A waiter materializes with another Champagne flute and adjusts the place settings.
I take a long sip from my glass, suddenly grateful for its numbing effect.
“So,” Valentina says, leaning toward Slayer. “Tell me everything. How long have you two been together?”
“Not long,” Slayer says, but only after sweeping the room to ensure no reporters are within earshot.
“Almost a month,” I say simultaneously, remembering Milo’s media packet.
Valentina’s eyebrow arches.
Slayer’s jaw tightens. We’ve already managed to contradict each other.
“Well, it feels like forever.” I recover, placing my hand on Slayer’s arm and offering what I hope is a besotted smile. “Doesn’t it, darling?”
“Absolutely,” he agrees, playing along—for the moment, anyway. “Time loses meaning when you’re with the right person.”
Valentina watches this exchange with what seems like thinly veiled skepticism.
Our main course arrives, and the conversation shifts to safer topics: Sterling’s recent art acquisitions, Valentina’s refurbished villa here in Saint-Tropez, the upcoming film festival in Cannes.
Slayer contributes occasionally, but I notice his attention is increasingly drawn to Valentina.
The way she touches his arm when she laughs. The private jokes they share. The ease of long acquaintance.
I feel increasingly invisible—a prop in a scene where the real action happens between others.
As we finish the meal, I notice the fashion show has ended, and the model I was admiring before—now dressed in a saucy white server’s uniform—approaches our table.
“May I offer you the dessert selection?” she asks, her French accent lilting pleasantly.
“Actually,” Sterling says with a secretive smile, “we have something special planned.”
Before I can question what he means, the music changes.
A rhythmic, celebratory beat fills the air, and servers begin to gather.
“What’s happening?” I ask Slayer, who appears equally puzzled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ announces.
“Caroline is honored to host a very special celebration today. Please join us in wishing a happy birthday to Mademoiselle Bix Bismark, who joins us all the way from New York City with her boyfriend, the legendary Slayer!”
My stomach drops as a procession of servers approaches our table, carrying torches that shoot up toward the blue sky and a towering cake adorned with sparklers.
The entire restaurant turns to watch—and film the action with their phones—as they surround us, clapping rhythmically.
Sterling beams, clearly delighted by the spectacle he’s created.
Slayer’s arm goes around me. I feel a jolt of anger as I can no longer pretend it’s anything but for the cameras, for the show.
All for Sterling’s elaborate PR game.
“Happy birthday!” the crowd chants.
The heat from the sparklers matches the embarrassment burning in my cheeks.
This isn’t about celebrating me—it’s about creating a photo opportunity, ensuring that Slayer’s new girlfriend makes the gossip columns.
