Page 2 of Reaper's Desire

For the next two weeks, at least, I'm free.

The flight attendant returns to collect my empty glass, and I order another. And then another. By the time we level out at cruising altitude, I'm pleasantly buzzed, the champagne warm in my veins, and my thoughts drifting in lazy circles. I pull out my laptop and open it, scrolling through photos of Ibiza—white sand beaches, turquoise water, clubs that don't close until the sun comes up. Clubs full of pounding music andhotmen.

I close the laptop and lean back, letting my eyes drift shut. The hum of the engines is soothing, and I let myself sink into it. I think about the club I'm going to tonight—Amnesia, one of the most exclusive on the island. I'd looked it up last night, scrolling through Instagram photos of beautiful people dancing under strobe lights, their bodies slick with sweat and their faces lit up, wild and uninhibited. I want that. I want to lose myself in the music and the heat and the anonymity of it all. I want to dance with strangers who don't know I'm Jacques Montague's daughter, who don't care about my family's reputation or the fact that I'm supposed to be at some insufferable dinner party in Manhattan right now, smiling politely while old men talk about stocks and Vivienne shoots me disapproving looks across the table.

I want to be no one, just for a little while.

The flight passes in a blur of champagne and half-formed fantasies rolling through my head. The couple next to me gets into an argument, bitching at each other in low tones, and the woman in the sunglasses falls asleep with her book in her lap. I doze off somewhere over the Atlantic, my head resting against the window, and wake up to the flight attendant's gentle touch on my shoulder.

"Miss Montague, we'll be landing shortly."

I blink, disoriented, and sit up. Through the window, I can see the island below us, all golden beaches and white buildings, and that impossible blue water. My heart kicks up, and I feel a smile tug at my lips.

Here we go.

—

The heat hitsme the moment I step off the plane.

It's not the oppressive, stale heat of New York in summer, but thick and humid, laced with salt and sun. I breathe it in, letting it fill my lungs, and feel something in me settle. The airport is smaller than JFK, less chaotic, and I move through it quickly, my heels clicking against the tile as I head toward baggage claim. I picked out aviator sunglasses and a designer linen midi dress with a deep V that emphasizes my fit figure and perfect breasts to wear on the flight, and I can feel eyes on me as I walk. I'm used to it. I've been beautiful my whole life, and I know how to use it to my advantage.

My luggage appears on the carousel—two suitcases that I packed in a frenzy this morning, throwing in bikinis and sundresses, tight club dresses, sandals, and high heels. I grab them and head outside, where the driver that I hired to meet me here is waiting.

"Miss Montague?"

"That's me."

He takes my suitcases and leads me to a sleek black car, and I slide into the backseat, grateful for the air conditioning. The drive to the hotel is short, the roads winding through hills dotted with villas and olive trees. I watch it all pass by, my sunglasses still on and my fingers drumming against my thigh.

I feel alive. More alive than I've felt in months.

The hotel is exactly what I'd hoped for—modern and luxurious, with impossibly soft sheets, cool stone floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sea. I check in quickly, barely listening to the receptionist's spiel about the spa, the restaurant, and the private beach. I just want to get to my room, drop my bags, breathe, and start this whole thing properly.

The suite is on the top floor, and when I step inside, I let out a low whistle. It's stunning.

The main room is open and airy, with white walls and sleek furniture, and a balcony that looks out over the water. There's a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a marble bathroom with a rainfall shower, and a minibar stocked with champagne and expensive liquor. I drop my suitcase by the door and walk straight to the balcony, sliding open the glass doors and stepping outside. The view takes my breath away.

The sea stretches out before me, endless and blue, the sun glittering on the surface like diamonds. I can hear the faint sound of music drifting up from somewhere below, and the air smells like salt and sunscreen, flowers and citrus. I lean against the railing and close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face.

This is it. This is what I needed. My phone is off, and I'm so far away from anyone who could bother me or need anything from me. For the next two weeks, I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. I can get a tan, drink, and get laid. I can eat whatever I want without Vivienne narrowing her eyes and asking if I've weighed myself lately, even though it's blatantly obvious that I'm in incredible shape. If I want to smoke a fucking cigarette, I can. I could smoke weed if I wanted. No one is going to give afuck.

I stay there for a long moment, just soaking it all in, before I finally pull myself away and head back inside. I should unpack, but I can't bring myself to care. Instead, I kick off my sandals and pad barefoot to the minibar, pulling out a bottle of champagne and popping the cork with a satisfyingpop. I pour myself a glass and take a long sip, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue.

God, I could get used to this. Maybe one day, when my inheritance becomes entirely mine, I'll just live on it and vacation endlessly. Vivienne won't be able to say a fucking thing to me then.

I wander around the suite, champagne in hand, taking in the details. The bathroom has a soaking tub and fancy toiletries that smell like hibiscus and coconut. The closet is huge, big enough for twice the wardrobe I brought with me. There's a sound system built into the walls, and I briefly consider turning my phone back on to connect it so I can have some music, but I banish the thought a second later. I don't want a single notification bringing me down.

I finish my champagne and pour another glass, feeling the buzz settle into my bones. It's only four in the afternoon, but I don't care. I'm on vacation. I'm free. I can do whatever the hell I want.

I take my champagne into the bathroom and start the shower, letting the water heat up while I strip out of my dress. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—dark hair tumbling over my shoulders, green eyes bright with excitement, my body toned and tan from the hours I spend at the gym because there's nothing else to do with my time in New York when I'm not playing the good little socialite. I look good. I know I look good. And tonight, I'm going to make sure everyone else knows it too.

The shower is scalding, and I stand under the spray for a long time, letting it wash away the flight and the tension. I use the hotel's expensive shampoo, the scent filling the steam, and by the time I step out, I feel like a new person. I wrap myself in a plush towel and pad back into the bedroom, my skin still damp and warm. The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, casting everything in a golden glow, and I feel a thrill of anticipation run through me.

Tonight, I'm going to let go of everything.

I sit down at the vanity and start on my makeup, taking my time. I line my eyes, making them look even greener, and add a touch of gold shimmer to my lids. My lashes get coated inmascara until they're long and dark, and I finish with a nude lip that makes my mouth look fuller, more kissable. I study my reflection, tilting my head this way and that, and smile.Perfect.

Then I head to the closet and pull out the dress I'd packed specifically for tonight. It's short—scandalouslyshort—and black, with a plunging neckline and a back that dips low enough to show off the curve of my spine. The fabric clings to every inch of me, and when I slip it on and check the mirror, I feel a surge of satisfaction. I look dangerous. I look like someone who doesn't give a fuck and is here to have fun, and nothing else.