Page 107 of Vivacity
CHAPTER 47
Sophia
I’m worried about Ethan.
I’m worried about Jamie.
I’m worried about Ethan worrying about Jamie.
My original plan was to stay in Athens for New Year’s. My family is on good form, after all, and I have a dozen invitations for New Year’s Eve parties. My sister’s fiancé is throwing one of them at a fabulous new rooftop restaurant that I’ve been dying to try out.
I really want to go along.
More accurately, I really want towantto go along. Because, actually, I just want to go back to London. I miss Ethan so much it’s honestly pathetic, and I feel so helpless over here. I know his argument with Jamie and the Tesla stunt shook the shit out of him, and I hate that he’s so alone. I hate that he doesn’t have anyone looking out for him.
I’ve also been getting the distinct impression that he’s up to something, and I can’t for the life of me work out what.
So when he FaceTimes me three days after Christmas and spills the beans, I am well and truly gobsmacked. Turns out he spent most of yesterday with Miles and Charles Montague, thrashing out what equates to a kind of coup to blow up hisfather’s legacy, put the Montagues in charge of the combined hotel group, and extricate himself in the process.
I have no words. It’s audacious and brilliant and the epitome of evil genius.
Walk away.
Make reparations.
Fuck his father up the arse.
All in one swift move.
‘But what will you do instead?’ I ask in shock. He’s grinning at me, amused, I suppose, by the expression on my face as I attempt to process.
His face falls. ‘I’ll need to talk to you about that,’ he says softly. ‘But I’d rather do it face to face.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll come back first thing tomorrow.’
I don’t lovethe queasy flip my stomach performed when he said he needed to talk about the future. I’m likely to be out of a job if Ethan walks, but that’s not what’s bothering me. I couldn’t give a shit about the job. I have plenty of money between my Seraph income and my ample trust fund, whose investments I manage aggressively—the seraphim have an investment club where we pool ideas and share tips.
Like many things in life, when the universe forces our hand, it can be a good thing. I already know I’d never go and work for another man in the same capacity. I just couldn’t. Not after Ethan. This may just be the kick up the arse I need to stop fucking around with billionaires and go back to uni to get my clinical qualification.
No, the feeling of foreboding that I can’t shake is a direct result of ruminating over what Ethan means. What he wants to tell me.
The funny thing is that usually, at this (early) stage in a relationship, I’d be freaking out about feeling trapped. Now I’m freaking out for quite the opposite reason, and, even as I congratulate myself on the progress I’ve made at managing my Seven parts, I realise I don’t like it. This is preciselywhyI have my Seven parts, for fuck’s sake. They’re there to protect me, to ensure that I don’t become dependent enough on anyone that they could hurt me, and, obviously, to make myself so fucking adorable, so entertaining, that no one would want to walk away, anyway.
I feel as though, by opening myself up to Ethan and this precious fledgling relationship, I’ve also opened myself up to a world of potential hurt, even if I don’t know why or how.
I go straightfrom the airport to Ethan’s place. He’s told me that he dropped Jamie back at his mum’s earlier today. I fiddle with my beautiful ring stack for the entire flight. I haven’t stopped fiddling with it, admiring it, since he gave it to me. It’s gorgeous and insane and playful and some.
He has his driver pick me up, and when we pull into his subterranean garage, he’s standing right there. He yanks open the back door and tugs me out, pulling me into a tight hug as his driver opens the boot to grab my luggage.
I wrap my arms around his neck and breathe him in. He’s wearing the sweater I gave him for Christmas, and it’s so soft, and there’s so much hard muscle beneath it, and he smells so good, but it’s his face that hits me hardest.
That face.
He’s so handsome. I pull away so I can see it, cup it in my hands, kiss his mouth. He hasn’t shaved today, and a dusting of light brown stubble makes his jaw look even more defined.
‘I missed you so much,’ he says against my lips, and then he’s kissing me, deeply, decadently, as if it’s been a year and not a handful of days since he last got to kiss me. ‘Let’s get you warmed up.’
I reluctantly admit that the living room looks less bleak than usual, thanks to the beautifully—if monochromatically—decorated tree and the fire that’s roaring rather than crackling as it consumes the borderline irresponsible mound of logs in its grate. The lighting is down low, and Bing Crosby is playing softly through the speakers. Ethan has his usual French press of coffee ready to go, and he pours me a cup just the way I like it—black, with half a teaspoon of brown sugar to take the edge off.
