CHAPTER 47
Caroline
“No, Michael. No,” I shriek. “That’s… unnecessary.”
“What do you mean unnecessary?” Michael crinkles his nose, his eyes narrowing in disapproval. “You know the theme, Birds of Paradise.”
And just like that, I - Caroline, the machine, as my employees and half my classmates like to call me - shrink a fraction.
I frown, but resistance with Michael is a losing game.
I wear the hair he cuts, the clothes he chooses, short of sleeping with the guys he wants me to.
Tonight will be no different. Tonight, I’ll step into whatever version of me he decides to conjure.
“You aren’t allergic to synthetics or feathers, so stop protesting,” he says, already lifting a glittering feathered crown and settling it onto my head.
“Do I look like a peacock?” I mutter, scowling at my reflection.
“Peahen, darling,” he corrects smoothly. “And I’m going to find you a peacock, a very sexy one, tonight.”
He winks. Troublemaker.
He nudges me closer to the mirror, hands light on my shoulders. “Aww, look at you. You’re ready to have a fun night.”
“We’re ready to have a fun night. It’s your birthday parteeee…” I drag the word out, letting it wobble between tease and affection.
It’s Michael’s big four-oh, and we’re celebrating in New Orleans.
He didn’t even have to say it - we all knew.
This city is stitched into him: beignets buried under powdered sugar, bananas foster blazing tableside, Vietnamese coffee strong enough to raise the dead, po’boys dripping down your wrist. Every milestone in his life somehow loops back here.
He even tried relentlessly to convince me to move my already planned (and fully paid) dirty-thirty trip from Hawaii to New Orleans.
“Woo, legs for miles!” Gigi squeals, bouncing toward me, Celina right behind her, nodding emphatically.
“Let me see you two.”
They spin in unison, mirror images in metallic jumpsuits, Gigi in electric purple and Celina in gleaming green, feathers down their arms, with jester hats jingling softly with every movement.
I glance at my own reflection and laugh. I look like a champagne bubble - gold sequined fringe catching the light with every breath, a purple-and-green feather headband perched precariously, strands of beads layered around my neck and wrists until they chime when I move.
“You both look amazing. At least you’re monochrome. I’m the full color palette.” I exaggerate my frown so Michael can see, but he waves a dismissive hand, thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Do you know what the boys are wearing?” I ask Gigi. Stefano couldn’t make it, but Connor, Ethan, Adam, and their loves are here, faithful disciples of Michael’s scissors and opinions.
“Mikey’s helping them into jumpsuits,” Celina says, lips twitching as she tries and fails to hide a laugh.
“Jumpsuits?” I burst out laughing, instantly picturing glitter-soaked chaos.
“Well,” Celina shrugs, “we’re all something else tonight.”
I look like a rainbow. A very shiny rainbow. And soon, probably a sneezy one. I’m not actually allergic to feathers, but they give me that phantom itch, the sense of invisible filaments drifting into my nose and settling there just to annoy me.
“I bet CJ will look the most ridiculous. Adam can actually pull off whimsical sometimes,” Gigi says, grinning.
“YASSS,” Michael crows. “Boys and glitter and feathers.”
I know someone who is allergic to feathers, Edoardo. He’d be sneezing nonstop. That’s why he hated his college trip here and swore he’d never come back.
But he loved bananas foster. Like me, he doesn’t even like bananas, but put them in dessert - bananas foster, banana pudding, you name it - and we’d fight shamelessly to the last spoon.
The memory lands softer than I expect, and I swallow the sigh before it escapes.
And then three nights ago, at that Chelsea gallery.
My company sponsors the organization, and Connor dragged me there when all I wanted was a quiet evening.
Edoardo and Lisa, his curator, were there.
When Lisa pulled Connor away to show him a piece, I was left alone with Edoardo, alone in the pull of him, alone in that relentless tidal wave that the harder I resist, the stronger it drags.
I am unraveling.
His eyes – warm and dark. His voice – low and velvet-smooth.
His touch – gentle and devastating. Every memory slips through the cracks in the walls I’ve tried to rebuild after each encounter.
And the dreams… the dreams of his arms, of us, erupt like a volcano splitting open, sudden, consuming, and impossible to contain.
I wake with the ghost of him everywhere, as if memory itself has a pulse beneath my skin.
I release a slow breath.
At least he won’t be here tonight.