Page 113 of Cruel Lies

We slip back into the box just as the music swells. The champagne has gone flat in the bucket, but I don't care. I settle into the red velvet seat, Ronan settles beside me, and our fingers intertwine on the armrest between us like nothing happened.

Down on the stage, the soprano reaches for her final note.

"Here it comes," Ronan murmurs. "The part where he finds out."

I hold his hand a little tighter and watch.

30

CALI

The soprano dies. The tenor finds out and crumbles to his knees. The whole room stands and claps, and I borrow Ronan's hand, which is still holding mine, so I can applaud, too.

"What do we think?" he asks as the lights come up. "Do you like opera now?"

"I like the crying part," I say. "And the champagne part. I don't know about the rest."

"Well, then you're in good luck, because that's most of it."

We ride the elevator down to meet the car waiting at the curb. Paolo holds the door. I climb in and expect Ronan to give the driver my address like he always does, but he doesn't.

"Not home?" I ask.

"The kids are with your mother tonight," Ronan reminds me. "You have until morning."

"So?"

"So I thought I'd show you where I live."

That makes me do a double-take. In all these dates, all these weeks, I've never seen his apartment. I've seen his office, forty floors up over the Hudson. I've seen restaurants and aquariums and a party he threw for the whole city. But not where he sleeps.

"Okay," I say happily. "I'd like that."

Ronan gives Paolo a nod and we pull away. The car goes uptown before stopping outside a building I would never in my life have walked into on my own. The doorman greets Ronan with a deep bow. Beyond him, there's marble and a gilded elevator that needs a key. Ronan puts a key in it, and it goes up and up and up and doesn't stop.

The doors open right into the apartment. No hallway. Just,boom, welcome home, Your Highness.

I step out of the elevator and grind to a halt.

"Oh."

The place is huge. Like, bonkers huge. The ceilings are twice as tall as any ceiling should be. One whole wall is frameless glass, and behind it the whole city spreads out, all lit up, like somebody dumped a bucket of stars on the ground.

The floors are dark wood, wide planks, polished so I can almost see myself in them. The area rug looks older than my grandmother and feels softer than anything I've ever stood on. The furniture is sleek, clean, and expensive-looking, the leather and dark metal all gleaming brightly.

A granite hearth houses a fireplace big enough to roast a cow. Art lines every wall, illuminated by custom lighting. A kitchen looms in the far corner with Space Age appliances that do I-don't-even-know-what.

"This is where you live," I say in shock.

"Most of the time, yes."

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. "It's very clean."

"Were you expecting a pig sty?"

"No, no, of course not." I walk up to the glass and look out. From up here you can see Central Park, dark and huge, and the river, and the lights going all the way out. "It's just, like, a lot. It doesn't look like anybody lives here. It looks like a magazine."

"That's fair." He's taken off his jacket somewhere. He comes and stands beside me, sleeves rolled, and looks out at the same view. "I bought it because it was the best one. I don't spend much time thinking about it."