Fuhad sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. It was so incredibly comfortable that his body practically begged him to sink back into the mattress, but the agonizing pressure in his skull kept him anchored. He didn't want to get up. His head hung low, heavy with a relentless, violent hangover that felt as if the inside of his skull were pounding in a cruel, rhythmic pattern with his pulse. Every single beat of his heart was a dull thud behind his eyes, a physical wave of pressure that made his vision swim. His throat was bone-dry, parched and sticky, turning every attempt to swallow into a difficult, scratchy ordeal that made his stomach threaten to revolt. He was shirtless, the cool air of the room doing absolutely nothing to soothe the radiating heat flushing his skin.
The room was a cloying sanctuary of purple, white, and silver—distinctly feminine and clearly not his own. The scent of floral perfume hung in the air, making his stomach turn.
Click.
The sound of a heavy door closing drifted in through the open window. Fuhad looked toward the light, squinting. He groaned, pushed himself up, and stumbled toward the window.
Below him, his sister Nala was stepping off the front stoop of Carrie's estate. She looked ridiculous—and miserable. Her tiara sat crookedly on top of her head, its platinum base glinting mockingly in the morning sun as it tilted precariously to one side. He watched her groan, her shoulders slumped as she rubbed her temples in a universal gesture of regret.
Fuhad let out a dry, raspy chuckle. "Lightweight," he muttered.
Then, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He spotted Jiho leaning against a stone pillar, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The moment Jiho saw Nala, he tossed the cherry-red ember aside and fell into step beside her.
Fuhad's amusement died instantly. He leaned against the window frame, his expression hardening into a glare as he watched them descend the driveway.
Jiho walked beside her with purposeful strides, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the dark, intricate ink winding up his forearms. Nala tracked the movement of the tattoos out of the corner of her eye. She didn't often get a chance to see his usually hidden tattoos, and the rare sight of them was distracting.
"What are you doing?" she finally asked. Her voice was strained, thick with the grit of a hangover and the sharp edge of irritation. She didn't want him there—not when he usually looked at her like she was an obligation he couldn't wait to discharge.
"Bringing you home," Jiho grunted. He didn't look at her. His focus remained on the steep hill leading toward her family's estate.
Nala rolled her eyes, the movement making her brain ache. "You don't have to."
"Okay," he grunted. Internally, Jiho was a storm. He was battling the ingrained need to be respectful to the woman he was being forced to marry against a deep-seated resentment for the arrangement itself.
Nala cut him an irritated glance, gesturing dramatically. "At any moment, I might be robbed at gunpoint by some Fortune 500 CEO demanding my trust fund," she said flippantly.
She shook her head, picking up her pace to put some distance between them.
Jiho shrugged, a small, involuntary twitch of his lips suggesting he found her bitterness almost funny. "Our mothers will kill me if I don't bring you to your door."
Nala stopped dead. She turned, her tiara tilting even further. "I don't want your pity or your forced politeness, Jiho. If you don't care, then don't care. I'm not forcing you to do anything."
Jiho flinched as if she'd slapped him. "Did I say you were forcing me?" he barked, his voice echoing off the neighboring stone walls. He was stunned. The shy, quiet Nala usually kept her head down; he hadn't expected her to find her teeth. "Let's go."
Nala didn't answer. Instead, she reached up, grabbing at the crooked tiara on her head in an attempt to pull it off, but the metal teeth were hopelessly caught in her curls. She stood frozen in place, wincing in pain as she tried to untangle her hair.
Watching her struggle, Jiho sighed and stepped closer. He gently brushed her hands away, his fingers surprisingly careful as he began to disentangle the tiara from her messy curls himself.
Nala held her breath, completely still in a mixture of sudden anticipation and the unexpected proximity between them. Her gaze dropped to his chest. Her eyes locked onto the way his white button-up clung to his sweat-damp skin, her mind tracing the peeking edges of dark ink just barely visible through the open collar of his shirt. Jiho felt her breath—warm and trembling—brushing against his bare skin like feather-light touches. The sensation sent all the blood in his body rushing southwards.
With a final, careful tug, he freed the tiara and handed it back to her.
Nala held the diamond-clad platinum in her hands, wrestling with the sudden kindness mixed into their hostile dynamic.
"I still would rather walk by myself," she murmured, her head facing downward, feeling as if she had lost some of her prior aggravation because of his help.
Jiho ignored her, reaching for his pack of smokes, his fingers twitching as he slipped back into his indifferent irritation.
"Whatever," Nala muttered, storming off ahead of him.
They finished the trek in a suffocating silence. Jiho kept his word, walking her all the way to the threshold of her door. He didn't wait for a thank you. The moment she crossed the frame, he turned on his heel and headed toward his parents' home without a single backward glance.
Back at Carrie's, the backyard looked like a battlefield of luxury. Fuhad stood in the doorway, staring out at the pool.
"How the fuck did he end up sleeping like that?" he muttered.
In the center of the turquoise water, his brother Koda was draped across an inflatable pink flamingo. He was out cold. Nearby, Darla was precariously balanced—half on a poolside lounger and half on a smaller inflatable, her hair trailing in the water.
A few maids stood by the edge of the water, looking exhausted. They had clearly spent the night standing guard to ensure Koda didn't roll off and drown like an idiot.
"Yo! Get up! Wake the fuck up!" Fuhad roared.
Koda winced, squinting at the brutal morning sun. He tried to shift, but the flamingo was an unforgiving host. With a pathetic splash, he slid into the water. The cold shock hit him like a freight train. He surfaced, sputtering, and swam to the edge with a murderous glare directed at Fuhad.
As Koda climbed out, he passed Darla. He paused, grabbed the hem of his soaking shirt, and wrung a stream of pool water directly onto her face.
"Ugh! What the—!" Darla shrieked, bolting upright and throwing a string of curses at his retreating back.
"That," Koda smirked, "was a party." He accepted a warm towel from a waiting maid and headed inside toward the kitchen.
Upstairs, the noise of the house began to rise, eventually reaching the ears of Vivian. She tried to roll over, but an arm tightened around her waist, anchoring her in place.
Her eyes snapped open. She looked down, relieved to find she was still fully dressed, then looked back. Gunner was fast asleep behind her, his soft snores lifting the stray hairs near her ear.
She reached out, slowly running a single finger over the tip of his nose, tracing the path down over his lips, over his chin, and down until she reached his impressive pecs. She tapped his chest before whispering, "Wake up."
As his mind slowly started waking, Gunner could feel his stomach rolling violently. The sharp need to vomit began to rear its ugly head, making him wince as his face twisted in pain. "My head is killing me. What time is it?"
Vivian propped herself up on her forearms, staring down at Gunner. He was still gripping her waist tightly, his face buried very just beneath her chest. She reached for her phone on the nightstand. "8:30 a.m."
"Shit!" Gunner sat up instantly, releasing her. "I have to go."
He sprang to his feet, quickly pulling on his discarded, slightly wrinkled clothes from last night in a panicked scramble.
"What's so important on a Sunday morning?" Vivian asked, watching his shoulders tense as he zipped his pants.
Gunner couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't say that his son would be waking up in thirty minutes and would panic if his dad wasn't there to make breakfast. He couldn't admit he'd missed putting him to bed last night.
"My mom is strict about breakfast," he lied.
Vivian laughed, pulling her messy hair into a bun. "You really are a mama's boy."
She left him to his panic and headed downstairs. Her tiara was lost somewhere in the tangled nest of her hair, but she didn't care. When she reached the dining room, she sat next to Koda and started piling her plate with food.
"Where'd you sleep?" Carrie asked, sipping her coffee and looking suspiciously well-rested. "Everyone else just dropped where they stood."
"Guest room," Vivian shrugged.
"How did everyone find a bed but me and Darla?" Koda complained.
"I tried to get you to go upstairs!" Carrie countered. "You said you were fine."
"I was drunk!"
"I'm like 120 pounds," Darla added, holding still as a private nurse carefully inserted a needle into Koda's arm, hooking him up to an IV bag filled with vitamins and saline fluids to alleviate his brewing migraine. "Someone could have carried me. My back is seized."
The nurse taped down Koda's line, adjusted the flow rate on the IV bag, and then made her way over to Darla with a fresh prep pad and needle.
Fuhad let out a dark laugh. "But then we wouldn't have such good photos for the group chat."
Gunner appeared in the doorway, looking frantic. He didn't sit. He grabbed two pieces of bacon and a slice of toast, scarfing them down while standing. He poured black coffee into a mug and chugged it while it was still steaming.
"In a rush?" Carrie asked.
"A little. Fun night, Carrie," he said, offering a quick smile. He turned to Vivian, his expression softening for a split second. "I'll call you after I deal with my parents. Answer your phone."
He leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, and vanished out the front door.
The table went silent. Then, a barrage of voices erupted.
"What was that?"
"Since when?"
"Spill it, Vivian!"
"Where are Nala and Jiho?" she asked, trying to deflect. "And Nat and Harrison?"
"Left," Fuhad grumbled.
"Nat and Harrison are in the living room," Carrie said, leaning forward. "None of that matters. I thought you said nothing was happening between you two."
"I also have to go. This was fun! Bye! " Vivian grabbed her plate and bolted, ignoring the chorus of "Boo!" and "We're going to find out!" trailing after her.
Travis was already waiting at the end of the driveway in the sleek black car. The drive back to her condo in Greenwood was a blur. She showered, scrubbing the scent of stale liquor, sweat, and Gunner's musk off her skin, and changed into something comfortable that she could relax in for most of the day.
She had just stepped into the living room when her phone rang. She scrambled back into the bathroom, catching it on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"I thought I'd have to come over there if you didn't pick up," Gunner's voice came through—smooth, velvet, and devoid of the morning's panic.
"Okay, Mama's Boy. What's up?"
"The engagement tonight," he said, his tone turning serious. "What do you think?"
Vivian sighed, looking out at the Greenwood skyline. "I think we don't have a choice."
"I think we should go in there as a united front," Gunner said.
"I can do united."
They spent the next hour mapping out their moves, coordinating their stories, and bracing for the impact of the families meeting. When the call ended, Vivian felt a cold spark of anxiety. She didn't know the time. She didn't know the venue. Her father kept her in the dark as a matter of principle. All she knew was that The Hill was about to change forever.
Author's note:
Two more coming!