Poppy really said glow up
The way he’s looking at her???
Preston could never
“Preston could never,” Poppy reads aloud, and there’s satisfaction in her voice. “I love my followers.”
Across the beach, I catch movement. Preston’s head turning toward us. Serenity’s hand on his arm, redirecting his attention back to whatever content they’re creating. But I saw his expression—the flash of jealousy he couldn’t quite hide.
Good.
“You’re smiling,” Poppy observes. “Actually smiling. That’s new.”
“I’m enjoying the show.”
“Which show? My viral moment or Preston’s suffering?”
“Both.”
She laughs—that bright, surprised sound that makes something ancient stir in my chest. “You’re more petty than I expected from a mysterious rich guy.”
“Everyone has depths.”
“Mysterious depths?”
“The most mysterious.”
Her phone buzzes again. The post has hit ten thousand likes. She shows me the screen, and I see the triumph in her eyes—the validation she craves, even when she pretends not to need it.
But beneath the triumph, I see something else. A flicker of doubt.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just...” She stares at the numbers. “Sometimes I wonder if any of it is real. The engagement. The connection. Or if they’re just watching a story I made up.”
“Does it matter?”
“Shouldn’t it?”
I think about my own performances. The centuries of pretending to be human. The masks I’ve worn so long I’ve forgotten what lies beneath them.
“People believe what they want to believe,” I say. “What they need to believe. You give them that.”
“A fantasy.”
“A comfort.” I turn her to face me. “There’s value in that, Poppy. In making people feel seen. Even if the seeing is curated.”
She’s quiet, thinking. Then: “That’s the most philosophical thing anyone’s ever said about my Glowstagram.”
Poppy is smiling. Relaxed. There is nothing I want more than for this to continue. But we’re here to perform for the wedding guests, and we do just that.
The afternoon passes in a blur.
We have lunch with Violet and Chris at the resort’s casual café—grouper sandwiches, peas ’n rice, conversation I barely hear because I’m scanning every entrance, every exit, every shadow where Damien might be lurking.
He doesn’t appear or text—which is almost worse.
Damien has always preferred the long game. The slow build of tension before the strike. He wants me afraid. Wants me paranoid. Wants me so focused on the threat that I make a mistake.
