3. Luna

3

Another day, another disaster. A hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped, then blew out a breath when I realised it was only Luis.

"How do I get the stupid SIM card out of this?" I asked.

"Aw, the screen broke?"

Yes, when I dropped the phone onto my dressing table after yet another fight with Cordelia. Okay, so I'd actually thrown the phone, but not very hard. Luckily, most of my gifts from last night were still in my dressing room, so I had a replacement available if I could only manage to free the SIM card.

"You need a widget for that." Luis shook the box, and a little metal thing fell out. "You want me to have a try?"

I handed him the phone and slumped into the nearest seat. There should be a school for this—surviving modern life alone. How to deal with technology mishaps, how to manage your finances, how to cook, how to form healthy relationships. Instead, people were just expected to know all that stuff instinctively.

Although school didn't always work out. As well as attending a stuffy private academy, Cordelia had spent a summer at the British School of Etiquette, and she was still rude, rude, rude. This morning had been no exception. Last night, I'd tried to ignore the "Mark A" note and have a good time, but my anger had still been simmering when I woke up, so I'd unblocked her number and fired off a text before I got out of bed.

Me

Stop sending stupid notes! Are you six years old? Don't you think you made your point the first time?

Cordelia

What are you talking about?

Me

Don't play dumb. Why are you always trying to ruin my life?

Cordelia

Did someone send you a note? Maybe if you didn't prance around with so much flesh showing, you wouldn't attract the wrong kind of attention.

See? No manners whatsoever.

Me

At least I have a job.

Cordelia

My job is to represent the family. A family you seem determined to scandalise.

Me

You think a scandal is showing an ankle in public. Loosen up.

Why couldn't my mom have had a one-night stand with a regular guy? Why did she have to hook up with the Duke of Southcott? My dad was a snob, and Cordelia was unbearable. I tried Jubilee instead.

Me

Do me a favor and tell Cordelia to quit with the notes. It wasn't funny the first time, and it isn't funny now.

Jubilee

What notes?

Arrrgh. I'd tossed the phone, then cursed in my head as a spiderweb of cracks spread across the screen. Was anything going to go right today?

Luis handed me the new phone, and the screen lit up with notifications. Insta, BuzzHub, TikTok… I'd posted one picture of myself last night, an arty backlit shot taken by Paul, and the likes were pouring in. Mom would be so proud of the numbers, but I found I no longer cared. I'd spent my whole life trying to make her happy, to make her like me, only to finally realise it was an impossible task. But hopefully my new, classier image would stop all those pious people who offered to pray for my soul from commenting.

Me

Try asking Cordelia.

"Ms. Maara?" an assistant said. "The photographer is ready now."

For the show, our costumes were Ancient Egypt-lite. I wore a black-and-gold minidress with a matching headband, a turquoise playsuit with a snake belt, and a white maxi dress with winged shoulders and gold embroidery on the neckline. But for this photoshoot, which would be used as promo for the hotel, I'd be going full-on Cleopatra. A black wig, heavy make-up, an elaborate gold headdress that had to weigh twenty pounds. Apparently, it had been borrowed from a museum somewhere, and it came with its own security team. My vertebrae might get crushed in the name of marketing, but at least Mark-the-weirdo wouldn't be able to get near me today. Not that I thought he truly existed, but Cordelia might be mean enough to hire an out-of-work thespian with dubious morals to pretend. She acted all offended by my publicity stunts, but Mom said that secretly, she was just jealous. Mom talked a lot of trash, but I thought she might actually be right about Cordelia. I opened festivals. Cordelia opened shopping malls.

The first outfit reminded me of something out of the Gladiator movie, except in gold and with more cleavage showing. Not that I had much cleavage, but I could fake it. A push-up bra, careful use of bronzer… Everything in my life was fake. The whole of the Nile Palace was decorated to look like Ancient Egypt, so it hadn't taken much for the photographer's team to transform one of the event spaces into Cleopatra's bathing chamber. Yes, my second outfit would be a bikini. Dad was going to lose his mind.

I eyed up a basket beside my fake throne. "Is the snake in there?"

"The snake handler has it in a box," the assistant said. "We just need to get some shots of you and the, uh, gods first."

They'd dressed Venus, Aisha, Luis, and Paul up as Egyptian deities with black-and-gold dresses—even the men—leather sandals, and animal heads. A cat, an eagle, a jackal, and a cobra respectively. The problem? They'd forgotten to put eyeholes in the masks, and Aisha bumped into me as she tried to find her way to the set.

"Sorry, sorry."

"You need a hand?"

"Could you just tell me if there are any steps?"

"No steps, but don't walk into the bath."

Yes, there was an actual bath, more like a small raised swimming pool really, and that bikini had better not go see-through. Four months ago, I would have freaked at the idea of getting into the water, but Ryder had helped me to conquer that fear. We'd spent hours floating in the Caribbean Sea, staring up at a star-flecked sky, talking about everything and nothing. I'd held his hand so I didn't float away, all without realising that the tiny connection meant more to him than he'd ever let on.

Sheesh, I missed him.

I missed him, but I wasn't sure I could forgive him for breaking my trust the way he had.

We sweated under the lights as the photographer posed us this way and that. When Frank Serafini showed up and wrapped a pudgy arm around me, I didn't argue, just squirmed quietly. Frank was an old-school Italian American. He reminded me of Tony Soprano, which was another reason I felt safe in the hotel. If a stalker tried anything creepy at the Nile Palace, hopefully he'd end up starring in a remake of The Godfather. Anyhow, Frank Serafini was mostly a gentleman. His arm didn't stray below my shoulders, and he kissed the back of my hand once his pictures were done.

"You were wonderful last night, mio angelo. Stupendo!"

Stupendo? Was that an insult? He was smiling, so I didn't think so, but I made a mental note to ask Google later.

"Well, I'm happy you enjoyed the show. It was— Holy crap!"

I took several rapid paces backward as a man approached holding the snake. The really freaking big snake, and it looked terrifying as it flicked its tongue out, scenting for blood or whatever snakes did to find their prey.

The guy holding it laughed. "Relax, she's real docile."

He took a step forward, and I ducked behind Paul, who was holding his cobra mask under his arm in a way I hoped the actual snake would find intimidating. It fixed its beady black eyes on me, and I clutched at Paul's dress. Respect to Britney—my heart would have given out if I had to wear a snake as a necklace the way she did.

"She's probably also real poisonous," I told the snake guy.

"Do you have antivenom?" Paul asked. "The original Cleopatra died from an asp bite, and we don't want a repeat."

What? "Are you kidding me? She got bit by a snake?"

"You didn't know that?"

"Do you think I would have agreed to be here if I did?"

Frank must have heard the panic in my voice because he held up a hand to stop the snake guy from coming any closer.

"We keep the snake away from Luna."

"But—" the photographer started.

Frank spread his arms. "No closer than this."

"You said you wanted close-ups."

"You take the pictures of Luna, and then you take the pictures of the snake, and then you use the Photoshop. Capisce?"

The photographer must have heard of Frank's reputation too, because he gulped. "I got it."

Even with the snake five feet away, I still struggled to look anything but totally freaked out. The beast was always there on the edge of my vision, slithering and swaying. The photographer was getting exasperated, understandably so, but couldn't he have the tiniest bit of empathy?

"Smile, darling. You look as if you're going to a funeral."

"And I might be if the snake has its way."

"Clara," the snake guy told me. "Her name is Clara."

Good grief. "I don't care if her name is Chocolate Fudge Sundae; I'm never going to like her."

"Pretend she's Mark Antony," the photographer told me. "If you can't smile, at least go for sultry."

I froze. "What did you say?"

"Go for sultry."

"No, the first part. Mark Antony?"

Mark A? Was he here in the hotel? A member of the crew? If he was, I'd have to instruct my lawyer to ask Julius to tell the creep to stop sending me weird notes.

"Cleopatra's husband." Yikes, seriously? "Didn't you study history at school?"

"I didn't go to school, you dumbass. I went into showbiz."

But you know who did go all the way in school? Cordelia. She'd even studied history at Oxford University, which figured, seeing as she was part of a thousand-year-old institution that lived in the past.

"Take it easy," Paul murmured.

"Oh, you think saying that will help? How many times in the whole history of telling people to take it easy have they ever actually taken it easy?"

"She has a point," Aisha told him.

Movement caught my eye, and I was ninety percent sure I saw one of the hotel staff tucking a phone into their pocket. Great. My rant would be up on the internet before my venom-filled body was cold. I wanted to confront the jerk, but knowing my luck, he would turn out to have been texting his sick mom, and I'd look even more "difficult" than I did already.

"Just keep that freaking snake away from me, okay?"