“Then, please, tell me that she did it.”

“Did what?”

“Killed him. Tell me that stepmommy sprinkled arsenic and cinnamon on musty grandpa’s oatmeal.”

Tisha snorts. “From everything I’ve heard about the guy, he had it coming.”

“Then I hope it was slow and painful and undignified. And I hope her name was all over the will. Being a trophy wife should always be a well-remunerated job, but being a trophy wife to a dickhead? I need her to be filthy rich.”

I scratch my head. “She wasn’t a trophy wife. Or, not only. She was actually an exec.”

They all turn to me. Nyota blinks, accusing. “You said you didn’t know that she was—”

“I know a bit about Conor’s stepmother. I just never connected her to Tamryn. She was actually part of Finneas Harkness’s business. Instrumental in growing some aspects of it. I can’t recall what, though.” I swallow. “She and Conor are very close.”

Nyota’s eyes nearly bulge out. “Are they fucking? Because that would be the real problematic summer fling.”

He’d point out that she’s more age-appropriate than me, I don’t say.

“Tamryn needed to get out of Ireland,” Rue says quietly. Like always when she talks, everybody listens. “She’s good friends with Eli and Minami, too, not just Hark. And…she owns this place. She and Hark are the reason we’re having the wedding here.”

“Is that a yes to the ‘Are they fucking?’ question?” Nyota asks.

Rue smiles. “No, they aren’t. They are more like siblings.”

Nyota says nothing. But the second Rue and Tisha are distracted, she whispers at me:

I told you so.

5 days before the wedding

Chapter 17

The morning of the third day, I wake up at 6:00 a.m.—way too early, especially considering that I was up with Rue, Tisha, and Nyota until nearly midnight, talking about…there was a lot of Nyota educating us on exchange-traded funds. She also tried to rip her bedside drawer out of its hinges with her bare teeth when we admitted that none of us have an investment strategy.

I should try to sleep longer, get accustomed to the new time zone, but staring at the ceiling and overthinking sounds unappealing. I put on a swimsuit and head for the pool, walking barefoot down the marble stairs and through the lemon grove, enjoying the gentle caress of the light on my face. The villa and its grounds are quiet, not a single soul in sight except for me, the birds, and the silent outline of Mount Etna. Before I dive in, I realize that I forgot to grab a towel, but I’m too lazy to go back upstairs. I swim a few relaxed laps to warm up, then a few more. Savor the way the water makes demands on my body without pushing it to its limits. Focus on counting the strokes, and I’m never left truly alone with my own thoughts.