And it’s not that I’m not proud or happy. I am. Especially because I get to give her that joy. The problem is, the rest of the world doesn’t care—and he probably understood the first time she told him.
He didn’t need to keep hearing it over and over again at every opportunity. But of course, when I tried to warn Rosa Marchesi about that, she simply ignored me. Mothers, right?
“She’s proud,” he says, reverently—and the way he says it instantly dissolves my embarrassment. “Very proud.”
“And she should be. The credit is all hers.” The moment the words leave my mouth, my face falls—I think I’ve just committed a faux pas. Three of the four men in front of me were raised without mothers, and here I am praising mine. Apollo, however, doesn’t seem bothered. He’s the one who replies.
“Don’t be modest. Full scholarships aren’t given to students who don’t work hard.”
I shrug, silently brushing it off—while internally glowing from the small recognition. Not because I didn’t already know it, but because of who said it.
“They were amazing years,” I finally answer the original question.
“You can do better than that,” Drako says. “Give me the juicy details.”
His request pulls a laugh from me—one that’s abruptly cut off by a loud exclamation from a man I don’t recognize.
“Hey! Deliveries are made through the service entrance and are definitely not handed to one of the directors! You’re in the wrong place!”
He’s right in assuming the box in Atlas’s arms was delivered by me. I blink and swallow hard, trying to make my brain function so I can apologize and respond.
“She’s not an employee, Alastor.”
Catching me completely off guard—and sending my heart into even more frantic chaos—Nero answers before I have the chance.
“She’s my guest. She’s just doing me a favor,” he says, his tone indisputable.
The man—Alastor—blinks, almost frozen in time for a couple of seconds, weighing Nero’s words, which obviously make no sense. Of course I’m a guest. The entire island was invited to the Christmas party. That doesn’t mean I’m not an employee.
None of that leaves Alastor’s lips, though. He simply nods.
“Of course, Mr. Zanthos. I apologize for the confusion. Do you need anything?”
“No, Alastor. Thank you.”
“May I take the box?” he asks, nodding toward Atlas.
“Please,” Nero replies.
I watch with the same astonishment that marked the entire exchange as the association employee takes the box from Atlas’s arms, gives me one last apologetic glance, and disappears through a door.
“I’ll see you tonight, then?” Nero asks as soon as the man is gone—and I blink, realizing he’s speaking to me again.
“Of course,” I answer—again, too quickly. “Of course.” This time, I don’t remember waiting the three seconds. Nero’s lips curve into the faintest smile, but it’s enough to send a shiver down my spine.
“Good. Very good.”
“I—I need to go,” I stuttered, feeling more nervous with every second I spend in front of the four of them. “It was nice seeing you again.”
“The pleasure was all ours,” Drako says.
He closes the distance between us with one long step and cups one of my cheeks with a large hand before kissing the other—without giving me time to prepare. And before I can even process what’s happening, Apollo and then Atlas do the same.
It only lasts seconds—and still, I find myself yearning for Nero’s turn when I realize, one after the other, they’re all going to say goodbye to me.
He’s never touched me.
I spent years chasing every scrap of information I could find about someone I’d never touched, someone I’d never even exchanged ten meaningful words with. I was only five when he left the orphanage. It was shortly after Christmas.
