7. Azaria
AZARIA
Iwake up furious.
Not the slow-burning kind that builds over coffee and headlines. The immediate, blazing variety that has me sitting upright in Theo's pristine guest bed at seven in the morning, staring at the wall of windows that overlook his perfectly manicured courtyard.
Matcha. I'm losing my mind over matcha.
Except it's not about the tea. It's never about the tea.
It's about the fact that yesterday I couldn't walk two blocks without a security detail treating me like I'm carrying state secrets.
It's about waking up in a house that feels like a museum, surrounded by rules and protocols and the suffocating weight of someone else's idea of what's best for me.
It's about Theo calling me a mess like that's news to anyone, including myself.
I pad to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. My hair's a disaster from not sleeping on silk pillowcases, and there are pillow creases across my face. I look human. Vulnerable. Everything the world isn't supposed to see.
"Well, that's about to change."
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in front of the walk-in closet Theo's housekeeper cleared for my things.
My fingers trail across hangers until they find exactly what I'm looking for—the leopard print silk dress that made my stylist quit last year.
The one that barely covers my ass and has a neckline that suggests rather than conceals.
The one that photographs beautifully.
I slip it on, the silk cool against my skin as it settles into place.
The mirror reflects someone who looks nothing like a woman in hiding.
The dress hugs every curve, the leopard print wild and unapologetic against my dark skin.
I add the highest Louboutins I own—red soles that click like gunshots against marble floors.
My hair gets the full treatment. I take down yesterday's style, letting my natural curls fall in waves past my shoulders.
Then I grab the under-eye masks from my skincare routine. Gold and ridiculous, they sit beneath my eyes like tiny shields. I press them into place and leave them there.
"Perfect."
The wine comes from Theo's collection—a bottle of Chateau d'Yquem. I pour myself a generous glass, the golden liquid catching the morning light.
My phone buzzes with notifications I ignore. Seventeen missed calls from my publicist, forty-three text messages, and a voicemail from my father that I delete without listening to. The world wants to talk, but I'm done listening to other people's versions of my story.
The balcony doors slide open with a whisper, and Manhattan spreads out below me like a stage set. The morning air hits my skin, cool and sharp, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and construction and life happening without permission from security teams.
And there they are.
The photographers have multiplied overnight, scattered across the street like vultures with telephoto lenses. I count at least twelve, maybe fifteen, their cameras already turning toward the building like flowers following sunlight.
They want a show? I'll give them a show.
I step fully onto the balcony, wine glass in hand, and the clicking starts immediately. Rapid-fire shutters, the mechanical symphony of professional documentation. I lean against the railing, letting the silk dress catch the breeze, my hair flowing over one shoulder.
A photographer shouts something from the street, but I don't strain to hear it. This isn't about them. This is about me taking back control of my own image, my own narrative.
I raise my wine glass in a mock toast to the cameras below, my smile sharp and knowing.
Let them capture this—Azaria Emerson in leopard print and under-eye masks, drinking expensive wine at eight in the morning, completely unbothered by scandal or speculation or the suffocating weight of other people's expectations.
The clicks intensify, and I give them more. A wink. A laugh that carries across the street. I run my fingers through my hair, arch my back slightly, pose like I'm on a runway instead of a balcony.
This is who I am. Not the carefully managed version my father wants, not the reformed saint Theo's trying to create. Just me—messy and defiant and absolutely unrepentant about taking up space in the world.
My phone starts ringing against the glass table, but I don't move to check it. I already know what's happening. The photos are uploading, circulating, spawning headlines and hot takes and think pieces about my mental state.
Good. Let them talk.
The balcony doors slide shut behind me with a soft click, and I'm halfway across the living room when I see him.
Theo stands in the doorway like a wall of disapproval, still in workout clothes from what must have been an early morning session. His grey eyes track from my leopard print dress to the wine glass in my hand to the gold under-eye masks still plastered beneath my eyes.
"Really?"
I take another sip of wine, letting the sweetness coat my tongue before I answer. "Good morning to you too, sunshine."
"It's eight-thirty in the morning, and you're giving them a photo shoot."
"I'm having breakfast. Wine counts as fruit, doesn't it?"
His jaw tightens. "I've already seen the photos. Everyone's seen the photos. That was the point, wasn't it?"
I drain half the glass in one reckless gulp, the wine burning slightly as it goes down too fast. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Because it is a bad thing." He steps into the room, and I notice his phone clutched in his hand, screen still lit with what I assume are notifications about my impromptu morning performance. "You're making this worse."
"Worse than what? Hiding in your pristine little fortress, pretending I don't exist?"
"Worse than giving them exactly what they want. The goal is to become boring enough that they move on to the next story. Not to hand them fresh content every morning."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were such an expert on crisis management."
"I've lived with public narratives long enough to know that feeding them is never the win it feels like in the moment."
"Right." I set the glass down harder than necessary, the crystal ringing against the marble table. "Because this is all about narratives and optics and making sure nothing disrupts your perfectly curated image."
"That's not?—"
"Isn't it?" I cross my arms, the silk of my dress shifting with the movement. "Be honest, Theo. What you actually care about is perception. Not me, not the truth of what happened in Paris. Just the image and how I fit into it. Or don't."
"Why is making a point more important to you than your own life?"
I take a step closer, close enough to see the flecks of darker grey in his eyes.
"Why don't you understand why I'm upset?"
"Azaria—"
"No, seriously. Why doesn't anyone understand that being locked inside someone else's home, unable to get matcha or step outside without a security clearance, is not a small thing?" My voice rises despite my efforts to keep it steady. "I'm a person, Theo. Not a liability to be managed."
The silence stretches between us, thick and loaded. I'm fully prepared for whatever cutting response he's about to deliver—something about responsibility or consequences or how my behavior reflects on everyone around me.
Instead, he runs a hand through his buzzed hair and looks at me with something that might be actual consideration.
"You're right. I do understand why you're upset."
I blink. That's not the script we usually follow.
"The security detail, the restrictions, being treated like you need constant supervision. I'd hate it too."
My arms are still crossed, but something in my chest loosens just slightly. "Oh."
"And I shouldn't have called you a mess. I was annoyed, and it came out wrong. I don't actually think that about you. I am very sorry.”
The under-eye masks feel ridiculous now, gold patches catching the morning light as I stare at him. This is not how Theo Tate operates. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't admit to being wrong about anything, especially not about me.
"In fact, I think you're impressive."
I've spent years cataloguing Theo Tate as someone who looks at me and sees a problem to be solved or contained. Someone who watches my chaos with barely concealed irritation, who tolerates my presence because our families are connected and avoidance isn't always possible.
But there's something in his eyes now that suggests he sees more than he lets on. That maybe he's been watching for different reasons than I assumed.
The crack that opens in my carefully constructed understanding of him is small, but it's there. Persistent. Uncomfortable.
I wave my hand dismissively, turning away to pick up my wine glass. "Please. Save the flattery for someone who needs it."
"Azaria—"
"I'm going to shower." I head toward the stairs. "These masks need to come off before they permanently attach to my face."
I don't look back to see his expression, but I feel his eyes following me.
The apology sits in my chest like a stone I can't quite swallow, and I hate that it matters.
Hate that after all these years of knowing exactly where I stand with him, he's managed to shift the ground beneath my feet with a few honest words.
The leopard print silk swishes around my thighs as I climb the stairs, and I focus on that instead—the familiar weight of expensive fabric, the click of designer heels, the performance of being untouchable.
But his voice echoes anyway. Impressive.
Like he meant it.