Her Every Fantasy. Zara Cox
her about her day, her month, her year.
So what if there’d seemed to be an underlying discontentment over her family’s single-mindedness about her life? I’d never drilled her over the details because I’d been too busy wondering why she wasn’t just…thrilled to have a caring family in the first place.
Experiencing that unique bond, even from the fringes, had been unparalleled. A reason to safeguard what we’d had.
It’d taken a full year of friendship to confess that Mortimers didn’t do Sunday family dinner. That we could barely tolerate one another even at Christmas. That birthday presents were often organised by executive assistants and presented by delivery men and one was lucky if one received a card. That to my memory and before she’d died, I’d never received a birthday or Christmas present directly from my mother, nor from my father.
That I’d swap my life for hers in a heartbeat. Hand over the multimillion trust fund with my name on it for a slice of the life she took for granted.
But all of that was before she’d shown her true colours.
Before she’d turned her back on me and married Daniel Fucking Wallis.
The name was enough to dispel my useless reminiscing and restore righteous bitterness to its rightful place. Enough for me to hit the X that closed the page and for my hard-as-rock erection to subside.
I slammed my laptop shut and veered from my desk. Across the bay my gaze flitted past skyscrapers and Singapore’s breathtaking Gardens by the Bay, with its hanging gardens and fifty-metre-tall supertrees, to the one building I’d placed my personal stamp on.
Originally named The Diamond Bay, but later changed to The Sylph, a better fitting name.
An iconic building already racking up international architectural awards.
My baby. My special once-in-a-lifetime project.
The one my ex-best friend wanted a piece of.
Savannah might not be my enemy in the true sense of the word but, after her singeing betrayal and dismissal of me from her life, we weren’t friends any longer. After my parents and family, she’d been the third and final strike.
My days of accommodating foibles and betrayals were behind me. She needed to be set straight on that score once and for all.
By this time tomorrow she would know in no uncertain terms that it was a mistake to resurface, to attempt to touch a place in my life that belonged on a crap pile of history.
I should’ve arranged lunch in my office just as I’d planned.
I knew I’d made a mistake even before the buzzer sounded in my Marina Bay penthouse apartment. I’d talked myself into the argument that geography didn’t matter.
Straight. Sharp. To the point before zàijiàn. Sayonara. Goodbye.
Easily accomplished in any language and as effective here as in my office half a mile away. So I’d arranged for my executive chef to prepare lunch here.
In my private space.
Where she could read into it. Where signs of my existence were everywhere. Where everything now seemed…way too personal.
Clever, clever Bryce.
I grimaced at the very vocal inner voice and pressed the button that activated my private lift. The ding sounded in seconds. My stomach muscles tightened as I pulled the door open and awaited my first glimpse of Savannah in three and a half years.
The lift doors parted.
My first reaction was a filthy curse at the internet for the shoddy portrayal of the woman who would turn heads wherever she went. Because the real-life version was so much better than the pitiful digital imitation.
Vibrant. Vivacious. So fucking beautiful.
Dressed in a blush-pink floaty top and skin-tight, chocolate-coloured leather trousers, she was a magnificent vision, powerful enough to slacken my jaw before I caught myself and pressed my lips into appropriately neutral, downright unfriendly lines. Her curvy hips and endless legs were balanced on sky-high heels matching her trousers and, with that combined with her bouncy curls and flawless make-up, I felt my breathing fracture into useless silent hiccups as I stared.
Mine was the only apartment on this floor, a request I’d worked into the architect’s plans when I’d built the luxury complex. It meant that, with over seventeen thousand square feet to play with, the distance from the lift to my front door was substantial. Long enough to broadcast any nerves from my visitor.
There were none.
She effortlessly projected an ingrained confidence and inner strength I’d secretly envied for a long time before finding my own rightful place in the world. She’d exuded that same vibe on her debut runway show, earned herself positive adoration and cemented herself on the fashion landscape in one fell swoop.
That had been my one and only attendance of her show, and I’d silently watched, smiled proudly and applauded her then.
I wasn’t applauding now as I watched Savannah saunter towards me, that heart-stopping smile curving her luscious lips.
I stayed put, let her come closer, looked deeper into her stunning eyes to spot the first signs of wariness.
Three feet from me, she stopped. ‘Hello, Bryce.’
I shoved my hands into my pockets and narrowed my eyes, almost deluding myself that minimising my vision would lessen her physical impact. ‘Hi, yourself.’
‘It’s good to see you,’ she murmured and I gritted my jaw against the evocative effect of her voice. Warm honey. Sultry nights. Hot tangled sheets. The stuff of a thousand wet dreams.
All forbidden best-friend territory.
Except we weren’t best friends any more. Hell, we weren’t even friends.
So I raised an eyebrow, deliberately, but didn’t answer. The faintest flush stained her cheeks.
A little appeased at that reaction, I waved towards the open door. ‘Come in. Lunch is just about ready and I need to get back to work within the hour.’
She studied me for one second longer, either reacquainting herself with my face or assessing my mood before walking past me into my personal domain. My involuntary swallow at the rich, flowery scent that trailed her was annoying but I gave myself a pass, extracting a hand from my pocket long enough to shut the door before I jammed it back into safety.
I arrived in the living room to find her examining every square inch of it. Yeah, definitely the wrong move, bringing her here. When she was done, she faced me with another tentative smile.
‘Your place is amazing. Very stylish. Very…suave.’
I nodded briskly, totally dismissing the pulse of warmth that attempted to steal through me. ‘Thanks. Would you like a drink? I have white wine chilling. Or I can offer you something else?’ No reason not to be civil before the takedown began.
She shook her head. ‘White wine is fine, thank you.’
My living room was a wide, open space with the dining table tucked beneath a slanted floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Currently at a setting that dulled the blinding sun’s rays by a fraction, the glass threw back a dozen perfect reflections. Through one, I saw her staring after me as I went to the silver ice bucket set up on its pedestal next to the dining table. Saw her avert her gaze as I plucked the Chateauneuf from the ice and turned around. I uncorked the bottle, poured two glasses and returned to the living room.
‘Sit down, Savannah.’
Watchful honey-gold eyes ringed with lush eyelashes met mine as she accepted the wine. ‘Are you sure you want me to?’
I froze.