King of Wrath (Kings of Sin #1) by Ana Huang

“Girls, want to share what’s so funny?” our father asked pointedly, looking up from his conversation with Gunnar.

Tall, blond, and blue-eyed, Gunnar was my sister’s polar opposite looks-wise, but they shared a similar sense of humor and easygoing manner. He watched, his expression amused, as my sister and I sobered.

“Nothing’s funny,” we said in unison.

My father shook his head with an exasperated expression. “Vivian, put your jacket back on,” he said. “It’s freezing. You’ll get sick.”

“It’s not that cold,” I protested. “The fireplace is on.”

But I put the jacket on anyway.

Besides marriage, my parents were forever fussing at me about wearing enough layers and drinking enough soup. It was one of the few holdovers from our pre-wealth days.

When I looked over at Dante, I found him watching us with narrowed eyes. I raised an eyebrow, and he gave a small shake of his head.

I had no clue what that meant, but my curiosity over his reaction melted in the whirlwind of Christmas morning (where Gunnar announced he bought Agnes another pony for their country manor) and the Legacy Ball and wedding planning that dominated the weeks after New Year’s.

Before I knew it, it was mid-January, and my anxiety had peaked to an all-time high.

T-minus four months until the ball.

T-minus seven months until the wedding.

God help me.

“You need a spa retreat,” Isabella said. “Nothing restores the body like a weekend in the desert filled with deep-tissue massages and yoga.”

“You hate yoga, and you once left a retreat early because it was too ‘boring and woo woo.’”

“For me. Not for you.” Isabella lay stomach-down on my office couch, her feet kicked up in the air as she scribbled in her notebook. Occasionally, a.k.a. every two minutes, she’d stop to sip her soda or nibble on a piece of dark chocolate. It was lunchtime, but she said she wasn’t that hungry, and I hadn’t had a chance to order takeout. “You should take Dante with you. It’ll be a couples’ getaway.”

I looked up from the Legacy Ball seating chart. “Aren’t you supposed to be writing the next great thriller instead of providing unsolicited advice on my love life?”

Sometimes, Isabella used my office as her office because the silence in her apartment was “too loud,” which I was fine with as long as she didn’t distract me while I was working.

“I’m drawing inspiration from real life. Perhaps I can write about an arranged marriage gone terribly wrong. The wife murders her husband after having a kinky affair with her sexy doorman…or not,” she added hastily when I glared at her. “But you have to admit, sex and murder go hand in hand.”

“Only to you.” I moved the sticky notes with Dominic and Alessandra Davenport’s names to the table with Kai. Much better. The last setup had Dominic sitting next to his biggest rival. “Should I worry about your exes?”

“Only the ones that pissed me off.”

“That’s all of them.”

“Is it?” Isabella was the picture of innocence. “Oops.”

A smile pulled on my lips. Her dating history was a string of red flags encompassing race car drivers, photographers, models, and, in one truly spectacular lapse of judgment, an aspiring poet with a Shakespeare tattoo and a penchant for spouting lines from Romeo and Juliet during sex.

The past year had been her longest break from men since I met her. She deserved it.

Dealing with men was exhausting.

Case in point: my relationship with Dante. Trying to figure out where we stood was like trying to find my footing on a slab of particle board in the middle of the ocean.

Isabella and I lapsed into silence again, but my mind kept straying toward a certain dark-haired Italian.

We’d kissed, and Dante had given me not one but two mind-blowing orgasms, only to shut down immediately after.

Nothing beat the humiliation of asking him for sex only for him to leave me high and dry. At least I’d successfully (I hoped) played the entire night off as a mistake.

A knock interrupted my inner turmoil.

“Come in.”

Shannon entered holding an extravagant bouquet of red roses. There must’ve been at least two dozen of them slotted into a slim crystal vase, and their scent instantly blanketed the room with cloying sweetness.

Isabella sat up, her eyes gleaming like a Page Six reporter who’d stumbled on a juicy society secret.

“These just came for you,” Shannon said with a knowing smile. “Where do you want me to put them?”

My heart leapt in my throat. “My desk is fine. Thank you.”

“Oh my God.” Isabella beelined to my desk the second the door closed. “These roses must’ve cost hundreds of dollars. What’s the occasion?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted. Surprise and pleasure warred for dominance in my chest.

Dante had never sent me flowers before. Our relationship had smoothed into one of civil cohabitation and the occasional shared late-night snack since Bali, but we still weren’t a “normal” couple by any means.

I couldn’t imagine why he’d be sending me roses now. It wasn’t a holiday, anniversary, or anyone’s birthday.

“Just because flowers. The best kind.” Isabella skimmed her fingers over a velvety petal. “Who knew Dante Russo was such a romantic?”