Chapter Seventeen
POPPY
After the week I’ve had, the last thing I want to do is spend the night with a dozen love-obsessed women.
I’m overstimulated, uncomfortable, and socially exhausted.
And it’s only been a week and a few days.
I have nearly three more of these. At least when I’m alone with Riven, we can shirk off the facade of faking it and relax, but with these women and the Moirai nearby spying, no doubt, I’ll have to be doe-eyed and obsessed.
Can someone remind me why Rivan and I agreed to this plan?
I was emotional and brain-dead because it’s definitely not the smartest way we could have gone about it. But we’re in it now. No going back.
I follow the directions on my agenda to a bamboo building in the middle of the island.
The path to the door is washed in white stones and dotted with tropical plants.
The palm trees in the courtyard bend with the push of the sea wind and shade my entrance to the wide glass door.
From my place outside, I can see within.
A lavish lounge space with plush seating, low light, and servers passing out drinks like their lives depend on it.
Alcohol is definitely going to make this situation better.
The door opens without me touching it, letting the cacophony of women talking over one another and passive-aggressive compliments hit my ears.
Some women, the wiser and kinder ones, cling to the edges of the room nursing their drinks, while others sit in the middle, ordering wait staff around and skewering one another with thinly veiled insults.
“You’re so brave wearing that,” Angora chitters to the nymph beside her, eyeing her dress like it’s made of literal garbage instead of elven-spun silk.
The nymph’s eyes glisten with the beginning of tears.
“Did I hear you say your nose was untouched by magic? Have you considered changing that?” another woman quips back at Angora with a smile as she gestures to her nose.
What a horrifying display. This is not bonding. This is blood sport with better lighting.
A drink appears in my hand, and I take it down in one go. I’ll need it to deal with this lot tonight. Leaf-shaped fans spin above me, cooling the skin of my cheeks and giving reprieve from the heat this island is consumed by.
In the center of the room, someone accuses another of something. I can’t make out the accusation, nor do I really care, and the voices continue to rise. I press my body to the wall, watching in a weird combination of abject horror and amusement as drinks begin to be thrown.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” the melodic voice of a fae woman whispers beside me. She tucks a lock of curled hair behind her ear. “I don’t know if that means I run in boring or safe circles.”
I laugh. “I’d say safe.” My shoulders turn to her, blocking out the chaos continuing behind us. “I’m Poppy.”
“Aoife.” Her name rolls rhythmically off her lips, laced in the cadence of an accent I’ve never heard before.
Riven’s accent is nothing like this, so I know she isn’t a shadow fae…
I wonder what power she wields then. “I’ve seen you around with that shadow wielder.
Hells of a dancer that one.” She fans herself, and my face heats.
Don’t remind me. That dance brought out a foreign and unwelcome mindset within me.
“Yeah,” I brush my hand over my neck, temporarily ridding it of hair to allow the fan to kiss it.
“He loves attention,” I say it with no malice.
He does, and this is safer territory than talking about…
well, almost anything else she might talk about in regard to my match, like love or sex or falling for him.
Some fae are sensitive to lies and if she is that kind… I’d be screwed.
“And your match…?” I trail off, not knowing his name.
“Noah,” she sighs, like even thinking about him is a dreamy pleasure.
“He’s much more reserved than your Riven, but I’m obsessed with him and the way he talks about history, of all things.
” She adds with a wave of her hand, “He’s a professor, and I didn’t even finish university.
Dropped out to start a bakery. Imagine that.
” I nod along, following her fast, lithe accent with amusement.
“Dinner is served,” a waiter declares, gesturing to the single long table set with draped cloth and dozens of flower arrangements. Did that just magically appear, or am I more distracted tonight than I thought?
“Sit with me?” Aoife asks. “I don’t know any of these other women, and some of them scare me.”
I laugh, eyes passing over a still-bickering Angora whose long linen dress is dotted with wine stains. “I do know one of them, and you’re right to be afraid.”
We take our seats at the end of the table, right in front of a bowl of dip made from balsamic and tomatoes, and a flight of grilled bread.
I don’t think twice before grabbing two pieces of bread and a mound of dip.
I don’t know how to act right in front of anything made from dough, if I’m being honest. Plus, I didn’t really eat lunch today, just munched around on miscellaneous things that we had in the bungalow: chips, nuts, fruit, etc. Delicious, but not substantial.
Aoife leans forward with an easy, lilting smile, her pale hair cascading over one shoulder like spun glass. There is a faint glow to her skin, like she’s…lit from within. A light fae. Riven’s opposite.
“I promise it’s better than it looks,” Aoife says, nudging a plate toward me.
I glance down. The dish is…art. Or chaos. Maybe both.
A shallow bowl holds a swirl of saffron cream, the color somewhere between sunset and melted gold. Nestled into it are ribbons of hand-cut pasta. Roasted onions glisten like tiny jewels, caramelized at the edges, while slivers of seared pheasant rest on top, the skin crisped to a delicate crackle.
It even smells expensive.
I pick up my fork, twirling a bit of pasta and dragging it through the sauce. The first bite is rich without being heavy, the saffron warm and slightly floral, the pheasant tender with just enough bite to remind me it isn’t just chicken. The onions melted sweetly, balancing everything out.
“Oh,” I say before I can stop myself.
Aoife grins. “Told you.”
“I take back every bad thing I thought about this night.”
“Every bad thing?” She eyes the chaotic lot sharing our table space.
I smile faintly, taking another bite. “Okay, most of them.”
Around us, the noise swells. Laughter, the clink of glasses, the sharp edge of voices already tipping to an argument once more. Someone shrieks down the table, followed by a chorus of “oh my Fate” and “he did not.”
I don’t even have to look to know where that energy was coming from.
“Is it going to be like this all night?” I ask, lowering my voice slightly.
Aoife follows my gaze, amused. “Cocktail hour already had a drink thrown, so…yes. Probably.”
I huff softly. “Great.”
I’d seen the aftermath—wine dripping down the front of Angora’s dress, mascara streaking as she shouted back at someone across the room.
As if summoned by the thought, Angora’s voice cuts through the noise, nasally, sharp, and just loud enough to carry.
“Well, if he actually had any standing, maybe you wouldn’t be worried about where you’ll live after the Festival.” I don’t look immediately. I take another bite instead, chewing slower than necessary.
Aoife tilts her head. “You know her?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That tone says everything.”
I finally glance over.
Angora is exactly as she always is. Perfectly styled, perfectly poised, and somehow still managing to look mean. There is a faint stain on the hem of her dress, poorly concealed by a strategically placed napkin.
Her eyes flick, catching mine. Shit.
Recognition sparks. Then something colder.
“Well,” Angora says, nestling back in her chair, voice lifting just enough. “If it isn’t my ex’s match.” How is she surprised I’m here? We were all ordered to attend tonight. Aoife gasps quietly.
I set my fork down carefully. “You say that as if you forgot I was here.” The last few times we interacted, she was kind of nice…maybe the alcohol is bringing out her true nature. Or maybe being around Erik is what mellows her out. If that’s true, maybe the lord is a saint.
A few girls nearby go quiet, the subtle shift of attention like a ripple.
Angora’s lips curve. She loves attention. “Silly me. Sorry, Poppy.” She lets my name sit, as if tasting it. “Still attached to my- I mean, your- match?”
There it was. The possession she clings to. Wanting everyone to want her even though she’s happy with her match. Maybe the love of adoration is what she and Riven had in common.
I feel Aoife’s gaze flick between us, curious but cautious.
“Yes,” I say simply.
Angora laughs. “Fate. That time of my life was a joke.” It wasn’t even two weeks ago.
Something in my chest tightens, not because I believe it, but because of how easily Angora says it. Like Riven was nothing. Like he was—
“A joke?” I echo, my voice quieter now, but somehow sharper.
Angora shrugs, reaching for her drink. “Come on. Everyone knows he’s just…playing at it. Flash, money, no substance. Men like that don’t—”
“Money doesn’t make a man,” I cut in.
The words land before I can soften them. For a second, Angora blinks, surprised. I hold her gaze, steady now. “And if that’s all you saw, that says more about you than it does about him.”
There is a beat. Aoife’s brows lift slightly, impressed. Angora’s expression hardens, something brittle creeping in at the edges. “You’re defending him awfully hard for someone who—what?—ignored him for years and then was matched to him like five minutes ago?”
My stomach twists, but I don’t think my face shows it.
“He’s not what you think,” I say, more evenly now. Despite his flaws, he’s good to his core and doesn’t deserve one ounce of her put-on judgement.
Angora scoffs. “Please. I know exactly what he is.”
“Do you?”
The question slips out before I can stop it.
A flicker of something, annoyance, maybe, crosses Angora’s face.