Chapter 2
Normally, Phi Lek — or Anima, the well-known producer Chanya had worked with several times — never stayed up past two in the morning. And she had already issued her ultimatum: if Wanatchon didn't get back to her by tonight, the role she'd been cast for would go to someone else.
"How do we get in? The estate is huge — can I drive my car inside?" Chanya asked quickly once Sakol had finished handing off his post.
"Of course, Khun. I'll follow on the golf cart."
That settled, Phutphitchaya flashed a wide smile of thanks and hurried ahead to drive her own car in.
She parked it among the dozen or so luxury vehicles still lining the curved driveway — noting makes, colors, and plates the way people who spend their lives memorizing scripts tend to do. She recognized two or three cars belonging to celebrities she knew. Wanatchon's wasn't among them. But then, Wanatchon had sold her car just days ago.
"Fon said she couldn't keep up the payments, so she let it go cheap. I left my old beater for her to use — don't know if she'll actually take it," Wikan, Wanatchon's personal manager — a transgender woman — had told her when she called that evening.
Chanya looked up at the sprawling estate and exhaled.
The cool air hit her the moment she stepped into the reception hall — clearly the main party room, still scattered with food and drink arrangements being cleared by two or three household staff who all turned to stare the moment they saw her.
All except one. The middle-aged woman who appeared to be the head housekeeper peered at her over the rim of her glasses with an expression that was cool and faintly severe.
"Who have you brought in at this hour, Khun Sakol?"
"This is Khun Chanya — she plays Khun Saiyut in the historical lakorn after the news. The one who's prettier than the lead," one of the younger staff piped up, eyes bright. "You're so beautiful, Khun. Kamrai has never seen anyone as beautiful as you."
"Don't flatter people I didn't ask about." The housekeeper turned the same expression on the girl, who shrank visibly.
"I've come to find a friend," Phutphitchaya said, pressing her palms together in a polite wai[1] — not too deep, not too shallow. "Her name is Wanatchon. I have something urgent to tell her and I haven't been able to reach her by phone. Sakol was kind enough to bring me to ask Khun Wasawat's permission."
"That's right, Khun Ratjana," Sakol said with an awkward laugh. "Have you seen Khun Wat around?"
"Khun Wes arrived not long ago. He's probably in the study." The housekeeper paused, then turned to Chanya — returning the wai with barely a tilt of her head. "What sort of urgent matter can't wait until morning?"
"Work," Chanya said simply. She had the distinct impression she'd just been dismissed.
"Announce yourself before you bring guests upstairs," the housekeeper said — in the tone of someone who gives orders, not suggestions — then turned back to supervising the cleanup.
Chanya followed Sakol out. As they moved away, a voice drifted after them.
"Now that he's gone you lot can get back to work instead of gawking. Unless you'd rather quit and try your luck the easy way — dress pretty, trade on your looks. That's the fashion these days, isn't it—"
"I apologize on her behalf," Sakol murmured as they climbed the curve of the second-floor staircase, his voice dropping low, as though afraid of being overheard. "She's not fond of celebrities. Says they're all flash and no substance."
Chanya laughed despite herself. If Khun Ratjana ever ended up in the historical drama she'd just finished filming, she'd be terrifyingly good. "People still think that way?"
Even the children of the wealthy wanted to be entertainers these days. The value of the industry had long since stopped being a question.
"She's been with the family since Khun Wasawat's mother was mistress of the house. Nobody really argues with her."
"Khunying[2] Warinramphrai? Khun Wat's mother?"
"Yes. She lives at the old estate now, not far from here—" Sakol named a district in the heart of the city, the kind of address where land cost as much as gold and old money families still lived behind high walls, surrounded on all sides by towers of concrete. "This building went up when Khun Wat came back from abroad. The family used to all live here together. Once Jao Sua started stepping back, they moved to follow Khunying. Khun Wat's been on his own since."
Which is why he's free to throw parties several times a year and fill the place with his playboy friends, Chanya thought, coming to a stop in front of a closed door.
"Please wait here, Khun Chanya. I'll check if Khun Wat is inside."
Sakol knocked and slipped through when a low male voice gave permission. A moment later he reappeared, looking faintly pained.
"Khun Wes says Khun Wat has already gone to bed."
"Khun Wes?"
"Khun Phantakan — Khun Wat's closest friend."
She didn't particularly care which Phantakan it was. She was already losing time, she could see it on her watch, ticking away from the moment Anima's deadline had been set.
"Then how am I supposed to find her?"
"Khun Wes didn't say which room Khun Wat was in. He just said he'd given Khun Wat his own room for the night. And that this wasn't the hour for tracking people down. He said, and I quote — no one is dying in this house."
Oh, the nerve of this man.
"In that case, I'll speak to Khun Wes myself."
Before Sakol could object, Chanya pushed the door open without knocking.
The security guard reached up and rubbed the back of his head. He hesitated, then decided to wait outside.
Phantakan had been watching the slender figure who'd walked in and stopped at the arm of his sofa with a look of faint curiosity. One large hand held a freshly poured glass. On the low table beside him, a bottle of whiskey sat mostly empty — less than a finger left.
"You should knock first, beautiful."
"I'm sorry — I'll apologize later. I need to see Khun Wasawat—"
She stopped as he shifted. In one unhurried movement, he swung his legs to the floor and sat upright, raised the glass, and finished it in a single pull before letting his gaze settle on her properly — a slow, second look that didn't require him to lift his head much. He had to be absurdly tall. She was a hundred and sixty-eight centimetres and standing, and she barely cleared him sitting down.
The low candlelight in the room was no obstacle at this distance.
At less than three feet apart, both of them could see each other clearly. When Phantakan set the glass down, sharp eyes met the deep, liquid brown of hers and held for a moment before one dark eyebrow rose.
"Wat's asleep. Did he forget to settle your fee?"
She drew a slow breath. She told herself he might not have meant it the way it landed.
"I came to find a friend. Not to collect anything."
"At this hour?" His gaze dropped from her face — unhurried, deliberate, traveling the length of her — in a way that made the meaning unmistakable.
Heat crawled up her neck and into her face. Chanya cursed herself for not grabbing her jacket before getting out of the car. The outfit she had on left very little to the imagination. But she stood perfectly still, as though unbothered — she'd made a career out of using her face and body as tools of her craft, and she refused to let some half-drunk man with a sharp jawline make her feel otherwise.
"My line of work doesn't keep regular hours."
She lifted her chin — the posture of someone who has never once flinched under a hungry stare — and kept every flicker of warmth carefully locked away.
"I'll bet it doesn't." He smiled. "Fancy some overtime tonight, baby?"
She wanted to rake her nails across that annoyingly handsome face. She held herself back. "I came to find a friend. Her name is Wanatchon — Fon, for short. But I won't be able to find her without Khun Wat."
"I don't know anyone by that name." Phantakan settled back against the sofa, eyes still on her face — the particular attention of a man who has found something worth looking at and sees no reason to pretend otherwise. God, she was something. Even the flick of those dark eyes could put a runway model to shame.
"I know she was invited here. Your security confirmed it."
"Then she's probably gone home. I haven't seen her."
He only just arrived — what would he know. Chanya had no intention of retreating. "If you'd just tell me where Khun Wasawat is, I can ask him myself."
"And give Wat's other friends a chance to see you?" He almost sounded concerned. "Probably not a good idea at this hour."
She touched the tip of her tongue briefly to her lower lip — restless, without thinking — unaware of the effect it had on the man watching her.
"I know it's late. I only need to ask him two or three things."
"Are you sure that's really all you came to ask, baby?"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
She was losing her composure, she could feel it.
He curved his mouth — not quite a smile. Adorable, the way she bristled. "Is this how you usually get to the people you're after? The helpless routine?"
"People I'm after—" It took a beat for it to land. Then it did. "I. Do. Not. Sell. Myself."
Each word slow and separate, aimed precisely, in the hope that it would penetrate whatever alcohol-soaked matter he had in place of a brain.
The corner of his mouth pulled wider. And then he smiled — fully, without restraint — the kind of smile that hit like something expensive and fast-moving, engineered for maximum damage.
The impact was immediate. Something in her chest listed sideways. Her thoughts stalled.
"Then let's trade, baby. Whatever you like."
She searched his face for something to mock. Found nothing to work with. He was stretched out with the ease of a man who had never once in his life had to try, watching her with the mild, interested look of someone who has already decided how the evening ends.
"Pity," she said. "I only trade with men who are genuinely worth the investment."
She arched an eyebrow. Hoped it stung.
He laughed out loud — warm, delighted, entirely uninjured. "Then you've come to exactly the right place."
"Quite the confidence for someone I've never heard of—" she started.
"Richer than Sia Bancha," he said, before she could finish — his voice unhurried, almost gentle. "And I can promise you — any woman who's with me won't have to worry about some other household coming after her. I don't have an owner yet."
She understood, in the half-second before the rage arrived, exactly what he meant. He knew who she was. He knew what people said about her. And he was offering — in his infuriating, half-drunk, silver-tongued way — to upgrade her situation.
The fury arrived without warning, white and total. She crossed the distance between them before she'd made any decision to move.
The slap landed hard. His head snapped to the side. The sound of it filled the room — sharp and definitive — and even Chanya's palm stung with it. She didn't need to guess whether it hurt: when those sharp eyes came back to hers, something in them had gone a degree colder.
She braced for retaliation. She didn't step back.
"I'm sorry. But you had no right to bring my uncle into this. He's worth a hundred times more than you ever—"
"Oh—!"
The word cut off as she was pulled off balance — one large hand cupped behind her neck, the other locking around her, crushing her against a body that felt like it had been put together with absolutely no consideration for other people's composure. Then his mouth came down on hers, warm and tasting of whiskey.
The actress who had spent years filming kisses and staged embraces with nothing but camera angles and stand-ins to manage — and who had always walked away from them entirely unmoved — had no idea what to do.
Because this wasn't a camera angle. And the man currently making himself very much at home did not appear to be acting.
She should have been revolted. Instead, something in the contact reached into her chest and pulled, scattering every sensible thought she had like papers in a crosswind — hot and dangerous and directionless, the kind of thing a reasonable person would have no trouble refusing, except that she wasn't feeling particularly reasonable. She fought it anyway. Every self-preserving instinct she had rose up and she wrenched herself sideways—
"Let — go—"
She managed one word before she was pulled again, her back meeting the cool leather of the sofa and the even cooler air of the room, the strap of her dress slipping — and then his gaze dropped, and the expression on his face shifted into something that was equal parts admiration and hunger.
"You're going to be the death of me, baby—"
The sentence ended in a sharp oath as she caught him again, the second slap landing even harder than the first, enough to cut through what remained of the alcohol. She wasn't done — she was already bringing her knee up — and he was forced to pin her leg with his own before she could land it where she was clearly aiming.
"Why are you like this—!"
[1] Wai — the Thai gesture of greeting and respect, performed by pressing the palms together at chest level and bowing slightly. The height of the hands and the depth of the bow indicate relative social standing.
[2] Khunying — a Thai royal honorific title, formally conferred, denoting a woman of significant rank and distinction. Not interchangeable with general terms of respect.