He didn’t know that person, and he doesn’t know this person, not fully. And that means I have an element of intrigue.

“I’m intriguing,” I whisper at my episode of The West Wing on Netflix. “I’m intriguing!” I say it a little louder, then catch sight of myself in the mirror that hangs above the television. It’s a slightly strange place for a mirror, but who cares? This is the Bliss Resort, and I’m here living the dream. I purse my lips and blow myself a kiss. “Very intriguing,” I say in my sultriest voice.

Then I whip my head around to make sure nobody has walked in and overheard me.

No one has.

If this was a tennis match—or any sort of match involving the back and forth trading of one or more balls—those balls would be in my court.

He’s been studiously avoiding crossing the line because he already took his turn. I laugh out loud. Of course Roman believes in turns. He believes in being in charge almost to the point of micromanagement. His sense of fairness is borne out of having it easy all of his life.

I flop back on the couch. It’s so fucking weird, this mix of triumph and creeping guilt.

The buzz of my phone intrudes on my thoughts.

Celestia: Hey...

That’s all I need to hear from my sister to know that she needs more money.

Jenny: Are you okay?

Celestia: Not feeling great about needing another bailout.

See, that’s the pisser. The fact that without Connor’s money, I can’t pay all my bills—all the student debt and personal loans and credit cards from trying to start a business on a shoestring—and send her any extra cash without setting up some kind of payment plan. That would be the responsible thing to do, I know. But she’s my sister.

Jenny: How much? And where to?

She names a number that would be one thousand percent impossible without what I’m beginning to think of as the Blood Money.

Jenny: It’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll pay for them to rush it. OK?

Celestia: OK.

Even so.

I stand up with a strange sense of anticipation.

The ball is in my court....

The excitement doesn’t make me feel any better about the sabotage, even though it’s the most mild form of sabotage I’ve ever seen, even in the movies.

On the one hand, Roman probably doesn’t know that I’m not doing my best. On the other, there’s no great reason why the photos are mediocre after I forced him into the pool. One hand, other hand, one hand, other hand. I’m stuck between hands when I settle behind my desk with a fresh coffee from the cafe in the lobby.