No.
No. He wouldn’t, he didn’t—he wouldn’t have brought my dad and sister here. Faust knew that would be crossing my boundaries because—yes, I have them, oh, fuck, I have boundaries—and suddenly I’m whispering, “Dad?” as I push past Bernard, still on the ground on one knee. “Maisie?”
“Kiddo!” Dad’s rushing to me, a huge grin on his face. There are wrinkles there that I don’t remember. “Oh, Cady-Cat. I knew it was real,” he says, and then he’s hugging me. My garage mechanic dad is hugging me in the middle of Monte Carlo, and with a sickening jolt I realize it’s because he just saw me get proposed to. Then my shoulder’s being squeezed, Maisie joining in, Dad’s big arms around my shoulders and Maisie’s little fingers winding in the back of my dress, and I’m constricted, trapped. Caught. They saw it. They clearly think I said yes.
This is awful.
“Sorry, can you just…” I slither from their arms, glancing panicked between their beaming faces. Maisie’s got a dove-gray Stark-Benzin hat on, her frizzy orange curls poking out beneath it, and for a long, painful moment I consider ignoring all of this—the proposal, my dad—everything that isn’t taking her to the bathroomand running water and cheap soap in my hands until I can reset her ringlets for her. But I can’t. Because they know.
They’re going to know how much I’ve lied to them for years.
So I start walking. Pacing.
Right toward Faust.
He’s a tall shadow by the exit and I grab his wrist, temporarily forgetting that Bernard must be watching this, and maybe I don’t care about any of that anymore because I’m pulling him into the stairwell with me. And he’s quiet. Silent as we stand on the blank white landing, the harsh lights flickering overhead. Silent as I make a choked noise in the back of my throat—I’m so angry I can’t speak—and dart upstairs, to the only other doorway, onto a balcony.
Chapter 28STALEMATE
Behind me, the door squealsopen, then shuts with a loud thunk.
“What are they doing here, Faust?” My voice shakes with a rage. I didn’t know I could feel this deeply. This is bottom-of-soul anger, biblical, the sort of emotion that made ancient philosophers wax poetic about where the human spirit starts inside the body.
And his voice is just as angry—tightly cornered, constrained, folded. “It isn’t what you think.”
“You had no right. None.”
“I only offered them money for tickets. I didn’t know they’d pick this weekend—”
“You’ve been talking to them?” Pain glances down my palms; I’ve balled my fists so tightly that my fingernails are biting my skin. “I didn’t say you could do that. I asked you not to speak with them.”
“I thought we were…”
He goes quiet. And I twist around to face him and his cold, expansive disappointment. Which maybe doesn’t sound as big as fury, but it is. That look on his face, like I’m a rocket thatalmostleft the atmosphere then burst into flame, like I’m a ballerina that toppled to her knees in the middle ofSwan Lake. It makes my breath catch inside my chest. There won’t be enough air to bring me back to life once we’re through with each other.
“You thought we were what?” I bite out.
Faust’s jaw pulls to one side, as if he’s sucking at the inside of his cheek, and his dark eyes study me—still on the stage floor, to him. “I see.”
“What? Stop fucking with me, Faust. Just say it.”
His mouth presses into a firm line, plush pink skin flashing white from the pressure before he speaks again. “I thought I could make you believe me.” His throat bobs. “But you still think I’m just like him, don’t you? You’ve been waiting for me to hurt you.”
“Clearly, I was right.” I throw a hand toward the door. “And you’re not innocent, you play games—”
“Not like that. Not with you.”
“No? Then why did you do this?” An emotion unfurls inside me, painfully quick. I think it’s anger, only it’s getting harder to see him. “You said—you said I brought color back into your life or, or whatever. Is this why? Is it fun to you? Bringing my family here so now I have to tell them the truth? Is this you forcing me to, what, come clean to them?”
Faust stares at me blankly. “Isthatwhy you’re upset Bernard proposed to you?”
“Of course.”
“You were just proposed to. In the paddock. There were cameras.” He couldn’t sound more disapproving if he tried. “That was your first proposal, wasn’t it?”
My words stall out, a scatteredum. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I want to be your last.” His words are staccato, jarring,one loudly after the other in a barely repressed yell. “Because you deserve more than having to fake love. Because—seeing you with someone else breaks my fucking heart.”
