King of Sloth (Kings of Sin #4) by Ana Huang

I happily paid that price out of my own pocket.

The new timeline meant I had to change my original design plans, but Farrah was the city’s best hospitality interior designer for a reason. After several brainstorming sessions, we came up with a new concept that would take less time to implement but still fit my vision for the club. It threw her sourcing completely off schedule, but the hefty bonus I paid her made up for the trouble.

However, there was one more loose end I needed to tie up before I immersed myself completely in my new plans.

The second Tuesday of the year, after the city had recovered from its holiday lull and resumed its usual breakneck pace, I entered Vuk’s Upper East Side mansion.

From the outside, the sprawling building resembled a fortress more than it did a home. There were enough security measures to make Fort Knox look like child’s play, but the inside was the epitome of old-school luxury. Spiral staircases, arched windows, and gothic influences abounded. Every room was bigger than the last, and marble busts glared at me from their dedicated display tables as I followed the butler into Vuk’s office.

The butler announced me and disappeared in a discreet flash of silver hair and starched white cotton.

Vuk’s office was as dark and gloomy as the rest of the house. Black paneling, black desk, black leather furniture. The only specs of color were the emerald glass lamp on his desk and his wintry blue eyes as they tracked my approach.

It was my first time seeing him since the fire. His remote expression was a far cry from the terror I’d glimpsed before I dragged him out of the vault, but I’d never forget that look in his eyes.

Frozen. Despairing. Haunted.

“How are you?” I ditched my default irreverence for true concern. Vuk and I weren’t friends, but he was my business partner, and he’d taken a big chance on me. Plus, he’d been caught in the fire because of me, so I felt partially responsible for whatever he’d gone through the past few weeks.

He dipped his chin, which I took as a sign he was doing well enough.

“What about Willow?” I asked. Another dip of his chin.

“Right.” I’d forgotten how difficult it was to hold a conversation with someone who refused to speak. He didn’t seem inclined to express any further thoughts, so I gave him a quick summary of my revised plans for the club and an update on the opening party. It felt strange, talking business when we’d almost died the last time we saw each other, but Vuk didn’t strike me as the type who liked discussing emotions or past traumas (or much of anything, really).

He made a noise of approval when I finished and scribbled something on a sheet of paper.



Who’s on the guest list for the opening?



Interesting. Of everything I’d said, that was the part I least expected him to focus on.

“I’m finalizing the invites this week,” I said. “I’ll email you a full list once I’m done.”

I wasn’t confident about pulling off the club by my birthday, but I was confident in my ability to throw a kick-ass party. Even if people were dubious about my business acumen, they’d show up to see me sink or swim and have a damn good time in the process. “If there’s anyone you want me to include, just let me know,”

I added.

I’d asked out of courtesy. Vuk didn’t date, didn’t have a close social circle, and didn’t care about public appearances, so I didn’t expect him to have anyone in mind.

However, he proved me wrong when he wrote something else on a fresh sheet of paper.

It contained only one word—specifically, one name.

Ayana.

The same Ayana who’d just gotten engaged.

My gaze snapped up to Vuk’s stoic one. He didn’t offer an explanation for the name, and I didn’t ask.

“She’s already on the list, but I’ll triple check,” I said, rearranging my own expression into one of neutrality.

He nodded, I left, and that was that. It was the quickest, easiest meeting I’d had since I came up with the idea for the Vault.

Honestly, it could’ve been a virtual meeting, but I’d wanted to check on Vuk in person and make sure he was doing okay after the fire. Obviously, he was.

I exited the mansion and flashed back to the sight of Ayana’s name written in bold, black strokes. He’d pressed the pen so hard it’d punctured a tiny hole in the paper.

Then again, maybe he wasn’t okay, but that was none of my business.

I had enough on my plate without taking on other’s troubles, so I put Vuk’s strange interest in the supermodel aside and simply made a note to myself to ensure Ayana attended the grand opening, no matter what.





Being in love was strange.

The overall rhythm of my day to day stayed consistent—I still went to work, hung out with my friends, and dealt with wild client demands—but the details had changed. They were softer, more fluid, like moonlight slipping between the rigid blinds of my life.

I was quicker to smile and slower to anger. The air smelled fresher, and my steps were lighter. Everything seemed more tolerable with the knowledge that, no matter what happened, there was someone out there who called me his and who I called mine.

Some mornings, I lazed in bed with Xavier instead of waking up early for yoga; some nights, at his suggestion, I dipped my toe into horror films (hilarious—horror protagonists were almost uniformly dense) and slapstick comedy (not for me). Afternoons were either spent eating at my desk (on particularly busy workdays) or at a string of increasingly adorable bistros that Xavier found.