23. Azaria
AZARIA
The nightmare comes back every night now. I wake up with my sheets twisted around my legs like restraints.
Seven nights in a row. Seven mornings of pretending I slept fine while dark circles bloom under my eyes like bruises.
I smooth foundation over the evidence in Theo's guest bathroom mirror, layering concealer. The black silk dress hangs on the door behind me—Leonard and Rachel's choice for tonight's charity gala, another carefully orchestrated attempt to rehabilitate what remains of my brand.
"Strategic visibility," Rachel had called it two days ago over the phone, her voice carrying that particular brand of optimism that PR professionals use when they're throwing Hail Marys.
Two more companies are still deciding whether to follow Lumière's lead and drop me entirely. The dominos keep falling, one endorsement deal at a time, while Leonard and Rachel scramble to prop up what's left.
Theo had agreed to accompany me without hesitation when I asked—just a simple "Of course" that made my chest loosen slightly.
But something is wrong with him.
I pin the last section of braids into an elaborate updo that took forty minutes to perfect and looks effortless. My reflection stares back—flawless makeup, elegant dress. I look good. I always look good. It's the one thing that works when everything else is falling apart.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulls me from my inspection. Theo appears in the doorway, adjusting his cufflinks.
The suit is charcoal gray, tailored to perfection. He looks like he stepped off the pages of a magazine spread about powerful men who make important decisions in boardrooms and bedrooms.
"Ready?" His voice carries its usual calm, but there's something underneath it—a tension that's been building all week like pressure behind a dam.
I've been watching him. Cataloguing the small changes in his routine, the way his jaw stays tight even when he's relaxed, how his responses have grown shorter and more controlled.
It's not about us—about me retreating to my room every night instead of coming back downstairs to finish conversations that feel too dangerous to complete.
Theo is too much of a gentleman to go cold over something like that.
This is something else entirely. Something he's carrying that I can't see the shape of yet.
Just like I'm carrying something too, and I haven't exactly offered him a roadmap to navigate it.
"Almost." I reach for my earrings—diamond studs that catch the light with every movement. "You look good, by the way. Very... captainly."
He almost smiles at that. Almost.
"Captainly isn't a word."
"It is now. I just made it up." I fasten the second earring, using the mirror to watch his reflection. "Everything okay? You've been quiet this week. Quieter than usual, which is saying something."
His pause stretches long enough that I turn to face him directly. When Theo hesitates, it means he's choosing between truth and deflection—and with him, deflection usually wins.
"Just focusing on tonight," he says finally. "Making sure everything goes smoothly."
Deflection it is.
"No."
Theo's eyebrows lift slightly—the only crack in his otherwise perfect composure.
"No, you don't get to do that thing where you go all stoic and mysterious and pretend everything's fine when it's clearly not.
" I turn fully to face him, crossing my arms. "I know something's going on, Theo.
I've been watching you all week, and you're wound tighter than usual, which is honestly impressive considering your baseline tension could power a small city. "
His expression shifts into that infuriatingly neutral mask he wears when he's decided a conversation is over before it's begun. The one that makes me want to throw something expensive at his perfectly structured face.
"You don't need to worry about it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
"Try again." I step closer, using the three inches my heels give me to narrow the height gap between us. "And this time, maybe aim for something that doesn't sound like you're dismissing a child."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"I'm going to handle it."
"Handle what, exactly?"
"Azaria." My name comes out like a warning. "You have enough to manage right now without adding my problems to the list."
"What if I want to add them to the list?"
Theo's eyes search my face like he's looking for the trap hidden in my offer.
"You don't."
"How do you know what I want?"
"Because I know you." His voice softens just enough to take the edge off. "And right now, what you need is one night where you don't have to fix anything or fight anyone or prove you deserve to be in the room."
"Fine." The word tastes bitter on my tongue. "But this conversation isn't over."
"Yes, it is."
I want to argue. Want to push until that careful control cracks and shows me what he's really thinking. But there's something in his posture—a rigidity that suggests I'm already closer to whatever line he's drawn than he's comfortable with.
"We should go." He glances at his watch. "Car's waiting."
The car glides through Manhattan traffic smoothly. I adjust my dress one final time, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles while Theo scrolls through something on his phone.
The air is charged. It's been like this all week—moments where we exist in the same space without the usual verbal sparring, as if we've both run out of safe topics and are afraid to venture into the dangerous ones.
"By the way," Theo says without looking up from his screen, "there's a delivery coming tomorrow. Tea."
I turn to study his profile. "Tea?"
"Chamomile. Some other things. Supposed to help with sleep." His thumb swipes across the screen casually. "Thought you might want to try it."
"Are you trying to tell me I look tired? Do I look bad? Because if you are, there are more diplomatic ways to—" I start to joke.
"No." Theo finally looks at me, grey eyes serious. "You could never look bad, Azaria. You always look beautiful. Always."
The simple certainty in his voice steals whatever sarcastic response I'd been preparing.
"I just—" He runs a hand over his buzzed hair. "I've noticed that it looks like you're not sleeping well. The tea might help."
"You've noticed."
"I notice everything about you."
I want to ask what else he's noticed, want to know if he's catalogued the way I've started lingering in doorways when he's in a room, or how I've been finding excuses to brush past him in the kitchen.
Instead, I look out the window at the approaching venue. "Thank you. For the tea."
"Don't mention it."
The car slows as we approach the Sheridan Hotel, where spotlights sweep across the entrance and a red carpet extends from the curb to the lobby doors. Even through the tinted windows, I can see the wall of photographers and reporters already assembled, cameras ready.
"Here we go," I murmur, straightening my shoulders.
Theo pockets his phone and turns to face me fully. "Remember what Rachel said. Short answers. Stay on message. Don't give them anything they can twist."
"I know the drill."
"And if it gets overwhelming?—"
"It won't."
He studies my face like he's memorizing it. "If it does, we leave. No discussion."
The car stops. Through the window, I watch photographers surge forward like a tide, recognizing the vehicle despite its unmarked exterior. Flashes start immediately, turning the night into a strobe-lit nightmare.
Our driver exits first, then moves to open my door. The wall of sound hits before I'm fully out of the car—voices shouting questions, cameras clicking, the general chaos that follows me everywhere now.
"Azaria! How long is the Paris investigation expected to continue?"
"Miss Emerson! Are you concerned about potential jail time?"
"What's your relationship status with Theo Tate?"
I keep my expression serene, practiced smile in place as Theo appears beside me. His hand finds the small of my back—steady, grounding.
"Miss Emerson!" A reporter with sharp features and predatory eyes pushes closer. "Sources say there are inconsistencies in your account of the Paris event. Care to comment?"
I stop walking and turn to face him directly. Rachel would kill me for engaging, but something in his tone demands a response.
"There are no inconsistencies in my account because I've told the truth from the beginning. I attended a party. I left when police arrived. That's the extent of my involvement."
"But witnesses place you near the jewelry displays earlier in the evening?—"
"I was a guest at a party where jewelry was being showcased. Of course I was near the displays." I keep my tone even, factual. "Along with approximately two hundred other guests."
"Sources suggest you had advance knowledge?—"
"Your sources are incorrect."
Another reporter jumps in. "Miss Emerson, how do you explain the timing of your departure?"
"I left when everyone else left. When the police instructed us to leave."
"But you were photographed outside before other guests?—"
"I was escorted out. As were others. The timeline you're suggesting doesn't exist."
The questions come faster now, overlapping and aggressive.
"Are you concerned about the impact on your career?"
"Several brands have already dropped you. How are you handling the financial implications?"
"What's your legal strategy if charges are filed?"
I answer each one, giving them nothing sensational, nothing quotable beyond basic facts. My media training kicks in like muscle memory—deflect, clarify, stay boring.
But then the sharp-featured reporter pushes forward again, and his approach shifts.
"Miss Emerson, sources close to the investigation suggest you're not being entirely truthful about your activities that evening."
"I've answered that question."
"Have you, though?" He steps closer, invading my personal space. "Are you hiding something significant."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"Then why won't you provide a complete timeline of your movements?"
"I have provided?—"
"No, you've provided vague generalities.”
His persistence sets my teeth on edge, but I maintain my composure.
He moves even closer, and I smell stale coffee and ambition on his breath. "Miss Emerson, are you prepared to go to jail to protect whoever you're covering for?"
Before I can respond, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, pulling me toward him as cameras flash around us.
"Just one real answer, Miss Emerson. That's all we need. One honest?—"
The pressure on his grip is immediate and painful, his fingers digging into the delicate bones of my wrist as he tries to force me closer to his microphone.
Then suddenly he's not touching me anymore.
Theo materializes between us like a force of nature, his considerable frame blocking the reporter entirely. The man stumbles backward, releasing my wrist as Theo's presence fills the space.
"Back off." Theo's says angrily. "Now."
"This is a public event?—"
"And that was assault. Touch her again and I'll have you arrested."
"I was just trying to get an answer?—"
"By grabbing her?" Theo steps forward, using his height and build to full advantage. "Try that shit again and you'll get an answer from my lawyers instead."
The reporter looks like he wants to argue, but something in Theo's expression convinces him otherwise. He backs away, muttering about press freedom and public interest.
Theo turns to me, his hand immediately finding mine to examine my wrist. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." But my voice sounds shakier than I'd like. The adrenaline from the confrontation is making my hands tremble slightly.
"We're leaving."
"Theo, we just got here?—"
"We're leaving." His tone brooks no argument. His hand moves to my back again, but this time it's protective rather than supportive, guiding me away from the crowd of reporters who are now shouting even louder questions about what they just witnessed.
"Miss Emerson! Are you and Theo Tate in a relationship?"
"Tate! How long have you been protecting her?"
"Is this confirmation of your involvement in the Paris incident?"
Theo ignores every question, his focus entirely on getting me away from the chaos. His jaw is set in a way that suggests the reporter is lucky this ended with words instead of fists.
"The car," I manage, looking back toward where we'd been dropped off.
"Already called." Theo's phone is somehow in his hand, though I didn't see him retrieve it. "Thirty seconds."
True to his word, our car appears at the curb within moments. Theo doesn't wait for the driver—he opens my door himself, one hand on my back to help me inside, the other positioned to block any photographer trying to get a clear shot.
Once we're both inside and the door closes, the noise cuts to a muffled roar outside the tinted windows.
"Fuck," I breathe, finally allowing my composure to crack slightly.
Theo is already examining my wrist again, his touch gentle despite the tension radiating from every line of his body. "He grabbed you hard. There might be bruising."
"It's fine. I've had worse from overeager photographers."
His grey eyes snap to mine. "That shouldn't be normal."
"But it is. Welcome to my world, Tate. Population: me, and everyone who wants a piece of me."