ME: I’m fine. Used to it by now
VIOLET: I know but still. Don’t let her get to you
VIOLET: You know how she is. Ever since Dad left she’s convinced any choice that isn’t safe and boring leads to disaster
ME: I know
VIOLET: Your job isn’t a disaster. Julian isn’t a disaster. She’s just scared
ME: Scared of what?
VIOLET: That you’ll end up like her
I stare at the message. Violet’s not wrong. Our father walked out when I was twelve—chased some business opportunity to Singapore that turned out to be as real as his commitment to our family. Mom rebuilt everything from scratch: the house, the finances, her entire identity. She did it through sheer force of will and a conviction that passion was just another word for poor judgment.
No wonder she hates my career choice. To her, “influencer” probably sounds like “dreamer”—and dreamers destroy families.
ME: Thanks Vi
VIOLET: Always. Now get some sleep. Big day tomorrow
VIOLET: And Pops?
ME: Yeah?
VIOLET: He seems good. Julian. Like actually good
ME: I think he might be
VIOLET: I love it
No, even my mom wasn’t what made the cocktail party a disaster. I’d gotten used to her being that way.
The real disaster was Julian.
Or rather, the version of Julian that showed up after that man appeared at the cocktail party. Damien. Even his name felt like something out of a gothic novel—too dramatic, too on-the-nose. The way he’d looked at Julian, like they were the only two people on that terrace. The way Julian had gone still, that eerie predator-stillness I’d noticed before but never quite this intense. And then that comment about Prague. About a woman. About screaming.
I try to ask Julian about it on the walk back to our room. He shuts me down so fast it gives me whiplash.
“Not now. Please. Not now.”
The “please” was what got me. Julian didn’t say please. Julian gave orders dressed up as suggestions, made requests that sounded like statements of fact. But that single word had cracked something open, revealed a glimpse of something raw underneath all that polished control.
Now we’re back in the suite, and Julian has barely spoken ten words since we walked through the door. He’s standing at the window, and I have no idea what to say to him. What to ask. I’m not even sure that I have the right to ask anything, given that this is a business arrangement. Whatever history he has with that man is precisely none of my business.
Except it felt like my business. The way Damien had looked at me when he said “girlfriend”—like the word amused him, like I was a punchline to a joke I didn’t understand. The way he’d mentioned “collecting humans” like it was something Julian did. Like I was just the latest addition to his collection.
I shake off the thought. Focus on what I can control.
The suite. The suite is everything I asked for in the Excel spreadsheet I sent Vi.
Yes, I made an Excel spreadsheet for her.Column A: Must-Haves. Column B: Nice-to-Haves. Column C: Do Not Under Any Circumstances Unless You Want a Bridesmaid Meltdown.The suite hits every mark inColumn A—spacious layout, private balcony, sitting area where I can set up my ring light for morning content. Two bedrooms, which I requested because I wasn’t sure what this thing with Julian was becoming, and I needed the option to retreat to my own space if pretending became too much.
Now a part of me hopes we don’t need two. But as I watch Julian, it worries me that he’ll need a break from me.
I shake off the thought again. It has nothing to do with me; it is all about Damien. Something about him tears at Julian—I just need to give him some space until he’s ready to talk about it.
So I kick off my heels—something I’ve been dying to do since we got to the cocktail party—and sink into the couch. My feet are screaming from maintaining my posture for the past two hours, trying to pretend everything was normal. The air conditioning hits my skin, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. One event down. Three more days of performing for my family, and then this whole elaborate charade is over.
