1
GABRIELA
A shadow fallsover my worktable, and a frantic sense of awareness creeps into the edges of my consciousness.
Time’s up.
My hand moves faster, transcribing thoughts as quickly as they roll off the conveyor belt in my mind. The interruption when I’m hyper-focused sets me on edge. If I stop now, my ideas will stall. Already, I can feel them slipping away as the world around me invades my bubble.
I pause, studying the rough silhouette in my concept journal, and jot another note in the margin.
Structured or draped?
Almost as soon as that question disappears into the void, a new thought sparks about a variation I’d like to explore. Before I can pursue it, a finger taps against my desk.
An anxious feeling claws at my chest as I glance up at Professor Harlow. She hovers over me with an apologetic smile while I pull off my noise-canceling headphones and glance around the studio. The other students are already gone, and I didn’t even notice.
“I’m sorry, Gabi,” she says. “I know you’re deep in focus, but there’s a workshop scheduled here in five minutes. I have toclear the space, but you can use the lounge if you want to keep working.”
I frown at the suggestion and shake my head. I may as well try studying for an exam in the middle of a rave. The lounge is too chaotic to complete a single thought, let alone conceptualize my senior collection. Unfortunately, my off-campus apartment isn’t much better. There are parties every night in my building. Doors slamming, yelling, laughing, loud music—the noise never stops. It’s a sensory nightmare, but it’s all I have right now.
“It’s okay,” I tell Professor Harlow. “I’ll just go home.”
She nods and leaves me to pack up, gathering my pencils, fabric swatches, and notebooks into my backpack.
Sensing the commotion, my Chihuahua, Beppe, wiggles around inside my hoodie, using his nose to poke his head out from beneath the hem.
The university granted me a rare accommodation after reviewing my case and clinical documentation, so I’m able to bring him with me to class as my ESA. He calms my nerves, and it probably helps that most of the other students barely even notice he’s here, so he doesn’t cause any distractions.
“Have a nice nap?” I scoop him up and give him a quick cuddle before I tuck him into his fuzzy white tote bag.
“Miss Bianchi.” My guard, Julian, approaches me, reaching for my backpack. “I’ll carry that for you.”
“Thanks.” I avert my gaze, still feeling slightly awkward around him.
Like most women in my world, I’ve had protection for as long as I can remember. I was born into theCosa Nostra, and my family are also members of IVI—aka The Society. They’re both powerful organizations, so guards are a nonnegotiable fact of life. They tell us it’s for our safety, but in my case, I only have one because it would make my family look bad if I didn’t.
For the past five years, I had a guard named Theo. He was a familiar presence I’d grown accustomed to, until last week when Julian showed up in his place. There was no explanation offered, which wasn’t a huge surprise, given that’s how things typically go. But I still found it strange that Theo never said goodbye or gave me any indication he’d be leaving.
Julian is a burly guy with scarred, calloused hands, neck tattoos, and a permanent scowl on his face. And unlike the other guards, his uniform consists of a black leather jacket, jeans, and motorcycle boots.
He does his job and doesn’t bother me, but there’s something about his presence that feels out of place. If this were one of those pick-the-object-that-doesn’t-belong games, it would be him. He’s less militant than the other guards and more scary biker dude.
I don’t feel threatened by him, but I dislike change, and it will take me a while to get used to him. Fortunately for me, he doesn’t try to engage me in small talk, which I appreciate. I have a limited social battery, and this year I’ll be depleting most of it during the last stretch of school at Laurelhaven University.
With a brain that constantly feels like it has a hundred browser tabs open, every interaction costs me something.
Julian leads me to the car waiting for us in the campus lot, and once we’re all settled in, my driver, Leo, navigates us through the streets of Seattle. I slide my headphones back on and hit play on my audiobook, intending to switch off for a while. But before I even get a chance, a text from my stepfather, Michael, pops up on my phone.
Dinner with Riccardo’s family Friday night. Don’t make plans.
Resignation settles in my gut.
Ever since Michael signed the marriage contract with the Venturi family, I’ve been summoned to participate in these forced gatherings. But lately, the frequency has been increasing.
I could think of at least twenty other ways to torture myself that would be more palatable than sitting in a room with Riccardo Venturi. The last time we had dinner together, he talked about himself for two hours and didn’t ask me a single question.
He’s arrogant, entitled, loud, and obnoxious—but he’s who Michael chose for me, so my opinion doesn’t matter.
