Sunday, 1:42 PM
Valentino Estate — Upper Balcony, East Side
The sea had grown quieter.
Waves rolled against the private coast in slow, foamy breaths while the sharp cries of gulls circled above like they, too, belonged to the elite.
From the upper balcony, the hush was more refined—filled with expensive silence.
Ethan remained seated, the cool glass of pineapple juice in his hand untouched since that moment. His gaze hadn't moved from the west. From her.
She stood draped in white, the sea in front of her, a subtle wind playing with strands of brunette hair like an artist toying with silk. Her posture was composed, presidential, as if the beach itself waited for her approval.
Vivienne.
Same eyes from college—cold, curious, untouchable. Same girl who'd once outscored a professor in his own debate. But this version was wrapped in quiet power, now elevated and poised like someone sculpted into another league.
A maid interrupted the stillness.
She was older—late 30s maybe—but maturity clung to her like elegance. Her eyes had a particular confidence, her blouse tight around her curves as she stepped beside Marco, giving a slight bow of the head.
"Sir, shall I guide the incoming guests to the interior rooms," she asked softly, "or shall they be received here?"
Marco, still observing Ethan's distant stare, smiled faintly.
"Here," he said. "Let them join."
He turned to Ethan with a glint. "Same college, isn't she?"
John perked up like a dog hearing a treat bag rustle.
"Oh-ho-ho, you mean the Vivienne?" he laughed. "Sharpest tongue in the city, most graceful legs in the capital. That woman could file a tax return while shattering your ego in ten syllables. President of student council, three-time debate champion, and editor-in-chief? If she were any more perfect, she'd be fictional."
Marco chuckled deeply. There was pride there—too much pride.
Ethan didn't move, but something in his jaw clicked. He noted the subtle possessiveness in Marco's tone. That wasn't just admiration. It was claim.
The air shifted.
From the carved arch behind them, footsteps clicked against the stone.
A tall man entered, dressed in a white suit so crisp it seemed starched with power. Late 40s, tall forehead, no visible wrinkles, and the demeanor of a man who didn't lose arguments—because he never entertained them.
Jonathan Barrett.
Former male model. Current business tycoon. Known across publications as "The Calm Flame." Rumored net worth? Eight digits on his own.
Beside him, a woman whose presence slowed time.
White hair tied in a waterfall knot, her pale skin aglow in daylight, wearing a sleeveless silk gown that shimmered like it was spun from godlight itself.
Amilia Barrett.
Jonathan's wife. Some whispered she was a former goddess. Others—more cynical—suggested she simply played one too well.
Marco stood and greeted him with casual delight, followed by a smirking tease toward Amilia.
"Be careful, Barrett. If you leave her alone too long, she might start ascending."
Amilia smiled like queens do. She took a nearby laid-back chair, stretching with poise as a maid knelt at her feet and began gently massaging them with rose oil.
Jonathan took the fourth chair—the empty one opposite Ethan, Marco, and John. His eyes landed on Ethan like they were measuring a dress size.
"And this?" Jonathan asked smoothly. "Is the young man causing all the ripples?"
Marco leaned back, sipping his remaining coffee before setting the cup down.
"Ethan."
"Self-trained trader. Almost surgical with his analysis. Precision like he was built in a lab. Oh, and—minor detail—handed three grown men their teeth last Saturday night."
John cleared his throat. "And I'm John. I bring commentary, charisma, and—for the low price of $999.99—a lifelong comedy subscription."
Everyone smirked except Ethan, who nodded politely toward Barrett. "Sir."
Barrett narrowed his eyes—not in suspicion, but interest. He leaned back slowly, one arm stretched along the edge of the seat, clearly in no rush.
Amilia, to the side, took a quiet sip of something citrusy, watching the horizon—but her attention flicked to Ethan once.
It was brief. But not accidental.
John, meanwhile, was practically swiveling in his chair—torn between the models on the beach and the sculpted ankles of Amilia Barrett. If lust were a visible fog, he was choking in it.
Moments later, the same blushing maid from earlier returned—this time flanked by two pristine butlers in black vests. They carried trays lined with chilled juices, glazed tarts, grilled fruits, and dishes that would cost a middle-class paycheck in the city.
The food was elegant, untouched by compromise.
As glasses clinked and plates were passed, the sun kept sliding westward.
And in the background, Vivienne turned her head.
Her gaze met Ethan's for half a second.
And though the balcony was full—
—he felt like they were the only two still breathing.