Chloe
The boxes started appearing yesterday, and now they’re everywhere. Stacked in the hallway, lined up along the living room wall, taking up half the kitchen counter. My condo, which has always felt like the one space in my life that’s entirely mine, looks like a storage unit that got out of hand.
I keep telling myself it’s fine. It’s temporary. Three years, and then I can unpack everything exactly where it was and go back to my life. That’s the plan.
The plan would be a lot easier to hold on to if I wasn’t still furious about that meeting. Tristan’s proposal, his insistence that we work together on this joint venture, feels like a calculated move, a chess piece strategically placed to achieve his own objectives.
Every time I try to focus on packing, my mind slips straight back to him.
God, this would be so much easier if it was anyone but him.
I could pretend to get along with a different Thorne brother.
I could pretend there was no friction, no spark.
The relationship could be the plastic, manufactured thing it was meant to be, rather than the potential disaster that’s unfolding between me and Tristan.
Each item carefully placed in a box is a fragment of my life, a reminder that soon I’ll be stepping into a new chapter—one that involves not just a business collaboration, but a marriage to a man who’s been my rival for years.
I’m not one to be caught off guard. And I’m not about to let him off the hook.
Frustration simmers within me as I navigate the sea of boxes. The mounting stress isn’t helped by the prospect of merging my life with Tristan’s.
I’m holding on to my condo. I don’t need the money, and there’s a part of me that isn’t willing to throw everything away and leap straight into the whirlwind of Tristan’s life.
But he insisted that we live together during the marriage. Fair enough. In our echelon of society, everyone is constantly in the public eye. The last thing we need is some paparazzo following us home, only to find out that we have two different addresses.
I pause in the kitchen, biting my lip as I glance between the coffee maker and the blender.
Honestly, I’ve never even been to Tristan’s house. I have no idea what to expect. I’ve heard that it’s huge, and that it overlooks the sea, but… does he have a blender? Or is his kitchen just for show?
My fingers toy with my cell phone, resting on the counter. I’ve been avoiding talking to Tristan as much as I can, but for this to work, we need to communicate. And I need to know if he has kitchen appliances.
ME: What amenities should I expect at your place? Trying to figure out what to bring.
It’s a simple question, an attempt to grasp some control over the situation. His response, however, is anything but helpful.
TRISTAN: Basic stuff. Don’t overthink it.
Huffing out a breath, I glare at my phone as I read his message. I’m dismantling my entire life and moving it across the city into a house I’ve never seen and he’s giving me the textual equivalent of a shrug.
Fantastic. Super helpful, thanks. Really appreciate that.
I type back asking about the kitchen specifically, because I need to know what kinds of cooking stuff I might need to bring.
He answers eventually, with enough information to confirm that yes, there is a kitchen, and yes, it has appliances in it, but his responses are so brief that I still can’t tell whether bringing my own coffee maker is redundant or essential.
Every answer raises two more questions, and he’s clearly not in the business of volunteering information.
Baring my teeth in annoyance, I glance around my condo.
My place is open-concept and airy, with sunlit walls bathed in natural light and a curated collection of custom artwork.
It’s an oasis of aesthetic serenity amidst the chaos of Los Angeles.
As I gaze around at the familiar, bright walls, I try to picture what Tristan’s place must look like.
A shudder runs through me at the thought of some soulless, minimalist bachelor pad, probably kept tidy by cleaning staff but devoid of personality.
What can I expect, really? He’s an unmarried man in his early thirties. I’ll be lucky if there’s a single speck of color in the entire place.
Slowly, as if defusing a bomb, I pull out my cell and type another message.
ME: How is your house decorated? Any specific themes or styles?
I pause, staring down at my phone. I don’t want to get another frustrating non-answer from him, but the thought of living in a sterile concrete block, surrounded by gray sheets and plastic blinds, compels me to hit send.
Once that’s done, I shove the phone in my pocket and shake myself. There’s still a lot of packing to get through, and I can’t stand here and wait around to hear back from Tristan. There’s an empty box waiting outside of the storage closet in my hallway.
The minutes tick by, and my phone remains conspicuously silent. The message to Tristan sits there unanswered as I keep working, and irritation ripples through me.
Fine, be that way, I think. I don’t need your response anyway.
I do, though. That’s the thing. I know I’m not going to be able to take my mind off this until Tristan replies.
I glance at my phone again, an unexpected sense of restlessness creeping in. This isn’t me. I don’t get antsy. I don’t crave company. But maybe today is different. Today of all days, I need a distraction from the impending mess of my life.
I lean against the kitchen counter, looking mournfully around at the boxes stacked in the breakfast nook as I peruse my phone’s contacts.
I need some conversation to distract me, but I’m not sure who to call.
I don’t have many friends, since most of my life has been devoted to my job and my family for years.
Somehow, I don’t think family is the way to go here. I can’t imagine Genevieve being all that understanding about my current crisis. My parents are the last people I want to talk to right now. None of them could provide me with a distraction, somewhere to defuse my restless energy.
I pause with my finger hovering over Ivy Langford’s name.
She gave me her number at the engagement party, insisting that I call her anytime. Tristan told me that the Langfords are an old money family, but the two times I’ve met her, she’s seemed very down-to-earth and sweet, and I could use a break from all the serious faces I’ve been around lately.
So I dial her number, and after a few rings, she picks up.
“Hey, Chloe! What’s up?” Ivy’s bright, lilting voice cuts through the gloom of my kitchen.
“Not too much. I just… need to get out of the house for a bit. You up for some lunch or something?” I suggest, hoping she’s free.
“Oh, yes! Absolutely. I just finished up at the hospital, actually, so the timing is perfect. Where do you want to meet?”
“The hospital?” I ask, momentarily distracted from my packing stress.
“Yeah, I volunteer at Greater Los Angeles Pediatric Hospital a few times a week. I read to the kids, do crafts with them, that kind of thing. I’ve been doing it for years.
” She pauses for a second, then adds, “I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes when I was younger, and the doctors and nurses who helped me through it were just incredible. I kind of feel like I owe it to the medical profession to give back however I can.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Thanks.” She lets out a quiet breath, a smile in her voice. “It can be heartbreaking sometimes, but the highs outweigh the lows by a long shot. Today was a busy one, and I’m definitely ready for a bite. Where do you want to meet?”
We settle on a nearby cafe, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of excitement. A social outing, something I haven’t done in a while. A long while, maybe since I started at MediaSphere. Right now, it’s just what I need.
The cafe Ivy and I chose is within walking distance, so I head straight out without bothering to call my driver.
When I arrive, the place is bustling, which also feels right.
The chaos around me seems to put my own chaos into perspective.
Maybe everyone’s life is this hectic, and we’re all just desperately trying to cling to lattes and blueberry muffins.
The aroma of coffee and the hum of conversation provide a comforting backdrop to the uneasy anticipation that lingers within me.
I order a cold brew and settle at a small table in a corner, my back to the wall so that I can see the entire place.
My good ear faces the window, so I can’t hear much of the murmuring voices that fill the air.
I almost don’t notice when Ivy arrives. She has to wave to get my attention, and I jump slightly and sit upright.
“Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.” She winces, giving me a sympathetic grin as she takes the seat across from me.
“No worries,” I reply, attempting a smile. “I was just lost in my own thoughts.”
“Everything okay?”
“Just wedding stuff,” I confess, my fingers idly tracing the condensation on my cold brew.
“Ah, the joys of impending nuptials,” Ivy says with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t even imagine. Especially a splashy wedding like this.”
I chuckle, appreciating her attempt to lighten the mood. “Yeah, it’s a whole production. And sometimes, I feel like I’m rehearsing for a role I never auditioned for.”
Ivy laughs. “Well, if you ever need a break from the drama, I’m your girl. Or at least, I can be the distraction you never knew you needed.”
“Distraction sounds perfect right now,” I admit, and we dive into the menu, shifting the conversation to lighter topics. Ivy shares amusing anecdotes from her work, and I find myself genuinely enjoying her company.
As we munch on salads and sip our coffees, the conversation drifts toward the Thorne family.
After all, Ivy is an expert in Thorne drama, and I’m a newcomer to the family.
I need all the help I can get in catching up, so I seize the opportunity to learn more about Tristan and his enigmatic brothers.
“So, Ivy, you’ve known the Thornes for a long time, right?”