CHAPTER 7 #2
Every time I try to divert my attention to understand the murmurs spreading through the hall, Nero quickly gives me something else to think about—or laugh about—almost like a superpower. I can’t deny that I like it.
“What is it?” I squint. “Am I dirty?” I lift my thumb to the corner of my mouth, wiping away something I can’t see, and Nero shakes his head.
“I’m just looking at you.”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously, and he tilts his head, immediately slipping into the sideways smile I’m starting to think is his favorite.
“Because you’re my date.”
I raise my brows and widen my eyes for a second as he reminds me of the impossible-to-understand invitation.
“You really need to work on your communication skills. That invitation was awful,” I tease, now that the tension of seeing him again has completely drained from my body—replaced, quite literally, by the pleasure of his company.
He lets out a low chuckle and lifts a hand to scratch his beard.
“I’ll remember that next time. I promise.”
I tilt my head, carefully analyzing his words, unwilling to give my already-calmed heart anything to race over unnecessarily—but before I can say anything, a woman wearing a pencil skirt and tailored jacket instead of a long dress approaches us.
“Excuse me,” she says—becoming the first person all night to address both of us. I acknowledge her with a nod.
“Yes, Daphne,” Nero replies, recognizing her.
“We have a situation, Mr. Nero Zanthos,” Daphne says, glancing at me as if unsure whether she should continue in front of me. “Your parents are—”
Nero lifts a hand, stopping her before she can finish.
“Where are they?”
“Near the fountain.”
A long sigh leaves my date’s lips as all the good humor on his face is replaced by a much more severe expression—one that suits far better the Greek heir the media loves to talk about.
It’s a good thing we’ve already agreed that I’m not a good person, because in some strange way, I like this. I like imagining that some part of this man is reserved only for me—even though deep down I know that’s nothing more than my imagination.
After all, in every way that matters, we’ve just met.
He turns to me and dips his head.
“Would you mind waiting here? I won’t be long. I’ll take care of this and come back to you.”
“Of course not. It’s fine,” I assure him.
He nods, though his face doesn’t look entirely convinced. Nero takes a step forward, then stops and looks back at me. I nod again, telling him without words that it’s all right. He mirrors the gesture before finally walking away.
I sigh and blink several times, feeling a little incredulous about how this night is unfolding.
As the minutes pass, I let my mind replay every moment since I came down the stairs at home. This definitely isn’t the night I expected to have—but I’m certainly not complaining.
Alone in the hall, the whispers around me seem to grow louder, almost directed at me. I take another small sip from my glass and let my eyes scan the room, searching for my mother. I’ve only seen her a few times since we arrived separately. The party is enormous—and packed.
I don’t find who I’m looking for. Instead, I stumble upon what feels like a million sideways glances aimed at me.
The discomfort spreads over my body like a second skin, and I turn my back, positioning myself behind the pillar next to the cocktail table where Nero and I had stopped.
I lower my head, telling myself I only need a minute to deal with this feeling. Just a minute.
Khione is a gossiping island. I know that. I can’t even exempt myself from that guilt—after all, less than thirty minutes ago I was happily gossiping with Nero myself.
Still, I was stupid enough not to consider that accepting his invitation would turn me into the next target of the ever-hungry rumor mill.
I don’t want to consider it yet. I want to believe the weight settling in my stomach is nothing more than paranoia.
But as if the universe needs to prove me wrong, I hear it.
“Just imagine! With so many interesting women in Khione, and he chooses to parade around with the grocer’s daughter?”
An old female voice says it without bothering to lower its volume. After all, what are the chances someone hears something they shouldn’t amid the cacophony of sounds in the hall?
My lips press together as swallowing becomes difficult—because it’s obvious who they’re talking about, even without names being mentioned.
A clicking tongue before another voice, just as old, replies.
“He must be walking her around out of pity. The girl just came back to town. Did you see the way she was throwing herself at the boys before Nero arrived?”
My eyes widen. Throwing myself at the boys?
“And the dress?” the second voice continues, and I drop my gaze to my own body, searching for flaws in my outfit before hearing the rest. “Pitiful. I thought Rosa would have enough money to at least dress her daughter properly.”
The woman sighs.
“No wonder Nero felt sorry for her.”
“Poor thing…” the woman who started it all feigns sympathy, and I clench my teeth, a mix of anger and helplessness burning in my chest.
The conversation goes on. They talk about my hair, my makeup, even the way I walk. But no matter where it leads, it always circles back to the same point:
Nero is only with me out of pity.
It’s impossible not to wonder if I’m just another case of baklava. Like Mrs. Eudora’s desserts, is Nero only keeping me company out of pity?
He had no reason to do that. No one expected him to. Him inviting me makes no sense—but pity being the reason makes even less.
“Any woman who looks at her and believes someone would keep her company out of pity is clearly overdue for an appointment with an ophthalmologist.”
Nero’s voice slices through my thoughts and silences the women behind me.
I turn slowly, holding my breath, unable to believe he actually heard them—and I find him standing exactly where he left me, on the other side of the pillar, behind the two elderly women who were speaking about me so cruelly.
They turn to him with awkward smiles and blinking eyes—silent apologies written across their faces.
Nero isn’t looking at either of them.
He’s only turned his head toward me, keeping his body positioned like a barrier between me and the two gossips. The expression on his face isn’t the playful one he wore before Daphne came to call him—but it isn’t the hard one he put on before dealing with whatever issue arose, either.
The lines on his face form something entirely new to me—something I don’t yet know how to interpret.
Only when I shake my head and silently mouth it’s okay does he step aside, revealing me to the women.
They at least have the decency to widen their eyes before greeting me as if they hadn’t been speaking ill of me mere seconds earlier. They hurry to excuse themselves and disappear into the crowd.
Nero extends his hand to me, and I take it. We stare at each other for nearly a minute before I speak.
“I need air.”
He nods, and without a word, leads me through the guests—winding through the hall and down corridors until the number of people around us dwindles to none.
I’m about to say it’s enough when he lifts his free hand and opens a door.
I follow him, curious, and step into a garden as we cross the threshold. The clean, cool air—so different from the air I’d been sharing with hundreds of people inside the association—fills my lungs, and I close my eyes, savoring it.
When I open them again, I find the blue seas Nero calls eyes completely focused on me—and I can’t keep the question inside.
“Why did you invite me?”
He studies me as if he doesn’t know the answer himself.
And just as the poison woven into the gossips’ words, the sideways glances, and the murmurs of the night threaten to settle as an absolute truth in my heart, he answers—driving it away completely.
“Because I wanted to.”