Page 115 of It Must Be Fate

“Join the fucking club,” he growls. He leans forward and captures my mouth with his in a quick but intense kiss. When he pulls back, he whispers against my lips, “And for the record, I wasn’t complaining about the start time because I’m tired. I groaned because a ten pm start means we won’t get home until two am at the earliest and we have Hana’s dance recital at eight tomorrow morning. I groaned because Rogue’s damn anniversary party is cutting into the very few and extremely precious hours I have at night with my wife.”

Tristan has a knack for always saying the most perfect thing. He never misses. Not once. Sometimes I wonder if he’s rehearsed these lines because there’s no way amancould be thisromantic, but the openness in his face and the raw authenticity in his features tell me he’s genuine.

I don’t get to answer him because the door slams and Suki comes storming into the room. Tristan straightens, distancing himself from me, and turns towards our daughter.

He stiffens, and when I glance at Suki’s face, I understand why.

Even through the haze of my arousal, I can tell something’s wrong. Her features are tight, her face flushed red. Her eyes are shining in a way I’ve never seen from my ten-year-old.

“Darling, are you alrig—”

She comes to a dead stop, her fists clenched at her sides. “I want to stop gymnastics.”

My brows pull together. “Why, you love—”

“Well, I hate it now!” she screams. “Ihateit. I want to stop.”

Her anger has an immediate cooling effect on the fiery lust burning through my veins, dousing them entirely. Suki’s always had a strong character, it’s what I love most about her. At such a young age, she already knows who she is and what she wants, and she’s not about to let anyone tell her what she can and can’t do.

But she’s never raised her voice like this before.

Tristan takes a step forward. “Su—”

She turns on him. “Don’ttry to change my mind. I don’t like it anymore and I’m never going back there again. If you force me, I’ll run away.” Her lower lip trembles as her eyes turn glassy.

I raise a calming hand and stand, rounding the table. “Of course we’d never force you, Su. If you want to stop gymnastics, then that’s the end of it.” I go to close the distance between us so I can hug her, but she flinches, freezing me in my tracks. “I want to make sure you’re okay though. Are you?”

“I’m fine,” she snaps. “Stop asking me if I’m alright, I’mfine.” With those final hissed words, she spins on her heels and stalks out, slamming the door closed behind her.

I turn towards Tristan to find him blowing out a breath.

“Do you think that’s a taster of what her teenage years are going to be like? Because that mightactuallykill my stamina.”

I smile but my heart isn’t in it. “She didn’t seem like herself.”

“No, she didn’t,” Tristan agrees. “But you know how she gets. She probably couldn’t master one of the skills today and decided to give it up. It happened with ballet, it happened with archery, and now it’s happened with gymnastics. She’ll find something new soon and hopefully this one’ll stick.”

Tristan isn’t wrong in his assessment. Suki is a bit of a perfectionist. She gets it from me and I know better than anyone how toxic the dark side of perfection can be. I’m sure he’s right and her tantrum was informed by a bad practice.

We’re close, she would tell me if it was something else.

***

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Nera

The centennial anniversary party for Crowned King Industries is held in the palatial Grand Ballroom of the Ritz, the most lavish hotel in London. The party itself is as equally grandiose as the chosen location.

The room is decorated with countless gold mesh floor lamps and lit with priceless and resplendent chandeliers. The subdued atmosphere of the lighting is luxurious and by no means the only sign of opulence. French art adorns the walls and champagne towers stand at all four corners of the room, two of the tables framing a makeshift stage. Acrobats in reflective gold uniforms hang from floating wheels, their bodies moving in slow, sultry dances above our heads as we walk in.

Clearly, CKI spared no expense to celebrate this landmark anniversary and the show takes my breath away.

My neck is craned, my face aimed at the sky as I watch the artists, when someone comes up from behind me and smacks my ass.

“Hey, hot stuff,” a seductive voice whispers in my ear.

“Ow,” I moan, gently rubbing at the still sore flesh to appease the stinging.

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