Reaper's Desire

Chapter One

Isabelle

The first thing I do when I sink into the plush leather seat of the first-class cabin is turn off my phone.

Not silent. Not airplane mode. Off.

The screen goes black in my hand, and I feel an intoxicating rush flood through my veins. Freedom. Or just the illusion of it, really, but right now, I don't care about the difference. I tuck the phone into my Hermès bag and snap it shut with more force than necessary, like I'm closing a door on my entire life back in New York.

On charity galas and dinner parties and my cold, meddling stepmother. On obligations and smiling at strangers and pretending to be interested in the tenth hedge fund manager flirting with me for the evening.

For the next two weeks, I'm going to be free, whether anyone else likes it or not. 

A flight attendant appears at my elbow, all practiced smiles and crisp uniform. "Champagne, Miss Montague?"

I take the flute without hesitation, the glass cool against my palm. "Thank you."

She glides away, and I bring the champagne to my lips, letting the bubbles burst on my tongue. The cabin is filling up around me—businessmen in expensive suits, a couple speaking rapid Italian, a woman with oversized sunglasses who settles into her seat and immediately pulls out an e-reader. I catch a glimpse of the book cover on her screen—something with a naked man and a beach, and I smile to myself. Good for her. 

I wonder if any of them can see it on me—this wild recklessness that's been building for months. I'm so sick of life back in New York. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I'm being spoiled, that millions of people would kill to live the life I do. But most days, all I can think is how confined I feel. 

Don't let anyone take pictures of you drinking anything too strong. Don't let that man come over to your apartment. Don't be seen with him. That's not an appropriate friend for you. Buy this dress. Go to this party. Smile. Smile some more.

I take another sip and lean back, closing my eyes.

My phone had been ringing nonstop when I got into the car to go to the airport. They were all calls from Margot, my father's assistant, her name flashing across the screen with the insistence that I knew meant she'd been instructed to track me down. I'd let it go to voicemail. Then she'd called again. And again. By the fourth call, I'd silenced it entirely, watching the notifications pile up with a kind of detached satisfaction.

Miss Montague, your father would like to speak with you about the Vanderbilt gala.

Miss Montague, Vivienne mentioned you haven't confirmed your attendance for the charity luncheon.

Miss Montague, please call back at your earliest convenience.

Fuck the Vanderbilt gala. Fuck the charity luncheon. Fuck all of it.

I open my eyes and drain the rest of my champagne, setting the empty flute on the armrest. Through the window, I can see the ground crew loading luggage. In a few hours, I'll be in Ibiza. Sun-drenched, hedonistic, beautiful Ibiza, where no one knows my last name and no one cares about the Montague fortune or my father's business dealings or the fact that I'm supposed to be the perfect heiress, poised and polished and present at every tedious event that requires a pretty face and a famous name. And that's just the first stop on my vacation list.

The thought makes my pulse quicken.

I booked the first flight last night after my month's allowance hit my account, sitting in my bedroom with a bottle of wine and my laptop, scrolling through luxury hotels until I found one that looked expensive enough to satisfy my standards and far enough away to feel like an escape. I'd requested extra from my father this month, and he'd indulgently given it. I don't ask often, which probably helped—that, and the fact that he can't tell me no.

The reservation went through with a satisfying ping, and I closed the laptop with a smile that felt almost feral. I didn't tell anyone. I just packed a bag this morning and left. By the time they realize I'm gone and haven't shown up at the lunch I'm supposed to attend with Vivienne, I'll be thirty thousand feet in the air.

The thought sends another thrill through me, sharp and sweet.

The engines rumble to life beneath us, and I feel the plane begin to move. We taxi toward the runway, and I watch the terminal slide past my window, full of people rushing to catch their flights. Somewhere in that building, someone might be looking for me. Margot, maybe, if my father finally noticed I wasn't answering. Vivienne certainly won't come looking for me herself, although my poor father is going to get an earful once she realizes I've vanished for a little while.

God, Vivienne.

My stepmother's face flashes through my mind—those cold blue eyes, the way her mouth tightens when she looks at me, like I'm something distasteful she has to tolerate. She's never liked me. Not from the moment my father introduced us five years ago, his hand on her waist, his smile wider than I'd seen it since my mother died. Vivienne had looked at me then the same way she looks at me now: with thinly veiled contempt, like I'm a spoiled child who doesn't deserve the life I've been given.

And maybe she's right.

But I don't care anymore. I think I snapped around the time she caught me smoking out on the balcony at the last gala, and slapped it out of my mouth so hard it left a red mark on my face. I told my father, obviously, and they got into a huge fight about it. That was when I realized I needed a fucking break from my life, no matter how rarefied it might be. 

I need a fucking vacation. Salt and sun and booze and some good dick. And that's exactly what I'm going to get. 

The plane picks up speed, and I grip the armrest as we lift off, the ground falling away beneath us. My stomach swoops, and I let out a breath. We climb higher, the city shrinking below us, and I feel the knot in my chest loosen. I'm free.

For the next two weeks, at least, I'm free.

The flight attendant returns to collect my empty glass, and I order another. And then another. By the time we level out at cruising altitude, I'm pleasantly buzzed, the champagne warm in my veins, and my thoughts drifting in lazy circles. I pull out my laptop and open it, scrolling through photos of Ibiza—white sand beaches, turquoise water, clubs that don't close until the sun comes up. Clubs full of pounding music and hot men.

I close the laptop and lean back, letting my eyes drift shut. The hum of the engines is soothing, and I let myself sink into it. I think about the club I'm going to tonight—Amnesia, one of the most exclusive on the island. I'd looked it up last night, scrolling through Instagram photos of beautiful people dancing under strobe lights, their bodies slick with sweat and their faces lit up, wild and uninhibited. I want that. I want to lose myself in the music and the heat and the anonymity of it all. I want to dance with strangers who don't know I'm Jacques Montague's daughter, who don't care about my family's reputation or the fact that I'm supposed to be at some insufferable dinner party in Manhattan right now, smiling politely while old men talk about stocks and Vivienne shoots me disapproving looks across the table.

I want to be no one, just for a little while.

The flight passes in a blur of champagne and half-formed fantasies rolling through my head. The couple next to me gets into an argument, bitching at each other in low tones, and the woman in the sunglasses falls asleep with her book in her lap. I doze off somewhere over the Atlantic, my head resting against the window, and wake up to the flight attendant's gentle touch on my shoulder.

"Miss Montague, we'll be landing shortly."

I blink, disoriented, and sit up. Through the window, I can see the island below us, all golden beaches and white buildings, and that impossible blue water. My heart kicks up, and I feel a smile tug at my lips.

Here we go.

—

The heat hits me the moment I step off the plane.

It's not the oppressive, stale heat of New York in summer, but thick and humid, laced with salt and sun. I breathe it in, letting it fill my lungs, and feel something in me settle. The airport is smaller than JFK, less chaotic, and I move through it quickly, my heels clicking against the tile as I head toward baggage claim. I picked out aviator sunglasses and a designer linen midi dress with a deep V that emphasizes my fit figure and perfect breasts to wear on the flight, and I can feel eyes on me as I walk. I'm used to it. I've been beautiful my whole life, and I know how to use it to my advantage.

My luggage appears on the carousel—two suitcases that I packed in a frenzy this morning, throwing in bikinis and sundresses, tight club dresses, sandals, and high heels. I grab them and head outside, where the driver that I hired to meet me here is waiting.

"Miss Montague?"

"That's me."

He takes my suitcases and leads me to a sleek black car, and I slide into the backseat, grateful for the air conditioning. The drive to the hotel is short, the roads winding through hills dotted with villas and olive trees. I watch it all pass by, my sunglasses still on and my fingers drumming against my thigh.

I feel alive. More alive than I've felt in months.

The hotel is exactly what I'd hoped for—modern and luxurious, with impossibly soft sheets, cool stone floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sea. I check in quickly, barely listening to the receptionist's spiel about the spa, the restaurant, and the private beach. I just want to get to my room, drop my bags, breathe, and start this whole thing properly.

The suite is on the top floor, and when I step inside, I let out a low whistle. It's stunning.

The main room is open and airy, with white walls and sleek furniture, and a balcony that looks out over the water. There's a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a marble bathroom with a rainfall shower, and a minibar stocked with champagne and expensive liquor. I drop my suitcase by the door and walk straight to the balcony, sliding open the glass doors and stepping outside. The view takes my breath away.

The sea stretches out before me, endless and blue, the sun glittering on the surface like diamonds. I can hear the faint sound of music drifting up from somewhere below, and the air smells like salt and sunscreen, flowers and citrus. I lean against the railing and close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face.

This is it. This is what I needed. My phone is off, and I'm so far away from anyone who could bother me or need anything from me. For the next two weeks, I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. I can get a tan, drink, and get laid. I can eat whatever I want without Vivienne narrowing her eyes and asking if I've weighed myself lately, even though it's blatantly obvious that I'm in incredible shape. If I want to smoke a fucking cigarette, I can. I could smoke weed if I wanted. No one is going to give a fuck. 

I stay there for a long moment, just soaking it all in, before I finally pull myself away and head back inside. I should unpack, but I can't bring myself to care. Instead, I kick off my sandals and pad barefoot to the minibar, pulling out a bottle of champagne and popping the cork with a satisfying pop. I pour myself a glass and take a long sip, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue.

God, I could get used to this. Maybe one day, when my inheritance becomes entirely mine, I'll just live on it and vacation endlessly. Vivienne won't be able to say a fucking thing to me then. 

I wander around the suite, champagne in hand, taking in the details. The bathroom has a soaking tub and fancy toiletries that smell like hibiscus and coconut. The closet is huge, big enough for twice the wardrobe I brought with me. There's a sound system built into the walls, and I briefly consider turning my phone back on to connect it so I can have some music, but I banish the thought a second later. I don't want a single notification bringing me down. 

I finish my champagne and pour another glass, feeling the buzz settle into my bones. It's only four in the afternoon, but I don't care. I'm on vacation. I'm free. I can do whatever the hell I want.

I take my champagne into the bathroom and start the shower, letting the water heat up while I strip out of my dress. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—dark hair tumbling over my shoulders, green eyes bright with excitement, my body toned and tan from the hours I spend at the gym because there's nothing else to do with my time in New York when I'm not playing the good little socialite. I look good. I know I look good. And tonight, I'm going to make sure everyone else knows it too.

The shower is scalding, and I stand under the spray for a long time, letting it wash away the flight and the tension. I use the hotel's expensive shampoo, the scent filling the steam, and by the time I step out, I feel like a new person. I wrap myself in a plush towel and pad back into the bedroom, my skin still damp and warm. The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, casting everything in a golden glow, and I feel a thrill of anticipation run through me.

Tonight, I'm going to let go of everything.

I sit down at the vanity and start on my makeup, taking my time. I line my eyes, making them look even greener, and add a touch of gold shimmer to my lids. My lashes get coated in mascara until they're long and dark, and I finish with a nude lip that makes my mouth look fuller, more kissable. I study my reflection, tilting my head this way and that, and smile. Perfect.

Then I head to the closet and pull out the dress I'd packed specifically for tonight. It's short—scandalously short—and black, with a plunging neckline and a back that dips low enough to show off the curve of my spine. The fabric clings to every inch of me, and when I slip it on and check the mirror, I feel a surge of satisfaction. I look dangerous. I look like someone who doesn't give a fuck and is here to have fun, and nothing else.

I pair the dress with strappy black heels that make my legs look a mile long and add a few delicate gold necklaces that catch the light. I leave my hair down, loose and wild, spraying texture mist into it until it looks fluffy and curls slightly from the spray and the humidity. I spritz on an expensive citrus-and-musk perfume and grab a small clutch, tossing in some cash, my ID, black credit card, and a lipstick for touch-ups.

One last look in the mirror. God, I look good. I feel good.

I feel like I could do anything.

—

The club is twenty minutes from the hotel, so of course I call a car. I'm not going to walk that far in heels. The driver doesn't say much, just nods when I give him the address, and I spend the ride staring out the window, watching the lights of the island as we drive. By the time we pull up to Amnesia, I can see that the club is well and truly alive. A thrill runs through me. 

The bass is so loud I can feel it in my chest before I even get out of the car. There's a line stretching down the block, beautiful people in barely-there outfits, their faces lit up with anticipation. But I don't get in line. I walk straight to the front, where a bouncer the size of a small building is checking names on a list. "Isabelle Montague," I say, my voice confident.

He scans the list, then nods and steps aside, unhooking the velvet rope. "Enjoy your night, Miss Montague."

I smile and slip past him, ignoring the scrunched-up faces of the clubgoers waiting in line who don't have my money or my last name. I've never waited behind a velvet rope in my life. I strut into the darkened interior, ready to throw myself into the night ahead of me. 

The club is everything I'd hoped for and more. The music is deafening, a pulsing, hypnotic beat that I can feel thrumming through my entire body. The space is massive, all strobe lights and lasers cutting through the darkness, illuminating bodies moving in perfect chaos. The air is thick with heat and sweat, and the faint smell of alcohol and something sweet I can't quite place. Everywhere I look, there are beautiful people—men with chiseled jaws and women in dresses that leave nothing to the imagination, all of them dancing like they're possessed.

I make my way to the bar, weaving through the crowd, and order a vodka soda. The bartender is shirtless and gorgeous, tanned with his skin gleaming with either oil or sweat, dark brown hair longer on the top and shaved at the sides. He flashes me a grin as he slides the drink across the bar, ignoring at least five other people clustered around me to talk to me for a moment. "First time here?"

"Does it show?" I ask, taking a sip.

"You look like you're ready to have a good time." He gives me a pointed smile, and I look at him from beneath my lashes as I take another sip. He's hot, and I bet I could fuck him tonight, but I'm not ready to commit just yet, not when there's a whole club full of men that I can pick from. 

"That's the plan."

He winks and moves on to the next customer, and I take my drink and head toward the dance floor. The crowd swallows me up immediately, bodies pressing close, and I let myself get lost in it. The music is so loud I can't think, can only feel, and I close my eyes and start to move.

This is what I came for. This anonymity, this freedom.

No one here knows who I am. No one cares that I'm supposed to be poised and perfect and present. Here, I'm just another body in the crowd, just another girl looking to lose herself in the music.

I dance until my feet ache and my skin is slick with sweat, until I'm four vodka sodas in and I'm full of a buzz that's half alcohol and half adrenaline. Hands brush against me, and I don't pull away. I let them touch, let them get close, because it doesn't matter. None of it matters. I'm free. 

Gorgeous men grind up against me, hands sliding over my body, fingers teasing at the edge of my dress until I spin away and find someone else. Hard, muscled bodies, long fingers, the scent of cologne and sunscreen and alcohol filling the air. The flashes of strobes illuminate more dancing bodies, couples grinding and making out, some with their hands sliding into each other's clothing. I think I see at least one couple fucking in the middle of the crowd, the man pressed up tight against his partner's bikini-clad ass while she bends and arches and swings her hair around in wild circles. 

When I'm finally too parched to continue without a break, I make my way back to the bar for another drink, my hair sticking to my neck and my dress clinging to my body. The bartender grins when he sees me. "Having fun?"

"The best." I push my sweaty hair to one side, knowing it must be wild now from the salt air and humidity. He's giving me that look that says he's thinking about what it would be like to fuck me on one of these barstools right now or bend me over the bar, and I flutter my lashes at him, letting him know I'm not averse to the idea. Briefly, I imagine taking his hand and leading him into one of the bathrooms, letting him fuck me before I come back out to find my partner for the rest of the night. I've never been quite that promiscuous before, and the thought is thrilling. 

He makes me another vodka soda, and I take it and turn back to the crowd, leaning against the bar to catch my breath. The club is even more packed now, the energy electric, and I feel like I'm vibrating with it. I scan the crowd, taking in the faces, the bodies, the sheer chaos of it all.

Tonight is going to be a night to remember.