"At a diner. Near the vet clinic. Luckyneeded emergency—"
"I know where you are." Her voice is ice. "Or rather, half of Manhattan knows where you are. Did you think no one would notice Charity Pembroke leaving an emergency vet clinic at two in the afternoon with an unknown man?"
My blood runs cold. "What are you talking about?"
"Check your phone. The internet. Any social media platform." She sounds furious and terrified. "You've been photographed. Both of you. And people are asking questions."
I pull up Instagram with shaking hands. Type my own name into the search bar.
The first post is from @ManhattanSocialite, posted two hours ago:
Charity Pembroke (yes, THAT Pembroke) spotted leaving SilverPoint Vet Clinic with mystery man. Who is he? ?? #ManhattanElite #SocietyGossip
The photo is unmistakable. Me and Draco walking hand-in-hand out of the clinic. My hair is wild, coat askew, face pale with exhaustion. But I'm smiling at something he said. And he's looking at me like I'm the only person in the world.
We look happy. We look real. We look completely smitten.
"Charity?" Mother's voice cuts through my shock. "Are you listening to me?"
"I see it," I manage.
“Tell me you are not involved with that man.” Her voice is sharp, clipped. “The street magician from Friday. Charity—what on earth are you doing parading around Manhattan with him?”
"His name is Draco." I force myself to stay calm. "And yes, he's the same person. We took our dog to the emergency vet. That's all."
"'Our dog.'" Mother's laugh is bitter. "Charity, do you have any idea what this looks like? The Pembroke heiress sneaking around with some performer, spending the night at veterinary clinics. The speculation is already starting. People are digging. Asking questions."
"Let them ask." I'm surprised by how steady my voice is. "I have nothing to hide."
"Nothing to—" She breaks off. "Your father wants to speak with you. Tonight. Both of you, apparently, since you seem determined to involve this man in everything."
"Fine." I glance at Draco, who's watching me with concerned eyes. "We'll come by after we check on Lucky this evening."
"Not the mansion. Too many staff who might talk to the press." Mother sounds like she's thinking fast. "Father's office. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
She hangs up before I can respond.
I set down my phone carefully, like it might explode. Draco reaches across the table, covers my hand with his.
"What happened?"
"We've been photographed. It's online." I turn my phone so he can see the post. "My mother says people are asking questions."
He studies the photo, expression unreadable. "None of these people know who I am."
"Yet." The word hangs heavy. "But they will. If people start digging…"
I don't finish the sentence. Don't need to. If anyone digs into Draco's background, they'll find… what? A man with no last name, no traceable history past a few months ago, no digital footprint except recent street-performance videos.
They'll find a mystery. And mysteries make people curious.
Our eggs arrive. The waitress—a tired woman in her sixties—sets down the plates without looking at us. But the younger server behind the counter is staring. Phone half-hidden behind the coffee pot.
"We should go," I say quietly.
"We should eat." Draco picks up his fork. "Running makes it look like we're hiding something."
He's right. But my stomach is churning too hard to think about food.
