Page 60 of Shattered Crown
"I want an answer by the end of these two weeks," I said. "Think about it."
I turned to leave.
"Mr. Dubois."
I stopped, but didn't turn around.
"I was wrong earlier, when I said the sins of the fathers need not be visited upon the children."
I waited.
"I should judge you for the sins of your father. Because you are exactly like him."
13ARIA
I quickly settled into a routine.
Mornings belonged to the beach. I'd wake before dawn, slip into a sundress and sandals, and make my way down to the shore while the sky was still bruised purple and the sand still held the coolness of night. I'd find a spot near the water's edge and sit with my knees pulled to my chest, watching the sun climb out of the ocean inch by inch, the water shifting from black to navy to that impossible Hawaiian blue.
Those quiet hours were the only time my mind went still. The only time I wasn't thinking about him.
Afternoons were for work. Meetings with department heads, learning the hotel's operations from the inside out. I sat with the head of housekeeping and learned that they still used the same lavender-scented linen spray Mr. Kahale's mother had made by hand fifty years ago.
I walked the kitchens with Chef Kimo and tasted thepoihis grandmother's recipe produced, smooth and slightly sweet, nothing like the store-bought version. I studied the reservation system, the staffing rotations, and the delicate dance of making two hundred guests feel like they were the only ones who mattered.
After that, I'd explore. No agenda, no destination. Just my feet on familiar paths, carrying me to corners I'd forgotten existed. A stone bench hidden behind a wall of hibiscus, the same one where my mother used to sit and read while I played in the garden. A dry fountain with a carved fish at its center: I remembered throwing coins into the water and making wishes, though I couldn't recall now what I'd wished for. A narrow path through the trees that ended at a cliff, the ocean crashing against rocks far below, spray rising like smoke.
Memories surfaced constantly, triggered by the smallest things. The smell of plumeria. The particular shade of pink the sky turned at sunset. The sound of the staff greeting each other in Hawaiian, the same musical cadence I remembered from childhood.
My father lifted me onto his shoulders at aluauso I could see the dancers. My mother taught me to make flower crowns, her fingers quick and sure. The two of them were dancing on the beach at sunset while I watched from the restaurant terrace, too young to understand what I was seeing, old enough to know it was something precious.
This place held my whole history. Every path I walked, I walked with ghosts.
Evenings were the hardest.
Dinner with Sebastian and Mr. Kahale. The same table every night, the same careful choreography of politeness. I'd pass the bread basket and comment on the fish and ask Mr. Kahale about the hotel's history, and the whole time I'd be aware of Sebastian beside me.
The way he held his fork. The way his jaw moved when he chewed. The way his cologne mixed with the salt air created something I couldn't stop breathing in.
If I'd been honest with myself, I would have admitted the tension between us hadn't faded. It had grown teeth. Everyaccidental brush of fingers when we reached for the same dish. Every glance that lasted a beat too long. Every night lying awake in my room, staring at the ceiling fan, remembering the weight of his body against mine and the taste of his mouth. I hated myself for wanting it again.
But I did. God help me, I did.
Today, I'd decided to explore the older parts of the hotel. Mr. Kahale had mentioned a wing that had been closed for renovations, untouched for years. I wanted to see it. And if I was being honest, I knew Sebastian would never venture into dusty hallways full of forgotten history. This wasn't his territory. Numbers and contracts and boardrooms, those were his territory. Not this.
Maybe if I spent enough time in places he'd never go, I could finally get him out of my head.
The hallway was dim, lit only by whatever light managed to filter through grimy windows. Dust motes floated in the pale shafts like tiny planets orbiting nothing. The air smelled like old paper and mildew and something faintly sweet—dried flowers, maybe, or the ghost of perfume.
I picked my way through carefully. Boxes stacked against walls, labeled in handwriting so faded I could barely read it. Sheets draped over furniture, gray with dust. Stacks of wood leaning in corners, abandoned mid-project, materials for the renovation that had never happened.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out and saw Priya's name, answered while I was still walking.
"How's paradise treating you?"
"It's beautiful." I stepped over a pile of what looked like old curtain rods. "And complicated."
