“This room,” Bastian said, lowering his voice, “belongs to the family that owns the Club.”
The walls were lined with plush seating, similar to the one occupied by the woman who had welcomed us. To the right, a spiral staircase ascended, disappearing into the ceiling above. We pressed forward, weaving through a crowd. Older patrons—those who looked to be in their fifties, like my mother or Mrs. Meng—were seated around low tables, while younger guests stood near the bar, engaged in conversation. I could feel their gazes on us, the quiet whispers trailing behind us as we made our way through the room.
I couldn’t see Enzo anywhere.
But it mattered little, because amid those young faces, I spotted Gina, or rather, her head, her red and black hair catching the lights. She had her back to me, leaning against a wall.
And she was making out with someone.
None other than Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore.
I think I screamed, though I can’t recall the words—and honestly, I’m glad I can’t. The shock of it all caught Gina’s attention, as well as Eloïse’s, and a few other people nearby. My friend was making out with a celebrity! The reality of it sent my heart racing, and I felt like I might actually pass out right then and there.
No, no, no. Wait.Wescreamed. That’s it.
I shouted something nonsensical, and Bastian, next to me, said something like “Not again!”
Gina turned red as a tomato. Eloïse, on the other hand, pulled away from my friend and approached us, adjusting the brown blazer draped over her shoulders.
“Oh, come on,” she said monotonously, smoothing her straight brown bob with her hands. “Monogamy is so last century, don’t you think, Bastian?”
Bastian didn’t have time to respond because Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore, who was the same height as him with her stiletto heels, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. I’m not going to go into details, for God’s sake. I’ll just say I was in shock. And tongue was involved.
“You know what else is from the last century?” he responded once Eloïse let him go. “The torture your father will put me through if he finds out you’re here.”
Eloïse shrugged.
“It’s not like Laurent would find out.”
“Those people back there,” Bastian glanced at the older gentlemen we had just passed, “are his friends, aren’t they?”
She didn’t bother to deny it. She put her arm through Bastian’s, holding him like an elderly couple, and, before turning around, winked at Gina.
“No one will dare say anything. This is my club,” she declared. “Shall we go?”
My mind struggled to grasp the situation. Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore, the adopted daughter of Timotheo Larousse, had a thing for Bastian, the nephew of Larousse’s lawyer. And also for my best friend, apparently.
But that was not the worst of it. The note I had received along with the money had led me to the club owned by the Hawtrey-Moore family. Something smelled fishy. Very fishy.
“Sebastian Saidi,” I stepped in front of the couple, arms crossed and feeling like my eyes were going to pop out of my head. “What’s going on here?”
Bastian lowered his head.
“Uh…”
Eloïse stopped dead. Her body was slim, delicate like a ballerina’s; her sharp face gave her a stubborn, imposing air,and her almond-shaped eyes seemed capable of sinking me underground. I felt her presence was too real, too cutting, like a knife made human.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my family’s room?” she said tersely.
I opened my mouth to respond. I closed it again.
The truth was, I wasn’t quite sure why I was there. Had I misunderstood Enzo?
“She’s my friend,” Gina came to my rescue, grabbing my arm like Eloïse had done with Bastian. “Eloïse, let me introduce you to Vera.”
We all stood in silence.
“And…” Eloïse spoke again. “How do you two know each other?”
