9. Azaria
AZARIA
Aweek later, I'm standing in Theo's kitchen at eleven in the morning, hair twisted into a messy bun and wearing yesterday's silk camisole, when my phone rings with the call that changes everything.
"Azaria? It's Lucien."
Lucien Moreau. Senior editor at Lumière, the magazine that put me on covers across three continents and made my career something more than just pretty girl with a famous last name.
"Lucien, darling. Please tell me you're calling with good news because I'm running dangerously low on those lately."
Theo glances up from his protein smoothie preparation, that barely-there acknowledgment he gives when he's pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
"I'm afraid not. We're pulling the December cover."
"Pulling it? The shoot wrapped two weeks ago."
"I know. And the images are stunning, they really are. But the board made the call this morning."
"The December cover," I repeat, buying myself seconds to process. "The one with the Valentino collaboration. The one you called 'career-defining' when we wrapped."
"Azaria—"
"The one where I spent fourteen hours in that freezing warehouse because you wanted the lighting to be 'absolutely perfect for the most important cover of the year.'"
Theo sets down the blender.
"The decision came from corporate. With everything happening, they felt it was best to distance the brand from any potential?—"
"Potential what, Lucien?"
"Legal complications."
"Legal complications. How wonderfully vague."
"I tried to fight it. You know I did."
"Of course you did. I'm sure you put up a valiant thirty-second defense before agreeing that protecting the magazine's reputation was obviously more important than, say, facts or loyalty or basic human decency."
"That's not fair."
"Fair? If I wanted fair, I would have chosen a different career. Probably a different species."
This is Lumière—the magazine that legitimized me as more than society page decoration. The one that ran features about my advocacy work, that photographed me for causes that mattered.
If Lumière is dropping me, everyone else will follow.
"The images will be archived," Lucien continues, his voice careful. "If circumstances change?—"
"Circumstances." I taste the word like expensive wine gone sour. "What a delicate way to say 'if you're eventually cleared of crimes you didn't commit.'"
"Azaria..."
"No, it's brilliant really. Archive the images so you can pretend you never doubted me while simultaneously ensuring I understand exactly how expendable I am."
Theo's smoothie sits forgotten, his attention fixed on something outside the window that definitely isn't there.
"This isn't personal."
"Of course it's not personal, Lucien. Business never is. I hope you have a better day than I am having."
I hang up and set the phone down.
"Well," I announce to Theo's kitchen, "that was amazing. Nothing quite like a good old-fashioned professional execution to start the day."
Theo turns, his eyes finding mine.
"Bad news?"
"The opposite, actually. Lumière just freed up my December schedule. Very thoughtful of them."
But inside, something fundamental is collapsing. The magazine that discovered me, that turned Azaria Emerson from wealthy socialite into legitimate model, just calculated my worth and found it wanting.
The architecture of my career—built over eight years of early calls, impossible standards, and proving I was more than my trust fund—crumbles in real time while I stand here making jokes about it.
"Coffee?" I ask Theo, as if nothing happened at all.
"Zari."
I freeze with my hand on the coffee maker, suddenly aware that my performance—the breezy dismissal, the casual shrug—isn't fooling anyone. Least of all him.
"I'm sorry."
I turn around slowly. Theo stands with his back against the counter, arms crossed, but his expression is gentler than I've seen in years. The hard edges that usually define his face have softened into something that looks dangerously close to concern.
"They were wrong to do that. Lumière was wrong."
"It's business," I say automatically, the words feeling hollow even as I speak them.
"It's cowardice. A magazine that drops you over a scandal you weren't responsible for is a magazine that will eventually have to reckon with that decision.
When your name gets cleared—and it will get cleared—they'll come crawling back with apologies and offers twice as good as what they just threw away. "
The certainty in his voice catches me off guard. Not just the words, but the way he says them. Like he believes them completely. Like my innocence isn't a question mark but a fact he's already accepted.
Theo Tate has never been a source of tenderness where I'm concerned.
We've spent years perfecting the art of mutual irritation, of finding exactly the right words to needle each other into frustrated silence.
This gentleness feels foreign between us, unexpected enough that I don't know how to respond.
"You need to eat," he says, his voice returning to its usual controlled cadence. "And you need structure in your day. Real structure, not just wandering around in yesterday's clothes feeling sorry for yourself."
He moves to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs, vegetables, ingredients that suggest actual cooking rather than the protein bars and smoothies that seem to constitute his usual diet.
"Structure," I repeat, finding my voice again. "How wonderfully presumptuous of you."
"Have you had a real meal recently?"
I open my mouth to deliver a cutting response about his sudden interest in my nutritional habits, but the words don't come.
Because he's not wrong. Because the careful routine I've built around shoots and fittings and appearances has completely collapsed, leaving me adrift in a way I haven't been since I was fifteen and everything fell apart the first time.
It should irritate me—this assumption that I need managing, that I can't take care of myself. The old Azaria would have already launched into a speech about independence and autonomy and exactly where he could put his unsolicited advice.
But something about the way he moves around the kitchen, efficient and sure, something about the quiet certainty he offered about my future, makes the irritation feel incomplete. Muted.
Like maybe, just this once, being taken care of doesn't have to feel like surrender.
Theo cooks like he does everything else—methodical, efficient, no wasted motion. He is cracking eggs into a bowl, chopping vegetables with knife work that would make a chef weep with envy.
I slide onto one of the bar stools and watch him work, too drained to manufacture my usual resistance. The marble countertop feels cool against my forearms, grounding in a way I hadn't expected.
"You don't have to do this," I say.
"I know."
When he slides the plate across the counter ten minutes later, the omelet looks like something from a restaurant—perfectly folded, golden, filled with vegetables cut so precisely they could be architectural elements.
"Eat."
I pick up the fork, surprised by how hungry I actually am. The first bite tastes better than anything I've had in days, probably because it's the first real food I've bothered with since arriving. Everything else has been coffee and spite and whatever I could grab between arguments.
Theo sits across from me with his own plate, and I become acutely aware that we're sitting together. Actually sitting together, sharing a meal like normal people instead of circling each other like territorial cats.
His eyes track my movements as I eat.
"This is good," I say eventually, because the silence is starting to feel too comfortable and comfort has always made me nervous.
"Is it as good as that book you were reading?" Theo asks, gesturing with his fork toward the living room where I'd abandoned my latest literary acquisition on the coffee table. "The one about the intersection of power and political upheaval in post-war Europe?"
I nearly choke on my bite of omelet. The fact that he not only noticed what I was reading but actually retained the subtitle word-for-word catches me completely off guard.
"Almost as good," I say, recovering quickly. "Though the omelet has better character development."
His mouth twitches—barely there, but I catch it.
"The book's about how European aristocrats basically threw the world's most expensive tantrum when they realized their centuries-old game of musical chairs was ending," I continue, warming to the subject despite myself.
"Turns out when you've spent four hundred years convinced God personally selected your bloodline to own everything, democracy feels like a personal insult. "
"Shocking revelation."
"Right? Who could have predicted that people accustomed to absolute power would struggle with the concept of sharing?
" I take another bite, surprised to find myself actually enjoying this conversation.
"The author traces how these families went from hosting elaborate balls where they decided the fate of nations to basically becoming very well-dressed lobbyists with hereditary titles and excellent wine cellars. "
Theo refills my coffee without being asked, which feels dangerously domestic.
"Though honestly," I add, "some of them adapted beautifully. Nothing quite like watching a Habsburg heir pivot from 'divine right of kings' to 'strategic corporate partnerships' with the grace of a prima ballerina."
"Sounds familiar."
I realize he's not just talking about European nobility. The parallel between their fall from grace and my current situation isn't exactly subtle.
"The difference," I say, meeting his eyes directly, "is that they actually were complicit in their own downfall. Generations of inbreeding and political incompetence tend to have consequences."
"Whereas you're just guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Allegedly."
But the word comes out lighter than it has in days, almost playful.
I find myself sitting straighter, gesturing more animatedly as I describe the author's theory about how revolution always looks inevitable in hindsight but feels impossible while you're living through it.
"The fascinating part is how long they maintained the illusion that everything was fine," I say, realizing I'm actually smiling now.
"Right up until the moment their world collapsed, they kept hosting parties and arranging marriages and pretending that the angry crowds gathering outside their palaces were just a minor inconvenience that would sort itself out eventually. "
Theo nods thoughtfully.
"Denial as survival strategy."
"Exactly. Though I suppose when your alternative is admitting you've built your entire identity around a system that's actively crumbling, denial starts looking pretty reasonable."
“You are right. Maybe I can read the book after you are done with it.”
“Maybe.” I grin at him.