Page 58 of Shattered Crown
Aria was perfectly polite. Impeccably cordial. She passed the salt when I asked for it and commented on the quality of the fish and asked Mr. Kahale thoughtful questions about the restaurant's history, the chef's training, and the local ingredients sourced for each dish.
She never once acknowledged the tension that crackled between us every time our eyes met.
I matched her tone. Asked my own questions about the hotel, mentioned things I'd noticed during my walks, the carved figure of Ku in the lobby, the staff ritual of touching it as they passed, and the way the gardens had been designed to bloom in sequence so there was always something flowering.
Mr. Kahale nodded along, but I could see it wasn't landing. My observations were surface-level. Facts without feeling. I was describing a property, not a home.
Aria talked about her grandmother's stories. About the plumeria grove where her grandparents had gotten engaged. About running through the lobby as a child, searching for sea turtles, being swept up by staff members who remembered her parents' wedding.
She had roots here. I had research.
The main course arrived. Fresh-caughtmahi-mahi, seared and served over a bed of coconut rice, with grilled vegetables that tasted like they'd been picked that morning. I focused on the food, on the mechanics of cutting and chewing, on anything that wasn't Aria.
It didn't work.
The candlelight played across her cheekbones, casting soft shadows beneath her eyes. Her dress shifted when she moved, the gold fabric catching and releasing the light. She lifted her wine glass, took a sip, and when she set it down, a single drop clung to her lower lip.
She licked it away.
My mind flashed to another dinner, another glass of wine, another drop escaping the corner of her mouth. The taste of her on my finger. The way her eyes had gone dark when I'd brought it to my lips.
I reached for my own wine. Drank deeper than I should have.
This was harder than competing with her. At least when we were fighting, I knew what to do with the energy. The arguments gave it somewhere to go, burned it off in sharp words and sharper glances. This enforced civility left me nowhere to put it. The tension just built and built, pressure with no release valve.
By dessert, I was wound so tight I could barely breathe.
Mr. Kahale was telling a story about a hurricane that had hit the island in 1992, how the staff had banded together to protect the property, how they'd weathered three days without power and emerged stronger for it.
Aria hung on every word. Asked follow-up questions. Shared a story of her own about her father rebuilding after a disaster at one of his early properties.
They were connecting. Bonding over shared experiences, shared values, shared understanding of what it meant to build something that mattered.
I had nothing to contribute.
I watched the old man's face as he talked to Aria, the way his eyes softened, the way he leaned toward her, the way he smiled at her jokes and nodded at her observations. He liked her. More than liked her—he saw something in her, some quality that resonated with everything he cared about.
When he looked at me, his expression was polite. Professional.
He saw a businessman. A shark in a suit, circling his life's work, waiting for the chance to tear it apart.
I was going to lose this hotel. I knew deep in my bones that if I didn’t do something soon, Aria would walk away as the winner.
Dessert plates were cleared. Coffee was offered and accepted. Mr. Kahale pushed back his chair with a satisfied sigh.
"Thank you both for a lovely evening." He rose, and Aria moved to help him, though he waved her off with an impatient gesture. "These old bones need rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
Aria and I were left alone at the table.
She finished the last of her coffee, set the cup down, and stood, gathering her small clutch purse.
"Well," she said, her voice light, pleasant, utterly maddening. "That was a productive evening. Mr. Kahale seems quite taken with the hotel's history. The stories about his grandfather building the original structure were particularly moving."
She was gloating.
"Indeed," I managed.
"I suppose tomorrow will be more of the same." She smoothed her dress, that gold fabric shimmering over her curves. "Though I imagine it must be difficult, trying to connectwith something you've never experienced. Family legacy, cultural roots, that sort of thing."
