The Turning Tides of Us (eBook)

- Sapphic romance
- Age gap
- Enemies to lovers
- Sexual awakening

The taxi lurches forward, jolting me out of my jet-lagged haze. Palma de Mallorca unfolds outside the window—a postcard-perfect blend of historic architecture and sun-drenched modernity. It’s warm, but with the sea breeze, it’s a welcome respite from New York, where the stuffy summer heat has been clinging to the skyscrapers, turning the city into a concrete sauna.
“Primera vez en Mallorca?” the driver asks, his weathered face crinkling into a smile in the rearview mirror.
I blink, my brain sluggishly translating. “Sí,” I manage, exhausting a good third of my Spanish vocabulary. I should have paid more attention in my Spanish classes. After covering The US, Italy, Hawaii, The Maldives, and Greece, it was only a matter of time before business would take me to a Spanish-speaking country.
He launches into what I assume is a well-rehearsed tour-guide spiel, and I nod politely, catching maybe one word in ten. He’s rolled down his window, and although I prefer air con, I lack the energy to communicate, so I roll down my own window too.
The long-haul flight has left me feeling like a wrung-out dishrag. My tailored suit, usually a source of confidence, now feels constricting and slightly rumpled. I long for a hot shower to wash away the stale air of recycled cabin oxygen and the feeling of time zones blurring together. The thought of peeling off these clothes and slipping into something soft and comfortable is almost enough to make me groan out loud. Almost, but years of boardroom poker face prevent such displays, even in my exhausted state.
As we leave the city behind, the landscape transforms. Rolling hills blanketed in olive groves give way to craggy cliffs that plummet dramatically into the Mediterranean. The sea stretches out, a sheet of liquid sapphire that merges with the sky at the horizon. It’s breathtaking, I’ll give it that. But I’m not here for the view.
My phone buzzes. It’s New York.
“Evelyn Rothschild,” I say, my voice crisp and professional.
“Ms. Rothschild, it’s Derek. Just wanted to confirm you landed safely.”
I suppress a sigh. I’d left explicit instructions not to be bothered unless it was urgent. “I’m fine, Derek. Is there a problem?”
“No, not at all. It’s just…well, with Jessica on maternity leave, we wanted to make sure you were okay. It’s not too late to send over a temporary PA.”
My jaw tightens. I’m surrounded by some of the most capable businesspeople in New York, and they’re treating me like a lost child at summer camp. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own,” I say. “Unless the board has any objections?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that your father always—”
“I’m not my father,” I cut him off, perhaps more sharply than necessary. I take a breath, soften my tone. “I don’t trust temps, I already told you that. Now, the Mallorca plot is a significant opportunity for us. I need everyone focused on their roles, not worrying about whether I remembered to pack sunscreen, so let’s just stick to our scheduled meetings. Understood?”
“Yes, Ms. Rothschild. Sorry for the interruption.”
I end the call, catching the taxi driver’s curious glance in the mirror. Great. Even with the language barrier, my irritation must be palpable.
My phone buzzes again, and Dad’s smiling face lights up the screen. He’s changed his profile picture to one that’s totally ridiculous, his Hawaiian shirt screaming late mid-life crisis. I let it ring out; I’m not in the mood for another lecture on work-life balance or whatever wisdom he’s peddling these days.
A moment later, a message notification pops up. It’s a picture—Dad on a yacht, his arm around a much younger woman who could easily be my contemporary. They’re both grinning into the camera, sun-kissed and carefree. The text reads: Having a blast on Ibiza! Can’t wait for you to meet Candy!
Candy. Of course her name is Candy.
I stare at the image, a knot forming in my stomach. This man, beaming next to his child-bride—as I’ve taken to calling her in my head—is barely recognizable as the father I knew. The business titan who taught me everything, who was my mentor in the cutthroat world of luxury resort development. Now he’s gallivanting around the Mediterranean while I’m left to uphold our legacy alone.
At least the company’s safe now that it’s under my control. I’ve made damn sure the gold digger can’t sink her French-manicured claws into our assets.
I type out a response, my fingers stabbing at the screen with more force than necessary: Looks lovely. Unfortunately, I’m quite busy with the Mallorca acquisition. Perhaps another time. Enjoy your trip.
I’ve managed to dodge meeting Dad’s latest squeeze for four months now, expertly maneuvering around family dinners and impromptu visits. If I have my way, I’ll stretch that streak indefinitely. The last thing I need is to watch this Candy character bat her eyelashes at my father over some overpriced tapas.
I lean back, trying to relax, and my hand drifts to my necklace. It’s a delicate gold chain with a small diamond pendant—a gift from my mother when I turned fourteen.
The taxi rounds a bend and suddenly, there it is. The Hotel Cala d’Or Royale rises from the coastline like a white mirage, its clean lines and expansive windows reflecting the sea. It’s beautiful, objectively speaking. The kind of place that would feature in luxury travel magazines. The kind of place I’ve stayed in a hundred times before.
I always stay in the best hotels; they’re a measure for the competition, a baseline we’ll surpass. By the time I’m done here, the resort my company will build is going to be far better, prettier, and more luxurious than this one, quite frankly, putting it to shame.
The blast of air conditioning as I enter the lobby is a welcome relief from the heat. The space is a study in understated luxury—all soft lighting, gleaming marble, and strategically placed orchids. A massive crystal chandelier dominates the center of the room, casting prismatic patterns across the floor. It’s nice. Professional. Exactly what I’d expect from a five-star resort.
I approach the reception desk, where a young woman with a painfully bright smile greets me. “Bienvenida! Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes,” I reply, sliding my passport across the polished desk. “Evelyn Rothschild.”
Her eyes widen slightly at the name. Good. Reputation still counts for something.
“Of course, Ms. Rothschild. We’ve been expecting you. I hope your journey was pleasant?”
I nod, impatient to get to my room, have a shower, and start preparing for tomorrow’s viewing. “It was fine, thank you.”
She taps away at her computer, the clickety-clack of manicured nails on keys setting my teeth on edge. “I see you’ll be staying with us for…oh my, two months? That’s wonderful. We don’t often have guests stay quite so long.”
I force a smile. “I’m here on business.”
“Ah, of course. Well, we have you in one of our premium ocean-view suites. I’m sure you’ll find it most comfortable. Would you like an overview of our amenities? We have a world-class spa, three restaurants including a Michelin-starred—”
“That won’t be necessary,” I interrupt, holding out my hand for the key card. “I’m familiar with the property.”
She blinks, momentarily thrown off her script. “Oh. Well, if there’s anything you need during your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask. We’re here to make your time with us as pleasant as possible.”
I take the key card, already turning toward the elevators. “Thank you. I’m sure it will be fine. Could you send a pot of strong, black coffee up to my room, please? A pot, not a cup.”