13. Azaria
AZARIA
Iappear at Theo's bedroom door at eleven PM with Dom Pérignon.
"I'm bored," I announce, holding up the bottle. "And you look like you could use some fun."
He's propped against his headboard with a tablet, probably reviewing game footage or nutrition charts or whatever methodical thing helps him sleep.
The reading glasses perched on his nose should make him look scholarly.
Instead, they make him look unfairly attractive in that accidental professor way that's completely wasted on someone so aggressively practical.
"I have practice tomorrow."
"So?"
"So I don't drink the night before practice."
I step into his room without invitation, settling onto the edge of his bed with the champagne balanced on my knees.
"One glass won't kill your performance metrics."
"Azaria."
"Theodore." I match his tone perfectly. "Live a little. You don’t want to do something spontaneous?"
"I don't do spontaneous."
"Exactly my point." I twist the wire cage around the cork. "You're twenty-nine, not ninety. A little champagne might actually help you sleep better."
"That's not how alcohol works."
"That's not how your alcohol works. My alcohol is different. Luxury alcohol. It has healing properties."
The cork releases with a satisfying pop. I catch the overflow in my mouth before it can stain his pristine white sheets, which earns me a look that's half exasperation, half something else entirely.
"You don't have glasses up here," I observe, glancing around his minimalist bedroom.
"Because I don't drink in bed."
"Tonight you do."
I take a sip straight from the bottle, then offer it to him. He stares at it like I'm offering him a live grenade.
"Come on, Tate. One sip. For investigative purposes."
"How is drinking champagne investigative?"
"Alcohol loosens inhibitions. Loosened inhibitions lead to better memory recall. Better memory recall helps us figure out who set me up." I grin. "It's science."
"That's not science."
"Prove it."
He takes the bottle, studies the label like he's memorizing vintage details, then drinks. His throat works as he swallows, and I find myself watching the movement with more attention than necessary.
"There," I say when he hands it back. "Was that so terrible?"
"The night is young."
We pass the bottle back and forth, the conversation drifting from his rigid training schedule to my complete inability to maintain any schedule at all. The champagne works its way through my system, warming me from the inside and making the edges of everything softer.
"I want you to know," Theo says during one of our exchanges, "I'm genuinely on your side with the Paris situation."
"I know."
"No, I mean it."
"Thank you," I say, and mean it completely.
"So walk me through it again. What was different about that particular party compared to others you'd attended?"
“Straight to work, huh?” I tease.
“Azaria, this is important. You know what, why don’t you talk about similar events and from there, we will try to see the differences between those events and this one.”
"I guess that’s not a bad idea.” I tell him.
“I don’t have bad ideas.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What does that mean? You know what, I am not getting into it with you.” I grin at his irritation.
I curl my legs under me, getting comfortable.
"Okay, so there was this party in Milan last year. Private collection viewing, very exclusive, they serve really amazing champagne really."
"Naturally."
"This collector, older Italian man, very handsy, kept cornering models throughout the night. Classic power play behavior. Most girls just endured it because, you know, career implications."
Theo's jaw tightens slightly. "But not you."
"But not me. He grabbed my ass while I was looking at a Monet, so I grabbed his wrist and twisted until he made this undignified squeaking noise."
"Good."
"He got aggressive. Started yelling about respect and how I didn't know who he was. So I told him exactly who he was—a mediocre man with inherited money who collected beautiful things because he couldn't create anything beautiful himself."
"I'm guessing he didn't take that well."
"He took a swing at me. Caught me across the cheek with his ring." I trace the spot where the scratch had been, remembering the sharp sting. "Left this perfect diagonal line from my cheekbone to my jaw and I had a shoot the next day." Theo’s eyes narrow.
“He hit you?”
“Yes, he did. That is not the best part of this story.”
“Well, did he get arrested at least?” Theo presses on, barely concealing his overprotectiveness.
"Let me finish the story. The shoot was a major campaign.
Dior. This kind of booking can make or break a season.
" I grin at the memory. "I showed up to set with the scratch still visible, told the director it could be a creative choice.
Raw beauty, authentic imperfection, all that artistic nonsense. "
"And?"
"People went insane for it. The scratch became the story. 'Model fights for dignity, wears battle scars like jewelry.' Bookings doubled for the next six months."
“That’s great. What about the man who assaulted you?”
“I got some thugs to beat him up.” I say with a wicked smile.
“Really?”
“No. I got some of the other models he’d assaulted to go and report to the police with me. The case is still court. He’s spending tons on litigation so…” I trail off.
“Evil genius.” Theo grins at me. He takes another sip, shaking his head with what looks like admiration. "You're completely insane."
"Thank you."
"That's a terrible story to follow up with," I say, taking another generous sip. The champagne makes everything feel softer around the edges, including my usual defenses. "But I have one that's worse."
"Worse than assault?"
"Different kind of terrible. Amsterdam, two years ago. Fashion Week afterparty at some underground club that definitely wasn't legal." I settle deeper into his bed, the bottle balanced between us. "I was already drunk when I arrived, which should have been my first warning sign."
"But you went anyway."
"Obviously. The photographer hosting it was this legendary guy, very avant-garde, very exclusive guest list. Missing it would have been career suicide."
Theo adjusts his position, giving me his full attention. The reading glasses have disappeared somewhere during our conversation, making his eyes more direct.
"I remember walking in, remember the music being impossibly loud, remember doing shots with some rockstar’s daughter who kept insisting we were best friends." I laugh, but it sounds hollow. "After that, it gets fuzzy."
"How fuzzy?"
"I woke up in my hotel room the next morning with a tongue piercing."
Theo blinks. "A what?"
"Full barbell through my tongue. Professional work, completely healed, like I'd had it for weeks." I touch my tongue reflexively. "Apparently, I'd convinced myself it was a brilliant artistic statement. Spent hours at some underground parlor, paid extra for immediate healing treatments."
"You don't remember any of it?"
"Nothing. The piercer showed me security footage later. I was completely coherent, signing waivers, discussing placement options. But in my head? Complete blackout."
"What did you do?"
"Took it out the next day. Had a Chanel shoot that afternoon, and they don't exactly love facial piercings in their campaigns.
" I grin, but the expression feels forced.
"My mother would have absolutely murdered me for that one.
Mama always hated my impulsive decisions," I continue, working to keep my tone light.
"She used to say I was going to give her grey hair before she turned forty. "
"Mothers worry."
"Mine had good reason. I was relentless as a kid. Absolutely exhausting. Couldn't sit still, couldn't follow rules, couldn't stop pushing every boundary she set." I take another drink, using the motion to buy time. "I put that woman through hell for fifteen years straight."
Theo remains quiet, watching me with an intensity that makes my chest tight.
"She used to joke that I was her greatest challenge and her biggest headache rolled into one beautiful, impossible package." I smile, the expression automatic. "Guess she finally found the perfect solution—died just to get away from me."
I wave my hand dismissively, forcing brightness into my voice.
"God, I'm such a party pooper, huh? Sorry, that got way too heavy. I have better stories, much better stories. Let me tell you about the time I accidentally ended up at a underground fight club in Tokyo thinking it was a fashion show?—"
Theo sets his champagne glass on the nightstand and reaches for me before I can finish deflecting. His arms come around me, pulling me against his chest in a way that's so gentle it stops my rambling mid-sentence.
"I understand," he says simply. "It was so hard when I lost my mum too. I am really sorry, Zari. I really am.”
He says her name like it still hurts, but like he's made peace with the hurting. His voice drops lower, more careful.
"I came home for Christmas break and she was just... gone. I get it. I am here for you.”
My champagne glass trembles in my hand. Theo notices, takes it from me, sets it aside without breaking eye contact.
"Come here."
I don't resist when he guides me closer, when he settles us both against the headboard of his massive bed. His hands move over my shoulders in slow, steadying strokes.
"She would have liked you," he murmurs against my hair. "She always said I needed someone who wouldn't let me get away with being so serious all the time."
"I loved your mum." I tell him truthfully. “She was so cool.”
"So was yours. Just a couple of motherless kids, huh.”
“Yep, we could start a club.”
“Azaria—“
“It will be fun.”
I curl closer to him, fitting against his side like we've done this a thousand times before. The champagne has made everything softer, easier.
“I guess.”
“Don’t sound so pessimistic about the club. You know, it’s not I so desperately want to be in such a sad club.”
“It was your idea.”
"It is a sad idea. You know, I just keep thinking if I'd been different, if I'd been better, maybe she wouldn't have wanted to escape me so badly."
"Azaria, that's not how it works."
"Isn't it?"
"No. It isn't."
His arms tighten around me, protective and sure. Outside, the city continues its relentless noise, but here in his room, wrapped in expensive sheets and unexpected understanding, everything feels suspended.
Neither of us speaks after that. The champagne sits forgotten, the night settling around us like a blanket. Theo's breathing evens out first, his hand still resting against my back. I listen to his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and reassuring, until sleep takes me too.