Cora’s voice echoes in my head.Engagement party. Matt and Gianna. Miserable.
Matt was always going to follow through and play the part of dutiful heir, the perfect O’Malley son, aligning power with the Cosa Nostra. I always knew that this future was waiting for him, inked into his blood long before I ever touched his skin.
But knowing doesn’t stop the ache.
I’m not there to see it unfold—the staged smiles, the crystal flutes clinking, Gianna’s hand looped through his arm like she belongs there. I should be grateful for the distance, grateful that exile has spared me that particular humiliation.
And yet.
I’mstillthe one banished, while he gets to stand under chandeliers, toasted like a king. The same men who forced me out of London, who erased me from their world as though I never mattered, are probably shaking his hand and calling him loyal, congratulating him on his marriage.
Fine. If Matt can parade around with her on his arm, smiling for cameras, pretending none of it ever mattered, then I can pretend too. I can bury him beneath someone else’s hands, someone else’s lips, until he’s nothing but a bad taste in my mouth.
If he wants to forget me, I’ll forget him first.
I swipe to a message thread I’d never meant to answer. Months ago, Isabella had dragged me to a gallery opening, then—as usual—got swept away, leaving me alone to study abstract canvases that made no sense. Until Louis appeared.
He was a photographer, drifting through France in search of beauty. Charming, insistent and watching me like I was a mystery he intended to solve. He’d coaxed my number out of me that night, firing off the occasional message I never bothered to answer.
Until now.
Desire, defiance, fury—they all tangle together, and before I even think, my fingers are typing back. Just a spark, a thread. Maybe I’ll see him. Maybe I’ll let someone else touch me the way Matt can’t. Maybe I’ll burn a little just to remind myself I’m still alive.
The reply is almost instant.
I stare at the screen, pulse quickening. This isn’t about him. It’s not even about wanting company. It’s about proving—to myself, to Matt, to the universe—that I’m not some broken, discarded secret hiding in a foreign city while the Four Points pretend I don’t exist.
I hit send before I can think too much.
The phone buzzes again almost immediately, but I set it down and walk to the window. Lyon glows outside, the Rhône reflecting amber streetlamps. It’s beautiful here. A city that has no idea who I was, no idea who I still am.
I press my forehead to the glass.
Maybe this is what freedom looks like—choosing someone new, even if it’s only for a night. Pretending I’m a girl who doesn’t dream of a man she can’t have, a girl who doesn’t still feel the pull of a family that cast her out.
“Your move, O’Malley,” I whisper into the dark.
The restaurant is all soft candlelight and polished silver, the kind of place that whispers elegance rather than shouts it. I’ve been here once before, with classmates after a show, but tonight it feels different—more intimate, more dangerous, like walking a line I don’t want to cross but can’t resist.
I catch my reflection in the glass as I push open the door. The dress I chose is deliberate—dark silk, low at the back, barely brushing the line between modesty and provocation. My lipstick is deeper than I usually wear, and I spent far too long curling my hair for a date I’m not even sure I care about. Texting Louis last night was my hurt in action—an impulsive flare of spite and need.
Hell, I didn’t even tell Abbie or Cora because I didn’t want anyone to see how much I still let Matt affect me. But I’m here now, and I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try to forget my stepbrother for one night.
“Lily.” Louis’ voice is warm when I approach. He stands, tall and tailored, all French charm and unthreatening strength, exactly the kind of man I should want. Not the kind of man who leaves me bruised with memories.
“You look…” he hesitates, searching for the word like it might be dangerous to speak it, hand braced on the back of the chair he pulled out for me. “Enchanting.”
I smile politely, but my chest tightens as I slip past him to take my seat. Compliments used to roll off me like water. Now they land like stones in a still pond, sending ripples through everything fragile beneath the surface.
A waiter appears with the menus as Louis dives into an endless stream of small talk—about photography, the exhibition he’s curating, how Lyon at night holds secrets—only pausing to place our orders. His voice is soft, deliberate, intoxicating and exactly the kind of man any rational woman would want.
I am not rational.
Half the date I’m somewhere else—a different table, a different city. Matt’s broad shoulders bent over white linen. His laugh spilling across a whiskey glass at O’Neill’s. The images are a dragnet. They pull and pull until nothing else fits.
“Are you all right?” Louis’s voice tugs me back. His sea-green eyes are fixed on mine; I wish they were emerald—hotter, sharper, more dangerous.
I give him the smallest, practised smile. “Yes, sorry. It’s been a long day at the studio; the showcase is coming up. I’m sure you know how it is.”
