10. Theo
THEO
An hour after lunch, Azaria's phone buzzes with a conference call from her team. I watch her face shift from curiosity to calculation as she answers.
"Leonard, Rachel. Please tell me you have something resembling a plan."
Leonard's voice crackles through the speaker, all business. "We do. But you're not going to like it."
"I already don't like anything about my current situation, so you might as well continue."
"The worst thing you can do right now is look like you're hiding," Rachel chimes in. "Every day you stay out of sight reinforces the narrative that you're guilty of something."
Azaria glances at me, eyebrow raised. I lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, already sensing where this conversation is heading.
"So what are you suggesting? A press conference? An exclusive interview where I tearfully proclaim my innocence?"
"A public appearance," Leonard says. "Something high-profile, social, normal. Show the world that you're confident enough in your innocence to be seen."
"Brilliant. And who exactly am I supposed to appear with? My current social circle consists of one extremely reluctant hockey player and whatever delivery drivers brave the paparazzi gauntlet."
"That's actually perfect," Rachel says. "Theo's image is everything yours isn't right now. Stable, respected, clean reputation. If he's willing to be seen with you publicly, it sends a message."
Azaria's eyes find mine, and I see the exact moment she realizes they're serious.
"You want me to use Theo as a prop."
"We want you both to attend the Hawke Foundation gala next week," Leonard clarifies. "It's charity, high society, exactly the kind of event that shows you're not some criminal hiding from justice."
Azaria studies my face, waiting for my reaction.
"What's the Hawke Foundation?" I ask.
"Children's cancer research," Rachel explains. "Annual gala, A-list crowd, perfect optics. If Theo Tate is comfortable enough with Azaria Emerson to escort her to a children's charity event, the implication is clear."
Azaria tilts her head. "And if Theo Tate refuses to be part of this particular performance?"
All eyes turn to me. The logical response is obvious—this violates every principle I have about keeping my private life separate from media manipulation. It's exactly the kind of circus I've spent years avoiding.
But I think about Lumière dropping her cover this morning. About the way her confidence cracked for just a moment before she rebuilt it with sarcasm and deflection.
"I have conditions."
Azaria blinks, clearly not expecting that response.
"We leave together, we arrive together, we leave together," I continue. "No wandering off, no impromptu interviews, no dramatic exits. We stay for exactly two hours, make the necessary appearances, and leave."
"Theo—" Azaria starts.
" No engaging with reporters beyond basic pleasantries. And if anyone asks about your legal situation, the answer is 'no comment' followed by an immediate subject change."
Leonard's voice cuts through the speaker. "Those terms are acceptable."
"I wasn't asking Leonard," I say, my eyes locked on Azaria. "I was telling you."
"Tell me, do you also plan to pick out my dress? Maybe coach me on proper posture and acceptable conversation topics?"
"If necessary."
"If necessary," she repeats. "And what makes you think I need coaching on how to behave at a social event? I've been attending these things since before I could walk properly in heels."
"Because the Azaria Emerson who attended those events didn't have her reputation hanging in the balance. This version of you is impulsive, angry, and has a documented tendency to make situations worse when she feels cornered."
Rachel clears her throat through the phone. "Maybe we should discuss?—"
"We should discuss the fact that Theo apparently thinks I'm some kind of ticking time bomb who can't be trusted to navigate a charity gala without explicit instructions," Azaria cuts in, her attention never leaving my face.
"I think you're someone who uses chaos as a defense mechanism," I say calmly. "And charity galas full of people who've already decided you're guilty aren't the place for chaos."
"Should I practice looking grateful that the great Theo Tate is willing to be seen with scandalous little me?"
"I want you to be smart. Which you are, when you're not busy proving points that don't need proving."
She stands, moving closer until she's directly across the kitchen island from me. The air between us feels charged, electric with the kind of tension that's been building since she arrived.
"Fine. I'll play the part. Polite, controlled, perfectly behaved arm candy for New York's golden boy. But let's be clear about something—I'm agreeing to this because it serves my interests, not because I need your protection or your guidance or your conditions."
"Understood."
"And when this is over, when I've smiled pretty for the cameras and convinced everyone that I'm just a misunderstood socialite who made some poor choices, we go back to our respective corners and pretend this never happened."
"Agreed."
Leonard's voice interrupts the moment. "Excellent. Rachel will coordinate with your stylists, and we'll have talking points prepared by?—"
"No talking points," Azaria says, still looking at me. "I know how to handle myself."
"Of course you do," I reply. "Just remember—two hours, no drama, and we both walk away from this with our reputations intact."
"Naturally. Though I should mention—my definition of 'no drama' might be slightly more flexible than yours."
The day of the gala arrives. I adjust my cufflinks for the third time, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. Black tuxedo, perfectly tailored, understated cufflinks—everything calculated to project exactly the right amount of wealth without ostentation.
"Almost ready," Azaria calls from upstairs.
I've been hearing movement from her room since noon—stylists arriving, the low murmur of consultation, the occasional sharp directive that cuts through the general activity.
At one point, I caught the tail end of her explaining something to the hairstylist about "Fulani braids" and the specific placement of each gem, her tone brooking no argument.
Now I wait by the front door, keys in hand, mentally reviewing the evening's timeline. Arrive at seven-thirty, make the rounds, stay visible but not attention-seeking, leave by nine-thirty.
Footsteps on the stairs make me look up.
The breath leaves my lungs entirely.
Azaria descends like she's floating, and for a moment I forget every rule I've ever made about maintaining professional distance. The dress is vintage white, something that looks like it was cut from moonlight and shaped around her specifically. It hugs every curve.
But it's her hair that stops me completely. Intricate braids crown her head in patterns that speak of artistry and heritage, each one adorned with gems that catch the light as she moves. Her makeup glows against her dark skin, luminous and otherworldly.
She looks like something mythical. A fairy tale princess with sharp edges and dangerous eyes.
"Well?" She pauses on the last step, one hand on the banister. "Do I pass inspection?"
I realize I've been staring. "You look..."
"Expensive? Respectable? Like someone who definitely didn't steal diamonds in Paris?"
"Beautiful."
"Oh." Her fingers brush one of the braids self-consciously. "The stylist knew what she was doing."
"It wasn't the stylist."
Azaria reaches into some hidden fold of her dress and produces a small silver flask.
"Ready for the performance?"
"Where the hell did that come from?"
"Trade secret." She unscrews the cap and takes a sip, making a face. "God, this is terrible. My usual flask was so much better—the one they confiscated in Paris had this lovely smooth finish. This thing tastes like it was filled from a gas station bottle."
"You're drinking before we even get there?"
She caps the flask and somehow makes it disappear back into her dress. "You will thank me for it later when I'm charming instead of homicidal."
I open the front door, checking for photographers. "Just remember?—"
"Two hours, no drama, leave together. I remember the terms of our agreement, Theo. I also remember that you agreed to trust me to handle myself."
The car pulls up. I help her into the backseat, my hand briefly touching her bare shoulder. Her skin is warm, and I catch a hint of her perfume.
I slide in beside her and give the driver the address.
"The Metropolitan Museum," Azaria muses, settling her skirts carefully. "Classy choice. Nothing says 'I'm definitely not a criminal' like supporting children's cancer research in one of the city's most prestigious venues."
"That's the point."
"I know that's the point. I'm just appreciating the symmetry. Though I have to say, you clean up well yourself." Her eyes travel over my tuxedo with obvious approval. "Very distinguished captain of industry meets professional athlete. The photographers will eat it up."
The car glides through evening traffic, and I watch her transform. The nervous energy that's been crackling around her all week settles into something more more purposeful. She checks her reflection in her compact, adjusts a braid, tests her smile.
"You know what the secret is?" she says, snapping the compact closed.
"What?"
"Reading the room before you enter it. Everyone tonight will have already decided who I am based on what they've read. My job is to be so charming, so perfectly appropriate, that they start questioning their assumptions."
"And if they don't?"
Her smile sharpens, gaining an edge that's both beautiful and slightly predatory. "Then I make them laugh while they're reconsidering. People forgive a lot from someone who makes them feel clever."
The car pulls up to the museum steps, and I see the photographers immediately—a controlled cluster behind velvet ropes, flashes already firing at other arrivals.