Gentry came up behind me, so close his body brushed mine lightly. His warmth seeped into my spine. He peered over my shoulder, nonchalant. “That’s Feodora,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “She’s the lovely librarian that nudged me on the path I’m on. She’s the reason I had my article published in the journal and got the post at Oxford.”
I scowled, lips tugging downward as I set the photo back on the wall. My pulse roared in my ears. I needed to get out of there. Now.
Turning too fast, I bumped straight into him. I’d forgotten he was still right behind me. Our chests brushed, and I froze—caught in the heat of his body, the way he was already looking down at me. That light in his gaze. So warm. Soreal. And it twisted something cruel in my stomach to wonder if the only reason he looked at me with that reverence... was because of Fate.
“I—I have to go,” I stammered, ducking out of his space.
His expression shifted in an instant, that easy smile faltering. “You alright?”
“I forgot I was meeting Day,” I lied, scrambling for the counter, snatching my bag.
Gentry followed. “I’ll drive you,” he said quickly, concern woven through every word.
“That’s okay. I’ll call you later, I promise.”
“Astoria.” He caught my elbow. Gentle, but firm. “It’s dark. Let me take you. Or at least wait here until Day comes to getyou.” There wasn’t anger in his voice. Just worry. Kindness. He was always like that; so agreeable, so good. Sometimes I forgot he had feelings of his own—forgot how deep they might go.
And in the past, I’d have pulled away. I always did. Better to scorch the ground early than let anyone get too close. But it hurt to do that with him. It hurt to lie.
“Okay,” I conceded. “Yeah, I’ll wait for him.”
Gentry nodded, visibly relieved, and took the bag from my hand without question. “Good. Thank you.”
He pulled my phone from the front pocket and offered it up. “Here. Want me to ring him for you?”
I shook my head, fingers curling around the device.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The truth sat heavy on my tongue. I could tell him. Tell him who Feodora really was. Why it mattered so much thatshe, of all people, had nudged him toward this life. Towardme.
Nemo said to live in truth. That it would catch up to me otherwise. And Gentry... he had never once made me regret being honest with him. Even when he met Day, he hadn’t flinched.
Still.
What would it mean if I told him?
What would change?
He didn’t need to be convinced of the invisible magic laced through our world. It was as if he just knew, but this felt personal. I didn’t want to be responsible for Gentry’s entire existence. He did not deserve to be wrapped up so entirely in me, or my burdens.
Instead, I lied—told him it was nothing and proceeded to text out a message to Day, asking him to come get me and deliver me to one certain eccentric woman in the Hamptons.
I raised my fist, ready to pound on her ornate, gaudy door. But before I could, it swung open. There stood Feo, grinning like a cat in a bubblegum-pink kaftan. A mustached man hovered behind her, holding a paintbrush and palette, blinking at me. His eyebrow twitched upward in silent judgment.
I shoved past them both, stomping into the house, and immediately skidded to a stop. The living room was full of half-naked men dressed in varying shades of white.
Some sat. Some stood on risers. A few wore enormous feathered wings strapped to their backs. All of them were posed, preening, lounging, or brooding as they circled a massive throne made of gaudy gold and tufted lime-green velvet. At the center of it all was a giant canvas with a half-finished painting.Of course.
It wassoFeodora.
Feo swept into the room, a river of pink fabric trailing dramatically behind her as she resumed her rightful place, sprawled across the lime-green throne. The mustached man tiptoed after her, glancing nervously between us as my scowl deepened.
“Astoria, be a doll and grab the glitter behind you. François here could use an extra coating,” she said, lazily pointing to a massive jar of gold glitter with a brush sticking out.
“Not here to paint glitter on models, Feo.”
“Of course you’re not,” she agreed breezily. “But I surmise you can throw a fit while painting a man's abs, can you not?” She clucked her tongue, adjusting herself on the throne and lifting her chin with the manner of a queen, bored with the peasants.
