ever the supportive brother, suggested that our family should read my book. Panic surged through me like rocks tumbling off a cliff, crashing into the pit of my stomach. "Absolutely not," I protested. "It's an erotic thriller, for god's sake." Levi remained unfazed. "We're your family. We want to support you," he insisted. I squeezed my phone so tightly that it cracked under the pressure. This was a test, a challenge he knew I couldn't refuse. He had taken on the role of the head of our household after our father's death, and his bossy tendencies had only grown stronger. I was trapped in his web of expectations. Defeated, I relented. "Fine," I grumbled. But I couldn't help adding a warning. "Don't blame me if you're traumatized for the next five years." Levi's voice took on a serious tone, a thinly veiled threat lingering beneath his words. "If, for some reason, you're unable to produce the book by then, we're going to have a serious chat." As he hung up, the echo of his warning reverberated in my ears. Panic clutched at my chest, squeezing it into a tight knot. I threw my phone aside, gasping for air as the pressure mounted. Damn Levi. He was probably already spreading the news about my book to the entire family. And if I showed up empty-handed, I would have to face their collective disappointment. My mother's dismay, my lola's disapproval, and worst of all, Levi's smug, know-it-all attitude. The phantom accusations swirled in my mind, choking off my oxygen supply. They accused me of lacking direction, of not having it together like the rest of them. At twenty-eight, I was expected to have accomplished something substantial. But instead, I was drowning in self-doubt and writer's block. Four months. That's all the time I had to finish my book, while juggling a full-time job and battling the demons of my own creativity. If I failed, my family would see me as the wishy-washy failure Levi believed me to be. I despised going home every year with nothing to show for my time in New York. The thought of seeing that disappointment reflected on my family's faces was unbearable. But maybe, just maybe, I could do this. I allowed a flicker of hope to ignite within me. Eighty thousand words by early February. It seemed daunting, but not impossible. Then reality crashed back down on me, and I groaned, pressing my palms against my eyes. Even with them closed, all I could see were blank pages. "I am so screwed."
Chapter 5: Paul
CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 5 Paul I fixed a cold gaze on the man seated across from me, my eyes narrowing in scrutiny. After the bombshell dropped by the CEO yesterday and my unsettling encounter with Camila, I had hoped for a smooth day at work. But those hopes quickly spiraled down the drain the moment Landon Taylor showed up unannounced. Dressed in a shiny new Zegna suit, a Rolex that sparkled even brighter, he wore a smug smirk as he surveyed his surroundings. "Nice office," he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension. "Very fitting for a Long." He didn't say it outright, but I could read between the lines. You were born into privilege, while I earned my position. Complete bullshit. Sure, I may be a Long, but I had worked my way up from the bottom, just like every other employee. "I'm sure yours is equally impressive," I replied, mustering a polite smile as I glanced at my watch. He would catch the movement, and hopefully, take the hint. "What can I do for you, Landon?" As the head of the Long Corporation's Europe division and my biggest rival for the CEO position, I had made an exception to my no-unscheduled-meetings rule and invited him into my office. A decision I already regretted. Landon was the kind of employee you wanted to fire despite his competence. He may have been good at his job, but he was crass and irritating. One step away from sticking his foot so far down his mouth that even the world's most talented surgeon couldn't retrieve it. "I just wanted to drop by and say hi. Pay my respects," Landon said, fiddling with the crystal paperweight on my desk. "I'm in town for a series of meetings. The Europe division is expanding rapidly, and Richard invited me to dinner at Peter Luger." His laugh grated on my ears. Richard Chu, the Long Corporation's longest-serving board member, was a dinosaur when it came to innovation. We had clashed numerous times over the future of the company. But no matter how much power he thought he wielded, he was just one vote among many. "I'm not surprised. Richard does enjoy a certain type of company," I replied, my tone laced with subtle sarcasm. The kind that would kiss his ass like it's made of gold. Landon's smile wavered. "Perhaps you should get going. Traffic can be brutal at this time of day. Would you like me to call a car for you?" My hand hovered over the phone, a clear signal of dismissal. "No need," he said, releasing the paperweight and fixing me with a hard stare. All traces of fake deference vanished. "I'm used to taking care of things myself. But life must be so much easier for you, huh? Just have to avoid screwing up for the next four months, and the CEO role is yours." I didn't take the bait. Landon could talk all the shit he wanted, but we both knew I was damn good at my job. "I haven't screwed up in over thirty years," I responded pleasantly. "And I don't plan on starting now." His phony affability returned, sliding back into place like a curtain falling over a window. "True, but there's always a first time for everything." He stood, his smile oilier than a fast-food kitchen. "See you at the executive retreat in a few weeks. And Paul? May the best man win." I returned his smile with indifference. Luckily for me, I always came out on top. After Landon left, I went through the financial reports for the last quarter once again. Print revenue down eleven percent, online revenue up nine point two percent. Not ideal, but it was better than the other divisions. And it would've been worse if I hadn't doubled down on the shift to digital, despite the protests from the board. A sharp ring interrupted my focus on the reports. I groaned when I saw the caller ID. My mother only interrupted my office hours for urgent or unpleasant news. "I have excellent news," she declared, wasting no time as I answered the call. "Aaliyah is moving to New York." I mentally flipped through my Rolodex, trying to recall who Aaliyah was. "Aaliyah..." "Cooper," she said, the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor emphasizing her impatience. "You grew up with her. How could you forget?" Aaliyah Cooper.A hazy image of pink tulle and braces fluttered across my mind's eye, causing me to stifle a groan. "Mother, she's five years younger than me. Growing up with her isn't exactly accurate." The Coopers, owners of one of the largest retail chains in the UK, were our next-door neighbors in London's prestigious Kensington Palace Gardens. My mother and Philippa Cooper had been best friends for years. "You were neighbors and attended the same social events," my mother insisted. "That counts in my book. Besides, aren't you excited that she's moving to Manhattan?" "Hmm." I offered a noncommittal response that conveyed as much enthusiasm as a defendant on trial. Despite the proximity of our families, I hardly knew Aaliyah. As a child, I had little interest in spending time with someone five years my junior, and by the time we both reached adulthood, an ocean separated us—I had pursued my master's degree at Cambridge while she attended Harvard. By the time she returned to London, I had already settled in New York. We were far from close enough for me to feel any sort of attachment to her comings and goings. "She doesn't know many people in New York," my mother remarked, her words as subtle as a burst of neon sparklers spelling out "ask her out" against a midnight sky. "You should show her around. The Valhalla Club's fall gala is approaching. She would make a splendid date." A sigh crawled up my throat, but I swallowed it before it escaped. "I'd be happy to take her out for lunch, but I haven't decided if I'll bring a date to the gala yet." "You're a Long." My mother's voice turned stern. "Not only that, you could become the CEO of the world's largest media company in four months. I've allowed you your fun, but it's time to settle down. The board doesn't look kindly upon those with unsettled personal lives." "Didn't one of the board members find his wife in bed with the gardener? A married life seems more unsettled than an unmarried one." "Paul." I ran a hand over my mouth, wondering how my day had taken such a turn. First Landon, now my mother. It felt as though the universe was conspiring against me. "I'm not asking you to propose, though it wouldn't hurt," my mother pressed. "Aaliyah is beautiful, well-educated, well-mannered, and cultured. She would make an excellent wife." "This isn't a dating app. You don't need to list her qualifications," I replied dryly. "As I said, I promise to meet up with her at least once." After a few more reassurances, I ended the call. A throbbing headache began to pulse behind my temple. My mother allowed me the illusion of choice, but deep down, she expected me to marry Aaliyah one day. Everyone did. If not Aaliyah, then someone exactly like her—someone with the right lineage, education, and upbringing. I had dated numerous women who fit that mold. They were pleasant enough, but there was always something missing. Another image flickered in my mind, this time of lustrous purple-black hair, sparkling eyes, and a husky, infectious laugh. My shoulders tensed. I pushed the image away, attempting to refocus on work, but fragments of purple kept resurfacing until I slammed my folder shut and stood. Perhaps my mother was right. Maybe I should take Aaliyah to the fall gala. Just because my previous relationships hadn't worked out didn't mean a similar one wouldn't succeed in the future. I was destined to marry someone like Aaliyah Cooper. No one else. Daxton rubbed his jaw, studying me with curiosity. "Who the hell got under your skin today? You were throwing punches at me like I was Beau fucking Alexander." "Can't handle it?" I retorted, evading his question. I ignored the mention of the smarmy CEO from a rival media group. "If marriage has made you soft, let me know, and I'll find a new sparring partner." His glare could have melted the marble columns lining the hallway. I suppressed a smile. Needling him was even more therapeutic than our weekly boxing matches. I just wished he didn't make it so easy.His scowl returned at the mention of his wife, reverting him back to his pre-Avery self. We usually boxed on Thursdays, but I managed to convince him to move our appointment up due to the unexpected CEO vote yesterday. "Be my guest. I'd much rather spend my evenings with Viv anyway," he replied, followed by a brief pause. "And I'm not soft. We ended in a tie." That was typical for us. It frustrated my competitive nature, but it also made sparring with Daxton all the more thrilling. In a world full of easy victories, he provided a challenge. "So, the honeymoon stage is still going strong?" I asked. Daxton and Avery had recently returned from their honeymoon in Greece. The Daxton I had known for years would never take two weeks off work, but his wife had changed him. She had transformed him into a real person with a life outside of the office. His face softened. "I don't think it'll ever end," he admitted honestly. "Speaking of which, what are you going to do about Aaliyah?" I had told him about the CEO vote and my mother's call earlier. As expected, Daxton showed as much sympathy as a chipped boulder, but he never missed an opportunity to pester me about my mother's relentless quest to marry me off. "I'm going to take her out like I promised. Who knows?" I paused at the entrance of the bar. "She could be the one. Next month, we could be double dating and wearing matching outfits in Times Square." Daxton grimaced. "I'd rather cut off my arm and feed it through a grinder." I stifled a laugh. "If you say so." If I managed to convince Avery, she could probably get him to yodel naked on Broadway and Forty-Second Street. Fortunately for him, I found the idea of matching outfits and visiting Times Square equally repulsive. Since Daxton had a date with his wife, I entered the bar alone. As I navigated through the crowd, I instinctively searched for dimples and violet eyes, but all I saw was Camila's blonde friend and another bartender with red curls. I settled onto an empty stool and ordered my usual scotch, neat, from the blonde bartender. Teresa? Teagan? Juliette. Yes, that was her name. "Here you go!" she cheerfully said as she placed the drink in front of me. "Thank you." I took a casual sip. "It seems busy tonight. Is anyone else working?" "Nope. We never have more than two people working at the same time," Juliette answered, her eyebrows rising. "Are you looking for someone specific?" I shook my head. "Just curious." Fortunately, another customer soon caught her attention, and she didn't pry any further. After finishing my scotch, I spent the next half hour engaging in obligatory networking and gathering information. Alcohol tended to loosen people's tongues, which was why I limited myself to three drinks in public. But I couldn't concentrate. My thoughts kept drifting to a certain room on the second floor. Not because of Camila, of course. I was merely bothered by how she had outperformed me, and I couldn't rest until I perfected my piece. I lasted another ten minutes in the bar before I couldn't take it anymore. Excusing myself from a conversation with the CEO of a private equity firm, I slipped out of the side entrance and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Unlike the previous day, there was no music resonating through the hallway. A tinge of disappointment brushed against my skin, but I shrugged it off. I reached for the door just as it swung open. Something—or rather, someone—small and soft collided into me, and I instinctively wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. I looked down, the scent of roses and vanilla clouding my senses before my brain registered who was in my arms. Camila.
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