Chapter Text
February 7, 2023, New York
The place, a little larger than a wine cellar, was too crowded for her tastes. The stench of alcohol and sweat mixed with a hint of mould created a new, nauseating, fourth odour, but Feyre was sure Tamlin would appreciate such a large audience. The trio, made up of her boyfriend, drummer Andras and bassist Ianthe, hadn’t yet hit the stage, and judging by the absence of the usual backstage hustle and bustle, she suspected it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. A real pity, above all because the audio system didn’t seem made to support the terrible commercial disgrace that was currently coming out of the speakers. Probably a trip to the bar, a long counter with a reflective surface placed as the only defence between drunk idiots and a wall of shiny bottles, would have done her good, but since she knew she wasn't supposed to be there, and she was allowed to enter only thanks to a fake ID she had since high school, she didn’t want to risk it. In Sacramento, where she was from, no one would mind giving her a shot or two because no one wanted to upset her father, or be blacklisted by her sister Nesta, who recently took over the company. After all, bars needed the biggest food mogul in the country, even if they didn’t want to admit it. The privilege of growing up in a wealthy and well-liked family hadn’t escaped Feyre, and although things hadn’t gone so well for a while, now everything was back to normal, she entered the school she dreamed of ever since she was a child, and her family was scattered across the United States, intent on building an identity outside their surname. In the beginning, attending the New York Academy of Arts had been just a childhood fantasy, but when, growing up, she realized it could put two days of road between her and the busybodies at the Camelia Waldorf, the dream almost turned into obsession. She missed nothing of California. Not the weather, not the sea, not the desirable appearance hiding one of the rottenest places in the world. The East Coast was different, grey in the northern part, sure, but every neighbourhood had a secret to uncover and no one tried to deny the rats roaming the garbage were the real owners of every city. Feyre was sure Tamlin fell in love with her cynicism, even if the songwriter used to repeat he appreciated how much she could see beauty in everything. They met in a café, his long blond hair pulled back as he scribbled on a leather-bound notebook. An involuntary sad smile spread across her lips. Things had changed a lot since the band started to gain exposure and with them who attended their shows. A small group of men approached her silently, all of them way older than Feyre and undoubtedly interested in something very different from the chit chat she was used to. The other patrons didn’t seem to notice anything, or maybe they didn’t want to, determined not to poke their noses into matters that didn’t concern them. It had been a long time since Feyre trusted in the help of good Samaritans, and surely there weren’t any hidden under bleached locks and pretentious second-hand purchases.
“What do you want?” she asked, upfront as every southern girl learns to be at a young age and at the same time feigning a disinterest and a detachment aimed solely at concealing the terror gripping her insides. They weren’t going to hurt here, not in the crowd, but maybe they wanted to bother her for a while and then leave, the worst-case scenario involving them trying to follow her to the bathroom.
“To have some fun, it’s been awfully dull here recently,” replied the taller one, who was positioned right between her and the backstage entrance. Even if Tamlin had leaned over to make sure she was okay, he wouldn't have been able to see her, hidden by that pair of massive shoulders.
“Well, I’m not funny, so I suggest you find someone else to pester,” Feyre retorted, trying to make eye contact with anyone beyond the circle of men who closed around her like a noose. Even though the danger wasn't so imminent, she was starting to feel short of breath.
“We like challenges,” the smaller one hissed, his lips so thin they almost annoyed her. He looked like a caricature, or the villain from some old Japanese cartoon, but his breath was definitely stolen from a horror movie. The idea of his mouth approaching hers made Feyre sick.
“There you are!” exclaimed a fourth man, making her flinch in surprise. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
The stranger was athletic, with slightly tan skin, an awful lot of tattoos and perfectly combed raven black hair. Unlike the others, he was a sight to behold, someone she would’ve liked to paint, cradled in darkness like a redeemable demon, with wings and fangs and a crown of gold. Even if his face was chiselled and his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes, so blue they nearly seemed violet in the dim light, exuded kindness, and a silent, firm command.
Pretend to know me, they whispered, captivating as the music of a snake charmer, come to me. And Feyre did it. A single step, and she was beside him, the long nails of her right hand digging painful moonlets between the ink covering those muscular arms. He seemed unbothered.
“Thank you for finding her,” her saviour added, smooth and polished. “Enjoy your night.”
He seemed accustomed to deal with scumbags and scary people, and even though he was vastly outnumbered if his intervention escalated in a fight, he also demanded to receive the due respect. He had to be powerful, someone with a position able to instil fear if necessary. He reminded her of Nesta, with enough bite in their words to make people stiffen with just a greeting and a gaze so intense you wonder if they’re not able to violate your mind and read your deepest secrets. Though she liked to think they’d get along if they ever met, Feyre knew they couldn’t stand each other’s sight, no room big enough for their egos.
“What’s a girl like you doing in my uncle’s club?” he asked, sincerely intrigued, once the group of men scuttled back to their business without further comment.
“What kind of girl do you think I am?” she retorted, steering away from the inevitable topic of age. If his family really owned the place, there was no doubt he would soon be scrutinizing her fake ID with painstaking attention, and if he kicked her out, she'd have to take a cab home on the least ideal hour to be waiting alone on a street corner.
“One who doesn’t have enough friends,” he replied, with cruel sincerity but no apparent intention of meanness.
“My friends are in the band,” she corrected him quickly, a tinge of annoyance creeping into her thoughts anyway. She hadn’t really bonded with anyone at the Academy, after all, she’d only just moved when she met Tamlin. As quick as their relationship started, his friends became hers and the interests of the group everything Feyre had to worry about outside of school. It wasn’t bad, having someone make the boring decisions for her, but after a while it got monotonous, and obviously dangerous, given her current situation.
“Then you should find yourself some new ones: I went to check why they’re taking so damn long, and apparently they figured it was better to entertain a few rabid fans than earn the hefty fee we’ve offered, but I probably just can’t see the appeal of these budding idols…” the young man commented, as if he was much older than Tamlin and Ianthe. Maybe a year or two, but nothing that would allow him to behave so condescendingly towards them. In her regards, on the other hand… If she had been smart, if she hadn’t been so young, scared and annoyed at her boyfriend for having something that wasn’t her as his priority, she would’ve thanked the stranger and returned to her evening, but the three men, she knew it, were still lurking somewhere, and when musicians got lost explaining the making process to someone willing to listen, there was little to do but let them vent.
“Since you’re familiar with the place, you should tell me where to look for them,” Feyre retorted with the hint of a smile, and in an instant, she found herself following her saviour to the uncomfortable bar stools. He offered her a suspiciously light beer, while for himself he chose a large glass of whiskey worth way more than it should’ve.
“Before I advise you,” he said between sips, “I need to know a little more about my damsel in distress. Heaven knows how guilty I would feel if I find you bored to death by an upscale soirée full of art critics.”
“What if I like art?” she asked, unable to stifle that haunting instinct that led her to flirt with every enigma she stumbled upon. Perhaps it was just a desire for adventure, for a lightness she constantly sought and, in the process, became more and more unattainable, but the thrill of astonishing others, of revealing herself to be much more than her scruffy aesthetic, made her euphoric.
“In that case, I am the friend you’re looking for,” he replied, without taking his eyes off hers, without implying she needed to be different to be somehow worthy of such occasion. To be totally honest, she was ready for that eventuality too. Not him asking her out, that was surprising, but the chance to mingle with the right crowd, as her father would call them. Deeply hidden in her wardrobe, away from Tamlin’s eyes, a large number of dresses from another life were meticulously hanged, designer pieces slightly out of style but still waiting for a situation requiring a strapless gown or a backless jumpsuit.
“Actually…” she stammered, wondering why she suddenly felt so embarrassed. “I… have… already started to see someone.”
To say she was just seeing Tamlin was the biggest understatement she'd ever uttered, worse than when she swore she was only pranking Nesta when she locked her in the basement for four hours straight. Feyre shared almost everything with her boyfriend: they always ate together, he picked her up from school and brought her back to class the next morning, and even when she painted or sketched sitting in the shade at Central Park, he was always nearby to provide the proper background music. They were a quiet couple who did well in solitude, and though the peace was sometimes disturbed by Ianthe’s influence on his choices, things were fine.
“I know, I know, the blonde douchebag has a heart of gold hidden under his enormous chest and he’s not as self-centred as the lyrics of his songs suggest, it’s just people like it more when you sing of something as relatable as the hardships and the guilt of having perfectly treatable avoidant disturb. The fact is that I didn't ask you to die by my side like we’re in the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy, but to come to an exhibition organized by a dear friend of mine,” he remarked, gulping down the rest of his drink.
“You said you don’t understand their charm, but it seems like you at least listened to their top track,” teased Feyre, wondering when he would put her in her place, how long he would let her play with fire before reminding her flames burn.
“One doesn’t exclude the other,” he replied. “It’s important to know where you put your money, especially in a city where a single misstep would turn even the most loving neighbours into bloodthirsty vultures. Unfortunately, this leads us to how you’re going to pay for my ruined tattoo.”
Feyre’s smile froze on her lips as he turned slightly, showing her four deep cuts on the back of his left forearm, no doubt the product of the adrenaline rush she had in her system when he saved her from the three men who wanted to take advantage of her. Thin red rivulets descended almost to his elbow, intertwining with the dark lines of the ink, a symphony of darkness speaking to her soul more than to her eyes.
“I suggest four platonic dates,” said her saviour, when he realized he would receive nothing but horrified silence. “And if at the end of these four outings you want to see me again, we can consider each other friends.”
“And in the meantime?” Feyre asked, wishing she could eat her tongue as soon as the half-thought words left her lips. How would she explain to Tamlin she was going out with another guy with no romantic intentions? How would he react? Would he be angry? Would he scream? Sometimes it happened, and it hadn’t been pleasant, but she’d never been afraid he might hit her or anything like that.
“In the meantime, you can say you’re apologizing to Rhysand.”
February 8, 2023, Sacramento
Elain took a deep breath in front of the mirror, wondering how many more it would take before her nerves calmed down and the air flowed smoothly from her nostrils. She shouldn't dilate them too much, or at least that's what the Beauty Assistant recommended by Rita, her wedding planner, told her. According to Graysen, her future husband, she was the best in Sacramento, and even though her friends disliked the idea of someone so young always around one of California’s most eligible bachelors, Elain really trusted him. Otherwise, why organize such a sumptuous wedding? Mrs. Calloway, as she called her before their relationship became more informal, told her she was the youngest bride she ever took under her guidance, and although it was kind of an unwritten rule for her to never go under twenty-five, for Mr. Archeron’s daughter she made an exception. Nothing special about that, she was used to receiving preferential treatments wherever she went, and she was certain things could only get better by marrying the only heir of the Nolan family, yet she felt infinitely sad and angry. For the first time, her boyfriend said no to one of her requests. Her wish wasn’t that unreasonable, every bride wanted a wedding shower at Oak Point Events, but he argued it was an unnecessary expense and it was wiser to focus on good entertainment for the day itself. Elain was sure they could afford both, but since she had no desire to make a scene, she bit her tongue and came back to her home, empty since her father was on vacation in the cabin on the Great Salt Lake. She was undecided if she should envy or resent him. Running away like this when she needed him most was a cowardly move, but Mr. Nolan became incredibly pushy with his business proposal, and since he didn’t feel like hurting her soon-to-be father-in-law’s feelings with a reminder he was retired and Nesta was the one to deal with, he packed his bags and left, abandoning her to a whirlwind of facials and dietician appointments. No sweets had been the first terrifying rule she’d been given, and as hard as it was, she respected it so far.
“Don’t make that sad face,” Graysen told her, laughing. “It’s for the best. Just imagine how good the wedding cake will taste after you had nothing but salads for months.”
Although she wasn’t entirely sure his words were true, she kept silent and listened to him praise all the wonders she selected for the dinner menu only he had the privilege of tasting. No one cared if a man put on a few pounds, and it was nearly impossible when her boyfriend was so muscular and obsessed with workouts and meal prepping. At twenty-five, Graysen was in top form, while Elain, who had a notorious sweet tooth, had soft hips and a full bust, aberrant when the hottest dress for the season had a sweetheart neckline and her fiancé’s favourite was equipped with a reinforced bodice. So, they put her on a diet, and the story changed completely when she lost the famous twenty pounds. Elain didn’t feel so different, and although she liked her new, more athletic form, she was sure she wouldn’t continue to undergo the gruelling training sessions proposed by her personal trainer, suggested by the owner of the boutique where she bought all her bridal wardrobe. Truth be told, Elain had a little secret hidden away in her closet, a treat she would give to charity as soon as the ceremony was over. She called it her backup dress, something she could slip on in case the tight skirt of the one she purchased made her feel too uncomfortable. Rita said the lace off-shoulders screamed old Hollywood, and it didn’t matter that Elain liked her natural curls more than those stiff waves covering her right eye, everything was part of the theme, and the Nolans had been adamant on the idea that every guest should have the concept of old money well imprinted in their mind from their arrival to the last farewell. Nesta obviously liked it, she lived for silks and diva trains, and though Feyre might’ve been a good ally in her aversion for discomfort, she was now in New York, lost in her romance with a penniless guitarist, and her opinion would’ve worth little. She was outnumbered, as always, and expressing such opinions as the childish dream of a fairy-tale wedding, with the cake covered in edible flowers and candles as the only lightning source, would make her entourage act like she was throwing a tantrum more than expressing her preferences. Her friends endured it all with stoic resignation, until, on the day she’d been told that throwing dried petals instead of rice was tasteless since her father was a food mogul, they booked an appointment at Kleinfeld. For any women between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five, Say Yes to the Dress wasn’t just a TV show but an institution, an unattainable dream if you were on a budget and didn’t reside on the East Coast, but Elain had different means than all the other young dreamers and so her friends, which was how, under the pretext of accompanying her to visit her younger sister, they dragged her through the famous doors of the atelier. After a brief cognitive interlude, they went straight to the section dedicated to Pnina Tornai, where lace gloves and vertiginous slits were the boring and predictable norm, and even if it took all the poor sale assistant’s patience to satisfy everyone’s tastes, the effort and the subterfuges were repaid by a Tony Ward with a deep v-neckline enriched with a myriad of floral Zibeline appliqués. The voluminous skirt looked like a cloud, and Elain struggled to take it off, even more when they paired it with the cutest veil she ever saw, a shoulder length opaque thing with a little bow on top.
“With such beautiful hair, you’ll look gorgeous,” the saleswoman who finalized the purchase told her, mistaking the gleam in her eyes for tears of joy. Lost in memories, and in whatever it took to repress the disappointment and guilt of being so materialistic and stubborn, she hardly noticed the phone buzzing on her bedside table. Ready to put on her usual brisk tone, she glanced at the name on the display. Was her father planning to return? Perhaps he would’ve helped her to compromise at least on the music, because nothing sounded worse than a first dance on the notes of Frank Sinatra.
“My dear, don’t worry…” whatever the rest of the sentence was, Elain already had the car keys in her hand. An accident on the snow, that’s how her reckless father defined a displaced fracture of the femur and the consequent lesion of the right cruciate.
“Any struggle could make it worse,” explained the doctor who treated him at the Salt Lake hospital. “I’m not saying someone has to take care of him day and night, but if there was the possibility of some occasional visits, it would be ideal.”
Useless words, for Elain was already on the I-80 E and was about to face the longest road trip she ever took. She’d been the last in the family to get her license, and the craziest thing she’d done with the Camry was drive Nuala to San Francisco to adopt a cat she’d seen on Instagram. She’d never done anything illegal, and had never been outside California, which would inevitably happen at mile 120 of her first insane act. She was hysterical, drunk on her little rebellion, and even if her father didn’t really needed her, nor he wanted company with such urgency, still she sent pre-set messages to anyone she agreed to meet and cleared her schedule for the next week, intending to extend her stay at the cabin until the end of the month, if necessary. No one would’ve suspected it was the pressure that pushed her so far, they would only think the love she felt for her father was so great she couldn’t tolerate the idea of leaving him alone on a wheelchair. Maybe Graysen would understand and join her on Valentine’s Day, to hell the format and fonts for the ceremony program nobody would pay attention to. At the moment, though, he just seemed angry. He’d told her to come back at least a dozen times, and all the while Elain kept repeating she was past Reno now and there was no point in a senseless five hours drive when she would reach Lake Point in nine. Nine and a half, to be honest, and only if she didn’t make any stop, which she though quite impossible since she already had to pee, but he didn’t need to know that. Less than ten minutes later, it was Rita’s turn, who asked in an anxious voice if she would be able to return in time to sort out the thank-you gifts. Elain couldn’t hold back a sight. Not even a greeting, not even a hint of concern for her father’s health, which she tried to make seem considerably more instable than it actually was.
“I’m sure we can postpone it to a more convenient time, or at least deal with it remotely,” replied Elain, fighting to keep on the polite façade as she started to grow bored of the Nevada landscape she would’ve to endure for another five hours. She had once been a loner, a child fond of gardening and baking. Graysen changed her, and now she just didn’t know what to do with all this static free time. It used to be devoted to introspection, something Nesta didn’t consider particularly important and Feyre avoided like the plague. Meditation was vital, though, maybe even more than all those crazy exercises she underwent in hop to achieve a butt as firm as a Victoria’s Secret model’s. A stray tear, threatening to ruin her light makeup, forced her to put the reins back on her negative thoughts. Rita, Graysen, even his father, they all wanted only the best for her and if she had to lose weight in order to avoid some hurtful gossips, she would. Once the storm passed, she could enjoy all the desserts and relaxation she craved for on her honeymoon, and after that… Elain sighed again, this time louder. Obviously Mr. Nolan would’ve wanted a grandchild as soon as possible. What happier occasion to celebrate? No scene seemed more out of the American Dream than a young couple surrounded by children, and even though Elain didn’t have a real aversion to becoming a mother, if she had the choice she would’ve liked to travel first, explore the world and herself before devoting all her time to another human being. She wanted to be an excellent mother, who filled her children with attentions, love and the proper care. It was a nice image, perhaps a little empty of feelings, like an advertisement intended to sell a lifestyle rather than a product, but it could be worked on in the squalor of the little city where she stopped for a quick lunch. It was a matter of putting things in perspective: she wasn’t the globetrotter she wished to become, but at least she wasn’t going to sleep in dodgy motels or have permanent jet-lag undereye bags.
“Tell me Nolan is out of his mind because you left him to run away with a handsome Caribbean stripper,” she heard as soon as she replied to Cerridwen’s call.
“No runaway bride, sorry. Dad really broke his femur,” she replied, trying to suppress and amused smile. Her friends never told her outright Graysen wasn’t the man for her, nor had they ever stood in his way, but she knew deep down they hoped they would all die spinster in a house full of sick and crippled animals and they never missed an opportunity to make innocent jokes.
“Did you really heard him from your house?” Elain asked, wondering if it was guilt or satisfaction the feeling rising in her chest. The always impeccable Graysen lost his temper over so little. He too must’ve been exhausted and ready to leave all the preparations behind.
“For a moment, we feared he was talking to you, but eventually we figured out he was just venting to someone else and we calmed down, but we were ready to kill him with our bare hands,” Nuala replied, relief evident in her voice. She was on speaker, as always, for what one of the twins knew had to be knowledge of the other too.
“Is he still home?” Elain inquired, using to her advantage the fact her boyfriend and her best friends were practically neighbours. When they found out, they laughed for hours and promised to keep it a secret, so they could exploit the situation until the lovebirds built their nest elsewhere. For now, and if all went according to plan for a little longer, nobody spilled the truth and Elain had her own wonderful spies she repaid largely with cakes and manicures.
“He must be at Rita’s, maybe this time they’ll try to put make-up on him too,” muttered Cerridwen, who kept repeating to whomever listened that her friend was beautiful even without all those interventions.
"If it were up to me, you'd have to get married barefoot by a lake," she'd told her during one of their sleepovers. They were all pressed into Elain’s bed, the duvet covered with finished packets of potato chips and peanuts, and until sleep got the better of them, they chatted like little girls dreaming of an impossible future.
"I can see you, half naked and with a garland of flowers in your hair," Nuala teased, and though Elain had laughed, the image wasn’t far from her reverie. When they were younger, Elain posed for Feyre with Nesta, the painting long forgotten somewhere, but the experience of empathizing with a water nymph still fresh in her mind. She had enjoyed being wild, at least for a day, and though after a while she had started to shiver, she stood in the water the whole time, one with nature.
“Should we go check if the Wicked Witch is keeping her hands to herself?” asked Cerridwen, pulling her from the grip of melancholy. If only they both hadn’t been so busy, she might’ve seen Nesta a lot more, but even though they lived in the same city, it had been months since they’d last shared a coffee.
“Don’t worry, maybe I’ll call him later to let him know I’ve arrived in Utah,” Elain cut short, and soon she was again alone with her thoughts and the rapidly setting sun. The change in visibility wouldn’t have bothered her if she hadn’t been driving for so long, but her eyes were getting tired and since she forgot her glasses at home, maybe it was time for a stop, though judging by the nowhere she was in, the nearest town must be at least thirty miles away. Just before dusk, a heavy sleet made the road slippery, catching her off guard, and though her destination was just over half an hour away, Elain didn’t feel like moving any faster than she already was. In the dark, the snowflakes illuminated by the headlights engulfed her in a hypnotic embrace, a disorganized dance coming to an abrupt end on the warm windshield and of which even the memory was erased by the wipers. Maybe it was the monotony of those mechanical movements, or maybe tiredness just got the better of her, but in a blink of an eye the Camry went from being with its wheels on the wet asphalt to bouncing between rocks and small shrubs, making her stomach turn with tension. She fell asleep, and to say she felt stupid was an understatement, but what was more concerning was the completely unbalanced car, as if someone stole the left front wheel while it was in motion. She didn’t need to leave the hot cabin to know she had a flat, but said heat wouldn’t last forever, and Elain had no intention of spending the night alone by the side of the road. The only sensible option was to call her boyfriend and have him explain how to change a tire, any quarrel forgotten, and even though he was two states away, she was sure he would help and support her as he always did. On the fourth ring, however, Elain began to suspect her plan would fail. Maybe he was still working, or he was angry enough to ignore what he thought was a courtesy call. Elain tried again, and again, and on the fifth attempt, bitter tears began to sting her eyes, as blind panic crept into her mind. After a couple minutes of total silence and immobility, her phone ringtone made her jump on her seat. She replied in a split second, without even checking who was calling, sure it was Graysen, but it was her father’s concerned voice that reached her from the other side.
“Why are you stuck in Skull Valley?” he asked, without mincing words. Like a fool, Elain glanced forward, as if she expected to see another car parked by the side of the road, her personal saviour in a white Range Rover. There was no one, and the darkness unsettled her even more. Turns out her father installed a tracker on every car he so generously gifted to his daughters, and even though she was shocked at such an invasion of her privacy, deep down she was infinitely grateful. After he begged her no to worry for the car, he sent a friend to pick her up, and in the half hour of waiting, Elain wondered what acquaintances her father might have in Utah. Maybe kind neighbours, other middle-aged men who liked to spend the cold days in front of the fireplace drinking bitters and the sunnier ones on the ski slopes, or maybe locals, people able to recommend the best restaurants and used to the rapidly dropping temperatures. Certainly, she hadn’t expected a guy slightly older than her, with long red hair sticking out of a heavy wool cap and a deep scar crossing half his face. Something, whatever it was, took away his right eye, which had been replaced by a bizarre golden prosthetic.
“You should’ve waited in the car!” he exclaimed, taking off a jacket that would’ve been several sizes too big and draping it around her shoulders, regardless of whether she was actually uncomfortable and before she could even know his name. Elain sank into the warm fabric, smelling of cinnamon apple fritters and cedarwood.
“Your father will never stop bragging about his daughter who drove nine hours just to take care of him,” Lucien said when they were finally out of the snow, now a thick white layer ready to welcome their footprints. Elain had barely been able to introduce herself, too concerned in avoiding to stare openly at someone who so kindly pulled her out of a jam he had nothing to do with, but he didn’t seem to notice, and filled the silence as best as he could, leaving her just enough time to answer the few questions he asked.
“I guess we’ll see each other again soon,” he said as a goodbye, and though Elain should’ve told him something about Graysen, she just thanked him, convincing herself there hadn’t been the time or the occasion.
February 8, 2023, San Diego
Nesta learned from an early age that planning, calculating and observing could save her a great deal of unpleasantness, but planning to avoid disappointment wasn’t always easy, a fact which revealed itself in all its unnerving clarity under the dim lights of the first pub she had come across on the way from her new home to the city centre. She’d been sitting on the same stool for two hours now, but she had no intention of returning to deal with boxes and suitcases, or the solitude of her empty bedroom. Well over halfway through her fifth cocktail, Nesta looked more heartbroken than she actually was. If her love life hadn’t been such a mess, the merging, if you could call that the purchase of a competitor who could no longer stay afloat in an increasingly competitive market, would’ve been perfectly manageable remotely, but Cassian did his best to make things difficult, so they brutally broke up before she could even introduce him to her family. It was for the best, he wanted a wife and a horde of kids while she was a young businesswoman in charge of one of the biggest food companies in the world, but his insistence and his pathetic attempts to get back together that bordered on stalking had gotten on her nerves far more than their last furious fight. She moved right after she found an apartment in a nice area, and under the guise of waning to quickly handle the arrangements in person, she packed her bags without even telling her sisters.
“This is the last one,” the waitress announced, eyeing her half-empty glass. “I wouldn’t want you to forget your way home and spend your first night here wandering the streets.”
“Is it that obvious?” Nesta asked, hiding a guilty grin.
“This place isn’t famous and I’ve never seen you before, so you’re not a tourist nor a local, which narrows the field considerably,” the woman replied, polishing the glasses that had just come out of the dishwasher.
“You’re too perceptive to be someone who lives on tips,” Nesta commented, downing the rest of the reddish liquid.
“If you tell me your secret, I’ll tell you mine,” the barman joked, a faint smile on her red lips.
“No big secrets,” Nesta admitted. “I’m from Sacramento and I’m here on business.”
“Then why are you getting drunk alone and ignoring a slew of messages?” asked the woman, who must’ve been used to entertaining her customers with sagacity and sarcasm. Nesta rolled her eyes. The alcohol hadn’t only helped her pass the time but it also silenced the unnerving buzz of yet another apology from Cassian. For a moment, she was tempted to block him, but she was kind of sure he would show up at her front door if she did.
“He wouldn’t leave me alone at home, he probably doesn’t see why he should do it now that I can’t punch him,” explained Nesta, imagining how much effort would it take to hit that behemoth square in the face. When they first met, Cassian caught her attention for his statuesque, masculine figure. For a moment, she even deluded herself he wouldn’t feel threatened by her position and her independence, but she soon realized it wasn’t going to be the case. For a while, she’d been able to tolerate the jealousy, how he obsessively marked his territory by always sticking by her side, his large hand all over her, but in the end she blurted out and poured all the nastiness she’d so expertly reined. She’d been cruel, and she’d hit right where she knew he would bleed, but she hadn’t cared, and maybe deep down she thought he deserved it. Facing reality never hurt anyone, or at least she’d convinced herself of that in the days directly following their fight, but he must’ve taken it personally and he started doing too much, making a fool of himself.
“What do I have to do to have an Old Fashioned?” asked a new patron from a few stools away, his voice strong enough to snatch her from her sea of thoughts. The guy must’ve been a few years older than her, his choice in clothing too carefully designed to look casual. For a split second, their eyes met, warm amber and freezing ice.
“She’s too busy for you,” the waitress warned, but the young man didn’t seem to hear and moved next to Nesta, asking if she wasn’t up even for light conversation.
“I’m a pretty boring person,” she replied, studying the rows of bottles displayed on the wall behind the counter. Judging by the collection and the bartender’s skills, she could’ve asked for something more complicated than five Manhattans.
“I doubt it,” the guy retorted, forcing her to turn to study his amused expression. His face was beautiful, the features sharp and delicate at the same time, nothing more different from Cassian’s prominent jaw. He looked like a good distraction, someone she could lower her guard around, at least for the night.
“Eris, please, don’t torture my clients,” the waitress begged with a hint of exasperation, loud enough to be heard even as she was serving a long line of shots to an impossibly sad-looking middle-aged woman sitting alone at one of the tables. The small place was gradually filling up, and although the owner seemed gentle and the chatter of the patrons was good company, she couldn’t stay at the counter with an empty glass and no intention to order a mocktail.
“Why did your parents name you after the Greek Goddess of Discord?” Nesta wondered, desperately delaying her departure and at the same time working up the courage to ask for the bill and put an end to her night.
“My paternal grandfather was Greek and he was tired of hearing my mother argue with my father about baby names, so he put an end to the screaming matches in the only way he deemed appropriate,” he replied, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. Given his tone and choice of words, he must’ve once been displeased with that decision, but now he seemed chill about it, as if he got used to those kind of questions.
“The hair is definitely not Greek heritage,” Nesta commented, alluding to the red mane stroking the collar of his shirt.
“Irish,” he confirmed, gesturing to the waitress to bring him something else. “But now I’m curious to know why you said so.”
“You’re not the only multicultural being of North America, you know?” she teased him, certain he would soon take the bait she was throwing. She wasn’t going to mess up that trip with yet another clingy man, but having her drink paid for seemed like a nice accomplishment.
“Let me guess,” he said, studying her so intently she nearly blushed. “Half Greek and half Eastern European?”
A bright smile spread on Nesta’s face, and she dared him to get the right country.
“What if I do?” he asked, his voice reduced to a purr. “What would I get in return?”
“What would you like?” she inquired, leaning slightly towards his seat. She wanted him to breathe in her perfume, to clearly see the deep neckline of her top, barely hidden by her light blazer. She wanted to bewitch him and leave him hanging, for statistically it was extremely unlikely to get the correct answer on the first try and from personal experience she had never met anyone who remotely came close to it.
“A whole day with you,” he decided, sitting straighter, as if he was used to that kind of deals. Maybe it was his way of flirting, maybe it was just part of his job, but Nesta liked it and jumped straight into business mode, never lowering or averting her gaze.
“If I’m not mistaken, you’ve already been told I’m a very busy woman,” she replied, unable to predict what his next move would be.
“I can be your chaperone,” he offered. “I would very much like to have a taste of corporate life, just to remind myself why I choose a different career.”
“You have to guess first,” she reminded him, but something in his victorious expression told her she wasn’t going to win, as if he knew who he was dealing with.
“There's a lot the press doesn't know about you, Nesta Archeron, but your mother's nationality isn't one of them.”