17. Azaria
AZARIA
I've perfected the art of acting unbothered. Two days of casual indifference, treating Theo like a particularly useful piece of furniture that happens to make excellent coffee and occasionally offers intelligent conversation.
The performance is flawless. I breeze through the townhouse in silk robes and designer loungewear, hair in fresh braids, makeup subtle but present.
I answer his questions about breakfast preferences with the same tone I'd use to discuss the weather.
When he asks if I need anything from the store, I smile politely and request sparkling water.
I'm the picture of sophisticated detachment.
I'm also losing my mind.
Because every time he moves through a room, I remember how those hands felt mapping my skin.
When he reaches past me for something in the kitchen, the scent of his cologne triggers sense memory so vivid I have to grip the counter to stay upright.
Last night, I heard him in the shower and spent twenty minutes staring at the ceiling, replaying the sound he made when I bit his shoulder.
This morning, I catch myself watching him read the newspaper, studying the way he frowns at particularly irritating headlines. There's something almost tender about his concentration, the way he unconsciously runs his thumb along his bottom lip when he's thinking.
I want to know what's happening behind those grey eyes, whether he's replaying the same moments that have been torturing me. Whether he's as affected by this careful distance as I am.
The realization hits me while I'm pretending to scroll through Instagram, sitting cross-legged on his pristine couch in yoga pants and an oversized sweater.
I like him.
Not just the way he looks—though that's certainly not a hardship.
Not just the way he touches me—though that particular memory makes my skin flush warm.
I like the way he thinks. The way he's been investigating the Paris situation without making it about his own heroic intervention.
The way he notices when I'm spiraling and intervenes without making me feel weak.
I like how we've started moving around each other with unconscious choreography, the way he automatically makes enough coffee for two, how I've begun leaving space for him on the couch when I claim it for my morning routine.
We get along now. Despite every prediction to the contrary, despite our history of spectacular arguments and mutual irritation, we've found a rhythm that works.
And I'm getting attached to it. To him.
I have been lying to myself about the scope of this problem. It's not just physical attraction or sexual tension that got out of hand. It's not just the novelty of seeing him outside our usual context.
I'm developing feelings for Theo Tate.
I can't keep avoiding him. I have to be a grown-up. I pad gingerly to Theo's room.
I knock twice on his bedroom door, then push it open without waiting for permission. Theo looks up from his laptop, sitting against the headboard in dark joggers and a compression shirt that does absolutely nothing to help my concentration.
"We need to talk about Paris."
His eyes flick over me—oversized sweater, bare legs, braids loose around my shoulders—and something shifts in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Or resignation.
"The investigation."
"Obviously." I perch on the edge of his bed. "I've been thinking about the models I spoke to that night. Some things didn't add up."
Theo closes the laptop and sets it aside, giving me his full attention. No awkward references to two nights ago, no pointed questions about why I'm here instead of texting. Just business.
"Walk me through them."
I pull my legs up, sitting cross-legged. "Margot Dubois was everywhere that night. I mean everywhere. You know how parties work—people cluster, they move in patterns, they disappear to smoke or take calls. Margot never disappeared."
"Watching."
"But not obviously. She had this way of being in conversation while scanning the room. Like she was tracking something."
Theo reaches for a notebook from his nightstand. "What else?"
"Sophie Moreau." The name brings back sense memory—cigarettes and expensive perfume, that brand of French condescension that makes you feel underdressed even in couture. "She materialized next to me three separate times. Always when I was talking to someone interesting."
"Interesting how?"
I think back to the party, trying to separate what I remember from what I've convinced myself I remember. "The jewelry designer from Belgium. The art dealer who kept name-dropping collectors. Sophie would just appear, insert herself into the conversation until it shifted away from business."
"Interrupting intelligence gathering."
"Exactly." I lean forward, warming to the subject. "And she had this way of steering conversations toward gossip. Who was sleeping with whom, which brands were having financial trouble, who was using what substances?"
Theo makes notes, his handwriting surprisingly neat. "Information collection."
"Or distraction." I trace patterns on his comforter, thinking. "There was something else about Sophie. She kept checking her phone, but not like normal phone checking. Glances, very specific timing."
"Coordinating."
The pieces click together as I say them aloud. "Margot watching, Sophie redirecting, both of them positioned to know exactly who was where when things went sideways."
Theo looks up from his notes. "You think they were working together."
"I think they were working for someone. The question is who benefits from framing me specifically."
He sets the notebook aside and studies my face. "Someone who wanted you out of circulation."
"Or someone who wanted to damage my family's business relationships." I pull the sweater tighter around myself. "The timing wasn't random. I had meetings scheduled in London and Milan. Contracts worth millions."
"All postponed indefinitely."
"All transferred to other models." The bitterness creeps into my voice despite my best efforts. "Convenient."
Theo reaches across the space between us, his fingers brushing mine where they rest on the comforter. The touch is brief, careful, but it grounds me.
"We'll figure out who."
"What if it's bigger than just modeling contracts?" I shift position, tucking one leg under me. "What if someone's targeting the entire Emerson brand?"
Theo raises an eyebrow. "Industrial espionage through party scandals?"
"Think about it. My father's been negotiating that merger with the European luxury consortium for months. If they think the family name is toxic..."
"They pull out, consortium collapses, someone else swoops in to buy the pieces at discount prices."
I snap my fingers. "Exactly. Sophie and Margot were just the ground troops."
"So who's the mastermind? Rival luxury conglomerate? Disgruntled business partner?"
"Or..." I lean forward, warming to the absurdity. "What if it's bigger than business? What if someone's trying to destabilize the entire fashion industry?"
Theo's mouth twitches. "Economic warfare through model scandals."
"Why not? Think about how much money moves through fashion week. If you could manipulate which brands get coverage, which faces sell products..."
"You could crash stock prices, shift consumer behavior." He picks up the thread with surprising enthusiasm. "Create artificial scarcity, pump and dump designer stocks."
"Right? And who better to orchestrate it than someone with access to both fashion insiders and financial markets?"
"Swiss banking conspiracy."
"Obviously, Swiss banking. They're behind everything." I gesture expansively. "Secret cabal of fashion financiers, manipulating hemlines to control global markets."
"The length of your skirt determines the Dow Jones."
"Crop tops crash currencies."
Theo actually grins. "High-waisted pants cause inflation."
"Don't even get me started on what skinny jeans did to the housing market."
We dissolve into laughter, it builds on itself until we're both breathless. When it subsides, Theo shakes his head.
"We've officially lost our minds."
"Speak for yourself. I'm conducting serious investigative journalism here." I grab his notebook and scribble 'Swiss Fashion Illuminati' at the bottom. "This is going straight to the Times."
"Right next to the article about how Chanel staged the moon landing."
"To promote their space collection, obviously."
The banter continues, theories growing more elaborate and ridiculous.
Ancient fashion dynasties. Underground runway societies.
Models as unwitting agents in century-spanning textile wars.
We trade increasingly absurd scenarios until my cheeks hurt from smiling, and Theo's usual composure has completely dissolved into something lighter.
Somewhere around two AM, the conspiracy theories fade into actual conversation.
I tell him about the loneliness of constant travel, how hotel rooms blur together until you forget which city you're in.
He talks about the pressure of captaincy, carrying responsibility for twenty-three other players' careers.
The notebook lies forgotten between us, pages covered in our increasingly illegible handwriting. My sweater has ridden up, his t-shirt is rumpled, and neither of us moves to fix anything.
"I never thanked you," I say quietly. "For believing me."
"You don't need to thank me for basic human decency."
"Most people wouldn't have looked past the headlines."
Theo's gaze roams my face in the dim light from his bedside lamp. "Most people don't know you."
The statement is simple and devastating. Because he does know me, doesn't he? Sees past the performance I put on for everyone else.
My eyelids grow heavy. The combination of wine from dinner, emotional exhaustion, and genuine comfort makes it impossible to maintain alertness. I should go back to my room. Should preserve whatever careful distance we've managed to maintain.
Instead, I let myself sink deeper into his pillows.
"Just for a few minutes," I murmur.
Theo doesn't argue. He reaches over to dim the lamp, leaving us in soft darkness. The investigation materials remain scattered between us—notes and theories and half-formed plans—but neither of us minds the mess.
Sleep takes me gradually, warm and safe.