Sunday, 12:38 PM
Private Valentino Beach Estate — Balcony Side
The sunlight angled down like a spotlight, catching the white sands in golden shimmer. Below the carved marble railing, girls in bikinis lay stretched on sunbeds, their sunglasses barely hiding glances tossed at whichever man looked rich enough to deserve them. Some men were wrapped in expensive towels, some in bodies that didn't belong to them, and most inside champagne-fueled tents playing poker, politics, or persuasion.
From the stone balcony above, Ethan and John sat in opposite chairs, sipping the air like veterans who'd seen it all. Ethan's suit—steel blue with an open collar—reflected no emotion. His eyes flicked occasionally from the ocean to the crowd like a bored chess player counting weak moves.
John, meanwhile, had his shirt halfway unbuttoned already. His chair leaned back too far. His mind... somewhere near the model with the dragon tattoo tanning near the shore.
Then came Marco.
Fresh from the water, his designer swim trunks clung to his frame like a signature. Behind him walked the same dark-suited butler from the gate—gloves on, expression unreadable—and beside him, a maid.
Not just a maid.
Curves that could start wars. Chest out, waist in, skin glowing with oils and sunlight. Her uniform fit her like temptation threaded with silk.
Marco dropped into the seat opposite them with the relaxed cruelty of a man who never feared consequence. He sipped a narrow cup filled with something almost golden.
"Rare. Kona Peaberry," he said casually, swirling the brew. "Only grown on a single strip of volcanic soil in Hawaii. Costs more than a Tesla per kilo."
The maid began to pour it into the second and third cups on the silver tray.
John immediately reached out, dramatically gripping the handle like it was a chalice in a fantasy film. "Mmm, I taste the volcano," he said, slurping.
Ethan raised a hand, politely refusing.
"Pineapple juice. If there's any," he added, tone calm.
Marco glanced at the maid, but his hand slid across her thigh—then inward, between. She flinched. Her blush wasn't subtle.
"You heard the gentleman," he murmured into her ear. "Go fetch what he desires."
Maid gave a small nod and left, almost stumbling on her own heels. Ethan watched her go for a second longer than he meant to.
Then Marco leaned in slightly.
"So. About Saturday night…" he said, fingers now lazily swirling the surface of his drink. "Was that just reflexes—or are you one of those quiet savages hiding behind a calm stare?"
Ethan didn't blink. "Self-defense," he said plainly. "I don't make a habit of it."
Marco studied him like he was trying to spot the lie. Then smiled like he'd found it—and respected it anyway.
"Let me guess. The guy swung first, right?"
"He made the mistake of not swinging last," Ethan replied.
John stifled a laugh behind his porcelain cup.
Conversation shifted briefly toward stocks—futures, momentum shifts, a few whispers about an upcoming green energy loophole in NYSE. Ethan took mental notes while Marco playfully tossed in names like they were props in a show only billionaires could watch live.
And John?
He'd practically gone horizontal, eyes still tracking beach curves like radar.
Marco caught him and leaned back, turning to Ethan.
"That one your friend?" he asked dryly. "Is he still... a virgin, or has capitalism gifted him anything real yet?"
John, hearing that, sat up with cartoonish defense.
"Excuse me—emotionally, yes. But technically—"
"No one wants the second half of that sentence," Ethan cut in flatly.
They all chuckled.
The maid returned with a glass of pineapple juice so fresh it still had foam. She handed it to Ethan with two hands, eyes not quite meeting his. There was still color in her cheeks.
Ethan took a sip.
Then something on the far balcony caught his gaze.
The west wing. Drapes fluttered.
A girl—tall, poised, with sharp features that could carve stone.
Vivienne.
She stood in silence, one hand resting on the railing, the other holding a book she wasn't reading. She wore a white summer dress that fought gently with the wind.
Their eyes didn't meet.
But somehow, the atmosphere thinned.
Ethan lowered the glass.
A new piece had entered the board. Ethan realised that this game wasn't same from past timeline.