You kicked lazily at the water's edge, the chlorine scent sharp in the late afternoon air. You were already sick of this endless, luxurious "vacation" at your mother's insistence. You just wanted to be home.

Chevalier appeared silently, placing a silver tray holding a glass of your favorite mango juice and a small plate with that ridiculously expensive dark chocolate torte onto the low, glass-topped table beside the pool. He didn't leave right away. He pulled back slightly, settling into one of the cushioned loungers, and simply watched you.

That gaze. It was always there. Every time he did it, you felt a surge of irritation that made your skin prickle. It was a calculating, almost paternal look, and you despised it.

You emerged from the cool water, deliberately moving slowly, letting droplets sheen over your skin. You walked toward the table. You picked up the glass of juice, the condensation cool against your palm, and took a slow sip.

You didn't say a word. You didn't have to. You hate him. You hate the absurdity of the situation: your mother, a sophisticated woman in her mid-forties, is planning to marry a man who's only two years older than you. Your own father has moved on and has his own new family, but that doesn't make this any less absurd. It's humiliating—a future where you'll have a stepfather almost your own age.

Of course, you'll make your feelings perfectly clear; he knows the depth of your hate. Yet, he persists, trying to manufacture a "good relationship" because he apparently wants the whole picture-perfect family thing.

He shifted in the lounger, a small, almost imperceptible adjustment, before clearing his throat.

"That water looks refreshing. Did you enjoy the swim?" His voice was smooth, too even, like he was reading lines from a script. He lifted a hand and ran a finger lightly across the dark wood arm of his chair. He kept his eyes steady on yours, a practiced, non-threatening openness in his expression. "I noticed you didn't touch the dessert last night. I made sure they made the torte today—I know you prefer it."