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“Where are we going?” she asks, moving a tendril of hair the wind has stuck to her glossy lips.
“It’s a surprise,” I say. She wears jeans and a casual top, but I’ve had one of my staff pack a bag to hide in my trunk. Everything she could need for the next few days.
I’ve tried to match her casual dress, opting for the jeans and black crewneck sweater my sister purchased me. Of course, I’ve had to iron the crease in my jeans myself.
“You look nice,” she says, her gaze lingering a bit too long on the jeans.
“Thanks. So do you.” I carefully buckle her into the passenger seat. “You alright?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know,” she laughs.
“The date will do you good. You can take some time to process.”
“Thanks,” she says. “But I’d rather forget it.”
I wait for her to speak again. Eventually, she says, “I guess I have a half-sister. Somewhere. Her name is Megan.”
“Really?” I want to offer her everything we’ve got to find the girl, if that’s what she wants. But the offer can wait. She’s clearly overwhelmed.
“Yes. It was nice to put all that to rest. He’s going to turn himself in and go back. He was planning to all along. He just wanted to apologize first.”
Already informed of his decisions, my men have put him on the family’s private jet to return him to Wales where he’ll be taken to the police station to surrender.
“Good,” I say. “I’m glad you weren’t the one left with the choice, having to decide whether or not to turn him in.”
“I know. That would not have been pleasant.” She shakes her head. “I’m already wrestling with the question if I should try to meet my half-sister and her mother, or if it’s better to not disrupt their life at all.”
“I can’t tell you what to do,” I say. “All I know is my life is a million times better, knowing you.”
“Oh, god. That’s sweet. Thank you.” She dabs away tears.
We talk quietly, her telling me about their meeting. It feels good, having her trust me like this. When she tires from the conversation, I know to stop asking questions.
She sings softly with the radio, knowing all the words to the popular pop songs girls her age listen to as we drive. I wonder if she’s one of those Swiftlies everyone is always talking about. Or it is Swiftie? She looks out the window, enjoying the view of the city in this perfect weather, leaving her father as a closed chapter behind her.
As we pull up to the dock at the Bachman New York Harbor Yacht Club, I can see the excitement in her eyes. This is a place that only our family has access to, and it’s become a second home for us.
I help her from the car, and we walk toward the clubhouse, where our family’s yacht, Aphrodite, is docked. As we enter, she takes in the luxurious surroundings, from the marble floors to the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A fully stocked bar awaits us, with smartly dressed staff standing behind the white linen-covered top.
“Champagne?” they ask, greeting us with icy flutes of bubbles.
“Let me ask the lady what we’re having,” I reply. I turn to Lily. “Would you like a glass of champagne?”
“This place is incredible,” she whispers, looking around in awe. “I don’t typically drink, but I think I would like to on this trip.”
“Excellent.” I nod to the staff holding the tray, giving them permission.
She accepts a flute from the staff member. Tasting it, her eyes light up. “Delicious!”
“It’s our little slice of paradise,” I reply with a smile. I receive my own glass and hold it up in the air. “To us,” I say.
She gives me a shy smile. “To us.”
We lightly clink our glasses together.
This is the perfect place for her to unwind after the tense meeting with her dad.
The warm sun shines down on our shoulders as we stand at the railing of the boat, drinking champagne as we watch the men untie our boat so we can slip from the dock deeper into the water.
