Page 117 of The Stranger

“Which is why I’m not telling them. And neither are you.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’m asking you not to. Because it sounds weird,” I add, feeling all kinds of uncomfortable.

“But on brand for you.”

My mouth flattens into a thin line.

“You are weird.” She grins. “That’s part of your charm.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, sounding anything but gratified.

“But why don’t you want to tell them? It would get them off your back.”

“They’re not bothering me.”

“Only because you don’t look at your phone, which means they’re bothering me. I bet you have dozens of messages waiting, and that’ll just be from Mum. You’re the only twenty-something in the world whose phone isn’t permanently glued to their hand.”

“Is it any wonder? I just don’t understand how people can’t live without the stupid things.”

“I say again, weirdo.” She pauses. “Just tell them what you’re doing. Send a group text.”

“I’d rather not invite their opinions. And then there’s the part of me that feels sort of inadequate compared to my siblings. By the time Whit was my age, he was already a billionaire. Heather had her career and her love-life sorted, and Lavender had her art gallery and Raif. Meanwhile I went gung-ho into psychology before deciding it wasn’t for me, which meant I was one of the oldest medical undergrads on my course.

“Box of rocks,” I’m sure she mutters before her eyes suddenly shoot as wide as saucers. “Wait, doesn’t Emmy work for that du Beaumont dude?”

“How do you⁠—”

Her expression takes on a devious edge. “I’ve met him, you know.”

“Lavender, you talk more smack than a nun with a ruler.”

“I have. In Berlin.”

My Spidey senses immediately begin to tingle. Just like Amsterdam is known for its canals, hashish, and the red-light district, Berlin is famous for its fetish nightlife. Along with sausages and Christmas markets, but I digress. Surely not. Lavender and Raif can’t be part of the lifestyle. Oh God… Lavender and Raif and Luc?

“At Art Basel,” my sister adds.

I release a taut breath. That makes much more sense, stupid runaway brain. “Cool,” I answer, all smooth. Or maybe prickly, because that’s how I feel. Like tiny ants are running up and down my body.

“I don’t suppose the reason you’re there has anything to do with Monsieur du Beaumont.”

“They are his children.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

I’m here for Emmy. Because she’s my best friend.”

“Right,” she says, all knowing and insufferable and just urgh! “Oh, Primrose.” She sighs. “You are a terrible liar. You’re not there to do Emmy’s job at all. You’re doing La Billionaire Bleu.”

“Doing who?”

“Don’t tell me how haven’t googled him.” She makes a noise of frustration. “It’s what the tabloids call him, on account of his arresting blue eyes.” She gives a mad flutter of her lashes. “And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“I barely look at him.”

“Then why are your cheeks so red?”