My phone buzzes again. Then again. And again.
Text from an old school friend I haven't spoken to in years:Is that you in the photo on Manhattan Socialite???
Email from a charity board member:Dear Charity, I hope you're well. I couldn't help but notice…
Instagram notification: Someone tagged you in a post.
Another notification. And another.
"Charity." Draco's voice is gentle but firm. "Put the phone down. Eat your eggs. We deal with this one thing at a time."
I force myself to take a bite. It tastes like sawdust, but I chew and swallow. Take another bite. Focus on the simple act of eating instead of watching my carefully controlled life spin out of control in real-time.
By the time we finish—Draco eating steadily, me picking at my plate—my phone has accumulated forty-seven notifications.
We take a taxi back—easier than trying to Uber to the back gate again. The driver glances in the rearview mirror once, does a double-take when he sees me, but doesn't say anything.
By the time we reach the cottage, my phone is on fire.
More tags. More comments. Twitter is exploding with comments, most of which say something like, "Who is Charity Pembroke's mystery man?"
I scan the comments, each one making my chest tighter:
Looks like a performer or artist. Those are definitely thrift-store clothes.
He's hot though. Good for her.
The Pembroke family is going to HATE this.
Anyone recognize him? Reverse image search isn't turning up anything.
Love how happy she looks. When was the last time we saw Charity Pembroke smile like that?
The last comment hits differently. When was the last time I looked that happy in public? I can't remember. Every photo from charity events, every society page appearance—I'm always wearing the same polite, distant smile. The mask my parents taught me to wear.
Butin this photo, I'm not wearing any mask at all.
"They're digging," I tell Draco, showing him the social media thread. "Trying to figure out who you are."
He reads in silence, expression carefully neutral. "What happens when they find out?"
"I don't know." Honest answer. "There's no playbook for 'ancient Roman gladiator dating Manhattan heiress.'"
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. "When you put it that way…"
"It's absurd." I sink onto the cottage sofa, phone still buzzing in my hand. "This whole thing is absurd. We saved Lucky's life this morning. That should be the story. That we cared enough about a stray with a limp to spend twelve thousand dollars on emergency surgery."
"But that's not what makes it interesting," Draco says quietly, sitting beside me. "What makes it interesting is that you're Charity Pembroke and I'm nobody, and we're together, anyway."
The way he says "nobody" makes my heart hurt.
"You're not nobody."
"To them, I am." He gestures at my phone, at the endless stream of speculation. "I have no family name, no pedigree, no social standing. That's what they're trying to figure out—why would someone like you be with someone like me?"
"Because you're kind." The words come out fierce. "Because you woke up when Lucky whimpered and knew immediately there was something seriously wrong. Because you stood up to my parents and called them on theirbullshit. Because you seeme, not just the Pembroke name."
He pulls me close, presses a kiss to my temple. "I know. But they don't know that. All they see is the mystery."
