Page 24 of Reaper's Desire

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By the time we land in Santorini, the sun has fully set, and the island is draped in darkness punctuated by scattered lights. The airport is small, almost quaint, compared to the massive terminals I'm used to, and the warm night air that greets me when I step outside feels like a caress.

This is better already.I tell myself that as I slide into the back of the car the hotel sent for me, as we wind through narrow streets, climbing higher and higher until the sea appears below us, vast and black and glittering with moonlight. As we pull up to the hotel—a stunning white building that seems to glow against the night sky.

The lobby is all marble and soft lighting, elegant without being ostentatious. The woman at the front desk greets me in accented English, her smile warm and genuine, and within minutes, I have my key card and a porter is leading me to my suite.

The door opens into a space that's both luxurious and intimate. White walls, minimalist furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows that I know will offer an incredible view in the morning, that leads out to a balcony and a private pool overlooking the sea. The porter sets my suitcase down, shows me how to work the lights and the air conditioning, and leaves with a generous tip.

And then I'm alone. I stand in the middle of the suite, my arms wrapped around myself, and feel the silence press in.

I move to the windows, sliding open the glass doors that lead to the private terrace. The night air is cooler here than it was in Ibiza, carrying that scent of salt and flowers that feels fresher, mixed with the drifting scents of roasting meat from nearby restaurants. The sea stretches out before me, endless and dark, and somewhere in the distance I can see the lights of other buildings clinging to the cliffside.

It's beautiful. But I still feel restless and uncertain, that lingering sensation of something being wrong clinging to me.

I pull out my phone, staring at the dark screen. I turned it back on when we landed, and there was the expected flood of messages from my father's assistant and Vivienne, demanding to know where I am and when I'm coming back.

I shouldn't call anyone. If I do, that will open up a whole conversation about where I went and how I should have told someone, and all the responsibilities I'm shirking while I'm gone. But a part of me suddenly wants to tell my father that I'm safe, that I'm just taking a trip, that there's nothing to worry about. I don't give a shit about Vivienne, but I do love my father, and I know he loves me, even if he tends to show that with money rather than affection. And I don't want him worrying about me.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, and I pull up his contact and hit call. It rings once. Twice. Three times. And then a woman's voice answers. "Jacques's phone."

Not my father. Vivienne.

My stomach drops, and for a moment I consider hanging up. Pretending the call dropped, that I never tried to reach him in the first place. But she's already talking. "Hello? Isabelle, is that you?"

"Hi, Vivienne." I keep my voice light and casual, like this is a perfectly normal conversation. "Is my father there?"

"He's in a meeting." Her tone is clipped, the same tone she uses when she's annoyed but trying to hide it. "Where are you calling from? The connection sounds bad."

"I'm traveling." I don't elaborate. I don't owe her an explanation.

"Traveling." She repeats the word as if it tastes bad. "Where are you?"

The question sounds innocent enough, but there's something underneath it. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I can tell she's irritated with me, probably because she has some lunches or galas or something she wants me doing.

"Greece," I say flatly. There's no reason to lie, even though part of me wants to, on principle. "Santorini. I needed a break."

"A break." Another repetition, this one edged with contempt. "How lovely for you. And when are you planning to come home?"

"I'm not sure yet. Two weeks?"

"Two weeks." A pause. I can picture her perfectly—standing somewhere in my father's New York mansion, probably wearing one of her expensive dresses, her expression twisted up into a sneer. "That's quite a long time to be away. Your father will want to know when to expect you back."

"I'll let him know when I have a better idea of my plans. And when I can talk tohim." I emphasize that last word. I can't help it. I'm on edge after what happened in Ibiza, and I'm so fuckingtiredof Vivienne acting like she has any say in my life.

"Isabelle." Her voice shifts, taking on a tone of false concern that makes my skin crawl. "Are you all right? You sound... stressed."

Stressed.The word is so inadequate for what I'm feeling that I almost laugh.

"I'm fine," I lie. "Just tired from the flight."

"Of course." She doesn't sound convinced. "Well, I'll let your father know you called. I'm sure he'll want to speak with you when he's free. You should call back tomorrow, perhaps. When you're more settled."

There's something in the way she says it—when you're more settled—that feels like a dismissal. Like she's telling me not to bother them right now, that my call is an inconvenience. The familiar dislike I've always felt for her intensifies, sharp and hot in my chest.

"Sure," I say, my voice tight. "I'll call tomorrow."

"Wonderful. And Isabelle?" She pauses, and I can hear the smile in her voice even though I can't see her face. "Do be careful. Greece can be dangerous for young women traveling alone."