I nod, not trusting myself to speak, feeling the room tilt dangerously. The truth is embarrassingly simple—I’d constructed a persona so meticulously that I’d forgotten how to exist without an audience.
Tiago and Mei chime in, phones ready. “Forget all that, darling,” Mei says with a dismissive wave. “What you really need is a better party to get your mind off of all that heartache.”
Mari glares at her. “Not now, Mei.”
Tiago nods enthusiastically. “That new rooftop on Seventh? Everyone who matters will be there.”
The familiar pattern beckons—another night of blurry excess, another headline. The easiest escape.
“No,” I say, the word unfamiliar yet firm. “Not tonight.” I turn toward Mari. “I’m getting out of here.”
I push my way out of the club, nearly tripping over my own feet. Outside, the city pulses around me, indifferent to my small tragedy. The cold air hits my face like a slap, and somewhere in the distance, a camera flashes.
For the first time in years, I let myself be invisible.
It feels like coming up for air after drowning in my own reflection.
Chapter 46
Reese
The sun beatsdown beyond the wraparound porch of my family’s home. Mama, Cleo, and I are sprawled across weathered rocking chairs, the sweet scent of pansies mingling with the leftover shrimp po’ boys on the table.
My phone sits heavy in my lap, Dante’s name glowing on the screen.
Cleo slides her lavender sunglasses down her nose, fixing me with a glance she’s perfected since we were teens stealing peaches from old Mrs. Dubois’s garden down the road when Cleo would visit. “Reese’s Pieces, it’s Christmas Eve, either text him or throw your phone in the pool, but this whole pretending-you’re-not-missing him thing? I can’t with you.”
“I’m not—” My protest dies as the ancient rocker betrays me with a knowing creak. “Just checking the editing timeline with Amara, that’s all.”
“Baby girl,” Mama says with her infinite patience, “your heart’s sitting heavy. Let’s talk about it.”
I twist a loose thread on my sundress until it threatens to unravel, much like everything else these past few weeks. “What’s there to say? Dante kept things from me when things betweenus were supposed to be simple. Then suddenly they weren’t, and now…” I trail off.
Mama’s nails tap a gentle rhythm against her glass. Her voice is soft but knowing, like Spanish moss in the breeze. “I saw how that boy looked at you in those photos. Like you were something he couldn’t quite believe was real. Not just that, I saw how you were last time you visited. Bright and alive. You gonna let some scummy reporter steal it all away?”
“He knew her, Mama,” I whisper. The words that have been echoing in my head all week finally spill out. “And he never told me.”
“Never told you what, exactly?” Cleo shifts, arching an expertly threaded brow. Her bikini shows off her gym-sculpted abs. “That cameras might show up? Because, babe, that’s literally your Monday through Sunday.”
The truth of her words settles over me like the afternoon heat. Dante hadn’t called the paparazzi or tipped them off about the beach. Amara confirmed it all after I’d walked away from him that night at the gala. Susan had known about us already.
I’d been discovered the way I always was, the way I probably always will be.
“I know, but some small, insecure part of me is afraid he may have used me,” I say, but as the words leave my mouth, they feel wrong. “Like Ricky did. That’s definitely my old wounds talking, I know it is, but it was my only other relationship, so I don’t have much else to refer to.”
“That bastard manipulated you when you were just a child. Lord, don’t get me started on him.” Mama shakes her head.
I grip my hands tighter in my lap. “I know. I opened up to Dante about Ricky, about all my fears of history repeating itself. And I know that Dante is nothing like him, but it still hurts.”
“That’s the thing you’ll have to forgive, doll,” Mama says gently. “When I met your daddy, I lied and told him yourGrandpa Fern approved of him. Truth was, Fern didn’t like your daddy much—never did tell me why. But then again, my daddy didn’t like many people. Our little love story started with a lie too.”
“See? Everyone’s got their secrets; that’s how you figure out who to trust,” Cleo drawls, propping herself up. “Show me someone who claims they’ve never lied, and I’ll show you a liar.”
“Please. You’re, like, pathologically honest,” I say with a playful nudge to Cleo’s shoulder.
“Oh, honey,” Cleo drawls, a familiar mischievous glint in her eye, “there’s plenty I don’t tell you.”
“Like what?” I challenge, leaning forward.
