“A masterpiece,” she whispers, handing me a golden hand mirror.
“You’ve outdone yourself.”
“No. I just added a touch of color.”
Delphine disappears into her closet and comes out looking as if she were put on earth to destroy men. Her dress is thigh-length and midnight-blue. It shifts to black when the light catches it. The back is open, and she’s swept her dark hair into a messy bun.
She adds some lipstick, then checks her teeth in the mirror. “Ready to ruin some lives?”
“Lead the way.”
The tequila hums through my bloodstream, and everything feels light. The ride along the coastal road takes about twenty minutes. We wind around cliffs that drop straight into the sea below while Delphinescrolls social media. I roll down the window and let the warm night air tangle my hair. As we round the corner, I can feel the bass vibrating through the car before the villa comes into view.
“Marcelo likes to make an impression,” Delphine says. “Try not to look too impressed. He’s also extremely charming, so stay sharp.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
His place is ridiculous. It’s three stories of pale stone that’s lit up with colorful lights. Fairy lights are strung around the balconies, and expensive cars are parked haphazardly along the driveway. Our driver pulls up to the entrance and lets us out.
“Welcome to Montclaire,” Delphine says with a laugh as she takes my arm.
The doors open, and the first thing I notice is how beautiful everyone is. This comes from generations of wealth and access to the best trainers, dermatologists, and stylists money can buy. Men in tailored suits cluster near the bar. I recognize a few faces from magazines and tabloids. These are the kinds of people whose last names open doors and whose scandals make headlines. This is my world, too, even if I sometimes forget it.
Delphine squeezes my arm as we step inside, and heads turn. One by one, conversations pause. Recognition flickers across faces as they try to place me. A woman near the bar leans over to whisper something while a man by the windows straightens his posture. We steal the attention.
“They’re staring,” I whisper.
“Let them.”
Delphine grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd. A man cuts toward us with the kind of swagger that tells me he’s never been told no in his entire life. His dark, curly hair, paired with his unbuttoned white linen shirt, gives main character energy.
He pulls Delphine into a hug and spins her around. “Cousin. You’re late.”
She laughs when he sets her down. “Fashionably, wouldn’t you say?”
He nods, and his attention moves to me. His brown eyes slide from my lips down my body. “And you must be the famous artist.”
“Addison.”
I extend my hand, and he takes it, turning it over so he can press his lips to my wrist.
“Marcelo.” He holds on a beat too long. “Delphine has been talking about you nonstop. Somehow, she failed to mention you werebeautiful.”
“She mentioned you were extremely charming.”
“Did she mention I was very single and searching?”
Delphine rolls her eyes so hard that I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “Down, boy. Addison is here for a reason that doesn’t includeyou.”
He releases my hand with a grin full of mischief. “I’m being hospitable.”
I recognize his type immediately because I’ve met a hundred versions of him over the years. He’s a flirt who makes every woman feel like she’s the only one in the room while simultaneously working the entire party. Not husband material, but fun for an evening if I decide to play.
“Champagne,” he announces, and three glasses materialize seconds later.
I take one and sip, watching him, learning him. Life is a big game of chess.
“It’s an honor to have you in my home,” he says. “Your talent is incredible. Delphine showed me your work, and I was very impressed. I’d love to have you paint something for me.”
