3. Eve

CHAPTER 3

EVE

I wasn't wallowing, exactly. I wasn't hiding. I was taking some me-time. Letting the drama die down. Once it had, I'd go out again, get back to my life. How long did a news cycle last, anyway? A couple more days of this. A week to be safe.

I plucked another macaron from its tissue paper nest, lavender-lemon. My favorite flavor. Being a hermit wasn't so bad, catching up on the Housewives, gorging on sweets. Some people didn't leave their apartments for years. They had everything brought to them, food, groceries. Even dentists would come if you paid them enough. I wondered what the record was for staying inside, the longest a person went without a foot out the door. I grabbed my phone to find out and it buzzed in my hand.

"Go away," I groaned. My phone buzzed again. Text bubbles popped, one after another. Gabriella — of course it was. And she was downstairs.

Hey, buzz us up!

STRAIGHT TO VOICEMAIL!!!!????

Your doorman won't talk to us! Let us in!

I could ignore her. Pretend my phone died. She wouldn't believe me, but she couldn't prove?—

Never mind, we're in. Your neighbor's so sweet!

Which of my neighbors was the dirty traitor? René in the penthouse? Jean from downstairs? No, Madame Durand. It had to be her. She'd bring anyone in with her, any riffraff at all. And who had Gabriella brought with her? Who the hell was we?

She banged on my door. I buried my face in a pillow. Gabriella kept banging.

"Come on, let us in!"

If I kept quiet, she'd think I went out.

"We know you're in there. We saw your TV."

So maybe I went out and left it playing.

"Come on, open up. Emma drank too much coffee."

"I'm going to pee on your doorstep." Emma joined in the banging. "I'm not even kidding. Open the door!"

I didn't think I'd mind so much if she did pee out there. But Gabriella's outrage was mounting, her banging gaining in volume. If I didn't open up soon, she'd break down the door.

"Coming," I called. "Keep your pants on." I checked my hair in selfie mode and patted it down. Brushed a dusting of macaron crumbs off my chest. Then I trudged down my front hall and opened the door.

"I knew it," said Emma, wrinkling her nose. "I smell sweaty bedsheets and processed sugar."

"No, you do not ."

"There's crumbs in your hair." Gabriella plucked a macaron crumb off my shoulder. She cocked her head. "Do I hear Real Housewives? "

It wasn't worth denying it, but I tried anyway. "I had it on for background noise. I was, uh… I was cleaning."

"Yeah? Where's your broom?" Gabriella swept past me, into my bedroom. A moment later, I heard the TV switch off. Emma took me by the arm and steered me to the day room.

"This is an intervention. You're turning into a shut-in."

"A shut-in?" I laughed. "It's been, what, three days?"

"Five days. That's a symptom, losing track of time. What day of the week is it? Do you even know?"

"I don't know, Thursday?" I scowled, annoyed. Emma crowed loudly.

"What did I say? It's Friday, and we're going out."

I knew she meant we- we, like her, me, and Gabriella. But I waved her off rudely. "Cool. You have fun."

Gabriella came bustling in. "I see someone's grumpy. What's this, a sugar crash from the macarons?"

It kind of was, but I dismissed her. "Get lost."

"No, listen. We have a plan. We're going to rescue you, but first, we need drinks." Gabriella went to my drinks cabinet and poured some prosecco. She passed Emma the first glass, then poured some for me. I waved it off, not needing more sugar. I grabbed some water instead and took a long drink.

"You can't save me," I said, and plopped down on the couch. "You've seen the memes. The damage is done."

"The damage was done," said Emma. "But that was last week. The public's attention span is like a gnat's. Your slate's been wiped clean now, so let's write something new."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "You heard of Star Wars Kid?"

She cocked her head. "I think so. Maybe. That kid with the lightsaber, and he went viral?"

"Yeah, that was him. In 2002. We were, what, three, and we still remember. What if my jilting ends up like that, me with my dress stuck, running away? There's a version with sounds in, like boinging. Cartoon sounds."

"Virality's changed since 2002." Gabriella sat next to me, sipping prosecco. "Back then, one meme could go on for years. It could be a whole mood, a whole subculture even. But there's too many now for that to happen. You get ten seconds of infamy, then that's it. You're done. Unless you did something, y'know, gross or racist."

"Simple embarrassment's nothing," agreed Emma. "Everyone's moved on to that guy with his ass out."

I didn't want to know. I shook my head. "Still, if I go out there, it'll remind them."

"In a good way," said Gabriella. "We have a plan, remember?"

"To do what, go out on the town looking awesome? Show the world I'm fine? I'll just look pathetic."

"That's only half our plan." Emma's eyes sparkled. "You know Marco Barone?"

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. "Wasn't he that actor from?—"

"No! He's a driver." Emma was bouncing now, her excitement bubbling over. "He's beaten Rafael a bunch of times. He's his biggest rival. And he's in Monaco, so we thought we could?—"

"No."

"I haven't even said yet?—"

"I'm not sleeping with Marco."

"You don't have to sleep with him." Gabriella huffed laughter. "Look, he just tweeted he's hitting the clubs. We'll go and you'll dance with him and get photographed. Rafael will see it and, bang. You win."

"How do I win? I still got jilted."

"Check this out," said Emma, and pulled out her phone. She pulled up a shot of some racetrack grandstand, and at first all I saw was damn Rafael. Rafael glowing, dusted with petals, flashing the cameras a thousand-watt grin. My stomach turned over and I tasted acid.

"Forget him," said Gabriella, covering his face with her thumb. "Look what Marco's doing, flicking his chin. He's from Italy, right? That's, like, their finger."

"Give me that," I said, and grabbed Emma's phone. I zoomed in on Marco, and, yeah. He looked pissed. His dark eyes were slitted, his lip curled up. His black hair was tousled, fresh out of his helmet, lending him a sort of wild-man appeal. "He is kind of hot," I said.

Emma snorted. " Kind of?"

"Okay, he's very hot. Isn't he taken?"

"No, he's a fuckboy." Emma took back her phone. Gabriella reached over me to slap her arm.

"Don't listen to her. He's single, is all. It's fine to have fun as long as you're single. And Rafael hates him, so win-win, right?"

"You two are children." I stood up. "Go on, get out of here. Tell Mother you tried."

"She didn't send us," said Gabriella, making no move to go. "We're worried about you, cooped up by yourself. You don't have to smooch Marco if you really don't want to, but we're going out tonight and you're coming with us. You need to get out there and live your life."

Live my life — I almost laughed. What life? I'd been thinking a lot about that since Rafael fled our wedding. What was my life, even, outside of the press? I went out and got photographed. Attended events. Lent my face and my name to this cause and that, my parents' charities, their projets du jour . I was your basic socialite, the Hansleys' daughter. My wedding to Rafael should've been the peak of my fame — and I guessed it had been, for all the wrong reasons. But I'd never done anything. Never lived for myself. I'd never even tried to. Was I that boring?

"Please come," said Emma. "It's no fun without you."

I thought it over a moment, then shook my head. "I can't."

"Why, you've got plans?" Gabriella whipped out her phone again and tapped on the screen. She turned it to face me and I choked back a shriek. There I was on her screen, or an AI version of me, cramming my face full of cookies and cakes. I was crying as well, salty tears flying. I batted the phone away.

"How is that not illegal? That's my damn face."

"So show them your real face. Show you're not crying."

I bit my lip. "Fine," I said. "But I'm not meeting Marco. We'll go dance our butts off and get barely tipsy, and be home by two with our dignity intact."

Emma smirked but said nothing. Gabriella gave me a shove.

"You go get showered, then. We'll find you something to wear."

Two short hours later, we tottered out of my building, the cobbled sidewalk turning our heels. We piled into a limo and it pulled away, bearing us the short distance to the hottest new club. Marco was there already according to socials, but we weren't going for him, or at least I wasn't. I couldn't speak for Emma, who was stalking his Insta.

"Check out the abs on him… Where's that, Corfu?"

Gabriella snickered. "Who cares? No one looks at a shot like that and thinks ‘nice holiday.'"

"Nice something , all right." Emma tilted her phone toward me. I turned away quickly, my cheeks going hot. I guessed now I knew who looked good in a Speedo — Marco did. Like a model. Like a Greek god.

"Total thirst trap," groaned Emma. "What'd I say? Fuckboy."

Next thing I knew, we were spilling out of the limo, Emma still gawking at Marco's beach pics. A few cameras snapped us, but we swept by, not looking. We ignored the long queue and sailed straight past the bouncer, and the lights of the club drowned the camera flashes. Gabriella tilted her head back, taking it in.

"Is that a waterfall down the back wall?"

I squinted. It was. An indoor waterfall. Lights from behind lit it up like a rainbow, then pink and yellow, then UV purple. Colored smoke rose, then a spray of soap bubbles.

"If they douse us with glitter, I swear to God?—"

"They won't," said Emma, and pulled me in deeper. "I don't see Marco. Don't tell me he left."

He hadn't left. I was looking right at him. I didn't know it at first, then he turned around. Some guys you barely recognize when you meet in real life, their pics are so filtered, so airbrushed to death. You come face-to-face with them and it's like meeting Clark Kent — not Superman, but his nerd alter ego. Marco, by contrast, was hotter than his Insta. He had an edge to him, a rude caveman gruffness, his eyes bright with mirth as he laughed at some joke. I didn't normally go for his type, shaggy, unshaven, jaw dark with stubble, but something about him made me want to touch him. Run my hand down his chest to check he was real.

"He's so hot," breathed Gabriella. I pretended not to hear her. Emma gave me a nudge, bumping me toward Marco. I should've resisted, starstruck as I was. Apt to do something stupid, caught in his spell. Instead, I kept going. Our eyes met. I smiled. Marco grinned, confident.

"Eve Hansley, right?"

My heart skipped a beat. He knew who I was? Panic swept through me: had he seen me go viral? I felt myself flushing, going stupidly red.

"Marco Barone," I said, my voice nearly cracking. His smile widened like he was pleased I knew his name. He waved for the bartender.

"What are you having?"

"Gin fizz," I said.

"Great. Two of those. So, what are we drinking to? Our mutual nemesis?"

I blinked at him. What?

"Come on, don't pretend you don't hate him too. Prince Rafael, what an ass. Am I right?"

I should've slapped him, maybe. Defended Rafael's honor. I'd been raised to do that, to be the bigger person. I snickered instead. Rafael was an ass, and Marco looked fun. He had a twinkle about him, a constant half-smile, like life was a joke to him and he loved to laugh.

"I do," I confessed. "I hate him so much."

Our drinks appeared and Marco raised his.

"To loathing," he said.

"Loathing." We clinked. Then Marco laughed, and his laugh set me tingling. It rumbled up sultry from deep inside him, a big throaty laugh that shook his whole body.

"They were throwing tomatoes at Le Vigeant."

"What?"

"I raced him that day. The day of your wedding. These girls in the stands were throwing tomatoes. They didn't hit him, but they were on your side. Most people are, I'd say."

"Really, you think?" I grimaced, remembering the worst of the hashtags, #JiltingEve, #ThePrincelessBride. Marco moved closer, leaning up on the bar.

"I know ," he said. "How could they not be?" He leaned even closer, so close our cheeks brushed, dropping his voice to confound any eavesdroppers. "He might be a prince, but so is the devil. You're the angel here. Who could deny it? Sei un raggio di luna fuggito dal ciel. "

I had no idea what he was saying, but it made my pulse race. His lips brushed my ear and I shivered all over.

"Let's dance," he said, and I felt myself nod. Next thing I knew, we were out on the dance floor, pressed so close together I could feel when he breathed. Lights of all colors rippled all through the club, from the ceiling, the floor, the huge waterfall. They streamed down his face, catching his cheekbones, all the sharp planes and angles that made him so sexy. I wondered what he'd do if I stole a kiss, if he'd go along with it or if he'd draw back. His full lips quirked up.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"That's all they're worth?"

"How about a euro?" He dipped into his pocket and came up with a coin, but somebody bumped him and it bounced away. We both laughed at that, and a slow song came on. I leaned my head on his shoulder as we swayed to the beat. He smelled good and felt good, clean and strong-armed. If he'd found another euro I'd have knocked it off him myself, because my thoughts in that moment weren't the kind I could share.

Emma slid up at some point and wished me good luck, and when I turned to grab her, she was backing away. She and Gabriella both waved to me, and Emma tipped me a wink. Then they were gone, and Marco was smiling.

"Your friends left," he said. "I guess it's just us."

"Well, and everyone else on the dance floor."

He looked around, brows knit as though in puzzlement. "Everyone else? I only see you."

I melted at that, at the spark in his eyes. At the way his gaze burned like he really meant it. Like in this temple to youth and beauty, he could only see me. I'd never felt so seen or so wanted. All I could think was, I wanted him too, not for a photo op or to hurt Rafael, but him in my bed tonight, rapt in only me. I wanted him to undress me with his eyes still on fire. To worship my body from top to toe. I swallowed, dry-mouthed.

"Should we… Should we go?"

His eyes burned so hot I thought I'd catch light. He didn't say anything, just took my hand. He led me out of the nightclub, through the gauntlet of press, and spun me in close to him as the cameras flashed. I giggled as he dipped me, glowed at his kiss, and then we were dashing across to his car. Piling inside in gales of triumphant laughter. My lips still felt hot where Marco's had touched them, and I couldn't wait to kiss him again. I leaned across the gearshift and he took me in his arms. His kiss was rough, hungry, and scratchy with stubble. I pressed up against him, eager for more. His hand slid up my back. Tangled into my hair. I moaned without thinking, and he sighed deep and low.

"We should get out of here," he said, when we pulled back at last. "A makeout shot's one thing, but not a full sex tape."

I stole one more kiss, then fell back. "Then drive."

"Not till you, uh…" He nodded at my seat belt. " La cintura. "

I smiled, buckled up, and we were off like a shot. I hadn't even thought to ask where we were going.