18. Theo
THEO
Ileave practice forty minutes early, citing a family emergency that isn't entirely untrue. Coach doesn't question it—the advantage of being captain and maintaining a spotless record for three seasons running.
The coffee shop Logan suggested sits wedged between a dry cleaner and a tax preparation office, a place that survives on convenience rather than atmosphere. Fluorescent lighting, mismatched chairs, and the persistent smell of burnt espresso.
He's already claimed a corner table when I arrive, positioned with his back to the wall and clear sightlines to both entrances. The file spreads open before him like evidence at a crime scene.
"You look good."
"Thank you."
Logan slides a coffee across the table. Black, no sugar. "The models."
He places three photographs in a neat row.
Professional headshots, the ones used for casting calls.
Margot Dubois with her sharp blonde bob and calculating smile.
Sophie Moreau, brunette and elegant in that particularly French way that suggests she's never encountered a problem money couldn't solve.
Isabelle Laurent, younger than the others, with wide-eyed innocence that photographs beautifully and hides absolutely nothing.
"Connected how?"
"This." Logan produces another photograph, this one candid and grainy like surveillance footage.
The three women sit around a table at what looks like an expensive restaurant, candlelight casting shadows across their faces.
Their body language speaks of familiarity—leaning in, sharing secrets, the easy intimacy of people who've known each other longer than they'd admit publicly.
But it's the fourth figure that makes me lean forward.
An older man, silver-haired and immaculately dressed, sits across from them.
"Massimo Lombardi." Logan taps the photograph. "Old Milanese money. Private art collector, luxury investments, connections that weave through European finance."
"And he's connected to Paris how?"
"That's where it gets interesting." Logan pulls out another sheet, covered in his precise handwriting. "His name appears adjacent to the guest list logistics. Not on the list itself, but in the background paperwork. Venue contracts, security arrangements, even the catering company selection."
I study the photograph again, noting the way Massimo holds himself.
"You think he orchestrated the whole thing."
"I think he had the means and the connections. What I can't figure out yet is the motive. Why target Azaria specifically? What does he gain from destroying her career?"
The pieces click together with uncomfortable clarity. "Revenge."
"For what?"
"Check his legal history. Specifically, any cases involving assault charges filed by models in Milan."
Logan's eyebrows rise. "You think she?—"
"I think she fought back against something, and he's been planning payback ever since."
Logan makes a note. "I'll dig deeper into his financial connections to the Paris event. If he funded the setup, there'll be a paper trail somewhere."
He slides the file and photographs across the table. "Keep pulling at this. If Massimo's behind it, we need proof solid enough to clear her name permanently."
I pocket the evidence, mind already racing through implications. Azaria mentioned not remembering parts of that night clearly—what if that wasn't chaos but calculation? What if someone made sure her memory would be fragmented?
"How long?"
"Give me forty-eight hours. Maybe less if his financial arrangements were as sloppy as his operational security."
I stand, file tucked inside my jacket. "Logan."
"Yeah?"
"Be careful. Men like Massimo don't orchestrate elaborate revenge plots unless they're prepared to protect them."
Logan's smile carries no warmth. "Good thing I specialize in problems that bite back."
The townhouse feels different when I return—warmer somehow, filled with low music that drifts from upstairs. B.B. King's guitar weaves through the hallway, mournful and rich, drawing me toward Azaria's room.
I find her on the bed, hunched over her left foot.
The bottle of navy polish catches the lamplight, her movements careful and deliberate.
She's wrapped her braids in cream silk, the ends spilling over her shoulder like dark water against the fabric.
The co-ord set she wears—matching shorts and top in some soft material—makes her look younger.
She glances up when my shadow fills the doorway, and that smile appears. The one that's become familiar territory over these weeks, genuine and unguarded, reaching her eyes.
"Hi."
"I need to show you something important."
Her laugh comes before I finish the sentence, warm and mocking. "Oh, here we go. Let me guess—more evidence of my terrible influence on your pristine reputation? Or maybe you've discovered I've been secretly rearranging your sock drawer by color instead of brand?"
She pats the space beside her, the mattress dipping under her palm. "Whatever earth-shattering revelation you've uncovered can probably wait until you help me finish this foot. My left hand has the artistic precision of a drunk toddler."
"Azaria—"
"Unless it's actual fire or actual blood, it can wait five minutes. Besides, when was the last time you did something completely pointless and relaxing? I'm betting never."
I pull the photograph from my jacket and place it on the comforter in front of her, the image stark against the white fabric.
Her teasing expression falters. The nail polish brush hovers mid-stroke as her eyes fix on the grainy surveillance photo—Margot, Sophie, Isabelle, and the silver-haired man whose face I can see her recognizing in real time.
The music continues playing, B.B. King's voice filling the silence that stretches between us. Her smile disappears completely, replaced by a grimace. The easy warmth in her posture shifts, shoulders straightening as she leans forward to study the image more closely.
"Where did you get this?"
"Logan, my private investigator, found the connection. That's Massimo Lombardi. The three models you mentioned from Paris—they weren't just there by coincidence."
She sets the nail polish aside, forgotten, her full attention now locked on the photograph. Her fingers trace the edge of the image, not quite touching Massimo's face but hovering close enough that I can see her hands trembling slightly.
Her fingers pick up the nail polish brush again. The navy lacquer flows across her remaining toes with steady strokes, as if the photograph beside her doesn't exist. As if Massimo's face isn't staring up from the surveillance image like a ghost from her past.
"Azaria."
She doesn't respond. The brush moves from pinky to ring toe, each stroke perfectly even, but I catch the slight tremor in her exhale.
"You know him."
"I know a lot of people. Comes with the territory of being fabulous and in demand."
The brush continues its methodical journey. Ring toe to middle toe. The navy polish gleams wet under the lamplight, flawless despite the way her hand shakes almost imperceptibly.
"This isn't about knowing him at parties."
"Isn't it?" She caps the brush, unscrews it again, adds another coat to toes that don't need it. "Rich old men orbit models like planets around the sun. Nothing shocking about that revelation, Tate."
The brush moves to her big toe, adding a third unnecessary coat. The polish pools slightly at the cuticle, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"Azaria, look at me."
"Busy. Perfectionism takes time and concentration. You of all people should understand that concept."
I watch her paint the same toe again, the motion compulsive now. Her jaw locks tight, that stubborn set I recognize from every argument we've ever had.
I reach across the space between us, my fingers settling gently on her shoulders. The warmth of her skin bleeds through the soft fabric of her top, and I feel the tension coiled in her muscles like wire about to snap.
"Stop."
My hands cover hers, stilling the brush mid-stroke. The nail polish bottle sits between us, navy as midnight, as dark as the secrets she's trying to paint over.
She doesn't resist when I take the brush from her fingers, setting it aside. Her hands remain suspended in the air for a moment, as if she's forgotten what to do with them without the ritual to hide behind.