Page 1 of The Wrong Fiancée

Chapter One

DEAN

Of all the suites in all the resorts in all the world, she walks into mine...in a maid's uniform.

For a moment, I wondered if I should ignore her and pretend I didn't see her, but that would be a dick move. Just because I was in a luxury resort with my new fiancée and an ex-fling was cleaning my room didn't mean I had to turn into someone with amnesia.

I was on the lanai, and she'd stepped out, a dusting cloth in hand, when she froze, seeing me.

"Elika." I smiled at her.

She looked at me, and I was struck as I had been four years ago by how stunning she was. Dark hair tied away from her face, smooth caramel skin kissed by the sun, and deep brown eyes that held a quiet intensity, as if she could see right through me. There was a natural grace to the way she moved, even in the plain hotel maid's uniform, as if no job—no matter how menial—could dull the quiet strength and beauty she carried. Her full lips, though pressed into a neutral line, hinted at the warmth and laughter I remembered. But now, there was something else—an edge of weariness.

How old was she, I tried to recollect? She was around three tofour years younger than me, so she was probably about twenty-six or so now to my thirty.

"Hi," she replied and nodded with a small smile.

"Wow! I…it's a surprise seeing you here." But it didn't look like my presence took her aback, and that made me wonder if she'd known I'd be here.

"Welcome to Hale Moana Resort," she gave me the canned company line. I noticed that the laughter that had been part of herthenwas gone.

"When did you move here from Honolulu?" I asked her.

"A while back." She stepped back into the bedroom, her back to me.

The suite, well, actually a bungalow, had two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a pool, and a view to die for.

The resort was nothing short of paradise—a hidden enclave of luxury bungalows set along Kauai's pristine coastline, each one tucked discreetly behind lush tropical gardens, facing out onto private stretches of white sand beaches. The bungalows themselves were masterfully designed, with floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed the Pacific breeze to slip through, rich teak wood finishes, and oversized lanais that gave the illusion of floating above the ocean. They were built for the wealthy—people who came here for months at a time, as Felicity, my fiancée's family, did every year.

The place exuded old-money opulence and understated luxury that whispered rather than shouted. Felicity's parents booked several bungalows and had been coming here with family and friends for years. Every summer, they would spend a few months on the island, mixing business with pleasure, hosting exclusive gatherings for their most important clients, and essentially working from Kauai. This year, I joined them and thought it was the best of both worlds, though the time zone challenges with me working on Hong Kong time remained. But I was used to it, and it was absolutely worth it to finish a meeting and then go surfing before the next one.

I met Felicity through her family’s company, Thatcher Art Consulting, which worked closely with Archer’s Art & Antiquities. I managed our Asian operations, overseeing acquisitions, auctions, and appraisals of the rarest and most valuable pieces across the continent. The Thatchers focused on private curation and elite museum consulting, specializing in provenance research, authentication, and curating exhibitions for the world’s wealthiest collectors and institutions. Over the years, we collaborated on several projects, and my parents knew Felicity’s father, Samuel Thatcher, quite well on a professional level.

Felicity, like me, had a PhD in history and now freelanced as a curator for some of the most renowned museums and companies around the world. Her family business and mine meshed seamlessly, the lines blurring between family and commerce, between history and profit.

The engagement felt almost inevitable, like the logical conclusion of a profitable familial alliance. It wasn't just about business, though. I liked Felicity, enjoyed her company, and found her erudite. She was sexy as hell. Gorgeous from head to toe. She was exactly the type of woman I thought I would spend my life with—someone who was well-educated, smart, into the art world, and sophisticated.

The engagement was still new. Only a few weeks old, though, Felicity's mother was already starting to ask about venues and guest lists, like it was some corporate merger to be mapped out and executed.

I leaned against the polished railing of the bungalow's lanai, watching the waves crash onto the shore below, thinking how this place could be both breathtaking and suffocating at the same time. My tie was still loose around my neck from the meeting we'd had earlier—which was about an auction's scheduling and potential acquisitions for a private collector on the main island. I was already itching for an excuse to get out of it, to escape into something more real, less curated.

I went back inside the bungalow and saw Elika bendingdown, adjusting the sheets on the bed, moving quickly and efficiently, her back to me. The posture was intensely and surprisingly erotic—like a French maid fantasy brought to life.

I blinked, unsure if it was the heat or the long flight still messing with my head, but no—it was really her. I shouldn’t be looking at another woman, not when I was engaged. Especially not to this woman, who was still working as a maid in a resort, completely unsuitable to be my wife. What would we even talk about? Once the passion faded—as it inevitably would—I needed someone who could be my intellectual equal. I’d always known that was key to a lasting relationship. I came from a family that valued loyalty above all; we’d sacrifice for each other and help each other grow, and divorce was never an option. I wanted to marry someone I had the most in common with, someone I could truly connect with once the heat of the moment was gone.

Recently, I'd seen my brothers get married. Damian had married Emilia, who was an award-winning artist and sought-after art restorer. Duncan had married Elsa, who was a baker and had been educated at Cordon Bleu and the Culinary Institute of America. They both had fallen in love—which had surprised me. I looked at love practically. I wanted to fall in love with therightperson. Felicity was that; I was certain of it.

So, why are you remembering how it felt to make love to the woman in front of you…in an unflattering maid's uniform? Not French maid in the least, and yet….

Lust. Old remembered lust.

Elika looked over her shoulder, catching me watching her. Our eyes met, and I smiled sheepishly. Again, I wondered why she seemed so relaxed, like she knew I was going to be here.

"How are you, Elika?" I asked, leaning against a wall.

"I'm well." She stood and looked around the room. "If you wish, I can come back when?—"

"No, it's fine. I just came to get out of my suit and find my swim trunks."

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