The yacht was called Verity, a gleaming white beast docked along the Hudson—sharp, sleek, and very expensive. It didn't just float. It posed. The kind of yacht that existed for magazine shoots, whispered scandals, and the casually rich to sip vintage champagne on its polished decks.
Nicky had seen yachts like this before. Lavish, glistening things made to be stared at. He was used to wealth, old wealth, the kind that sat quiet and cold in European banks, not the flashing kind that hosted star-studded parties on the river. Still, Verity made him pause. It was the kind of space built for performance—just like tonight.
"Wear something shocking," Renee had said, practically throwing the black dress at him. Her voice sweet, her eyes sharp, still full of warning—Eliana. Always circling back to Eliana.
Renee was reeling him in. Back into the safe, glittering realm of queerness.
As if silk could solve the spiral.
