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AFTERWEARRIVEin Nice, France, things between Ava and I are...different. We’re somehow moreandless comfortable with one another. We’re sleeping in separate rooms, but every time we pass one another in the airy, light-flooded villa there’s a tension that crackles. A little spark that threatens to catch if I don’t remain vigilant.
The day after we arrived, I took Ava out for a tour of the Promenade des Anglais and talked about the varying architectural styles which spread from Paris to Nice and other parts of France during the Belle Époque period. She soaked it all in, eagerly asking questions until I found myself lost in my personal passion for historical architecture.
It’s not often I get to geek out with a willing ear, let me tell you.
Then we had dinner at a small, intimate restaurant and she told me all about the gap year she spent backpacking around Europe. We’ve been to many of the same places and we swapped stories about our favourite piazzas in Italy and the Christmas markets in Germany and Austria. By the following morning, there were several pictures of us floating around online and I have to admit that if I didn’t know any better... I would assume we were in love.
But ever since I showed Ava the images, she’s been distant. Standoffish. I know it must make her uncomfortable—media attention isn’t something I’ve gotten fully used to myself. My uncle sat me down a few years back, and explained that attention is like a tool. It’s sharp-edged and dangerous if you’re not careful, but when wielded by someone with skill it can accomplish great things. Ever since then, I’ve tried to view it for what it can give me: exposure for my company, recognition for the hard work of my staff, raising the profile of my family name.
“If only that’s where the focus stayed,” I mutter to myself as I stare at my laptop screen. A second later, the familiar ringtone of Skype slices through the quiet air. It’s Marc.
Bracing myself, I accept the call. My brother’s face fills the screen. He’s sitting on a balcony. I recognise the glittering view behind him—the line of lights along Chapel Street, the growing cluster of towers from the CBD in the distance. These days he lives in the city with Lily, but this view is from his old apartment. An apartment I thought he was planning to sell.
“You can stop what you’re doing, Dan.” He rakes a hand through his hair in a way that’s like looking into a mirror. “I see through your bullshit, okay? Even if the media doesn’t.”
I clench my jaw. I knew Marc would be a tough sell, but I’d hoped there was some part of him that still wanted to see the best in me.
A part you were hoping to exploit?
I shove the inconvenient thought to one side. “Excuse me?”
“I know your relationship is a sham,” he says bluntly. “And I know you think diverting my attention will make me forget about you and Lily.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “This whole thing is ludicrous. I’m your brother.”
“And?”
“I don’t need to steal anyone’s wife,” I say, controlling my voice. “Why would I screw around when I have such a beautiful woman already in my bed?”
Do not think about Ava being in your bed. Do not think about Ava being in your bed.
But the image forces its way through all the dark emotions simmering inside me, as if she’s a ray of light parting storm-heavy clouds. At dinner she’d reached for my hand, her eyes alight as I talked about my travels.
It’s all for show, I know that.
“You have a beautiful woman that you’reusingto prove a point,” Marc accuses, jabbing his finger at his computer screen. The image flickers for a second while his internet connection stalls. “I hope, for her sake, that she knows what this is all about.”
A guilty lump forms at the back of my throat. But I can’t worry about Ava—shedoesknow what this is about. Neither one of us went into this blind.
“I really hope you’re not selling her a lie, Daniel.” Marc shakes his head. “You’ve always had a fucked-up relationship with commitment.”
“Says you,” I spit.
“I got married,” he counters. “I was ready to give Lily everything.”
“What about me? We’re supposed to be brothers and you treat me like the enemy.” I shake my head. “You’ve only ever wanted what I had and when you don’t get it, you throw a tantrum and make shit up to drive a wedge between us.”
“I know what I saw.” Marc’s tone is frostier than usual.
“That’s right, the mystical photo.” I roll my eyes.
Marc lets out a growl of frustration—the sound is inhumane. Born of real, true pain. The kind of pain you can incur only when you make yourself vulnerable to another person—the way Marc has with Lily. The way my mother did with my father.
The way I will never allow myself to be.
“Show it to me.” I stare at the screen. “If you think you have proof, then I want to see it.”
A second later an email notification pops up on my screen. There’s nothing in the subject line, no text in the body. Just an attachment. Inside is a picture—aconvincingpicture—of what looks like Lily and me in a close embrace, almost kissing. She’s wearing a flowing red dress, her hair pulled back into an elegant twist. There’s a timestamp on the bottom of the photo, indicating it was taken three months ago.
