Chapter 19
Recent transactions:
The last evening in Paris is celebrated with a contestants’ mixer party on the exclusive rooftop of the hotel; the bar is
jarringly modern compared to all the other surroundings. The hotel is three hundred years old, so why does the bar have multicolored
strobes lighting up the walls? Maybe I’m being a snob. But maybe it’s catering to the tech crowd who crave modernity and forward
thinking, who need the next best thing to feel like they are living life in the most efficient way possible, therefore maximizing
their prowess over everyone else in the room.
When Spencer and I got back to our hotel after the speed networking, I asked him to look Malcolm up online.
He’s working as a tech and business journalist for a small-fry online magazine based in London.
Just seeing his author profile on the website made me feel like I was going to throw up lunch all over again.
At least I can relax knowing journalists aren’t invited to this part of the event, and we’re getting on the last train back to London tonight.
Once the results of Round Two come out later tonight, we will no doubt be voted out of the competition and this will all be over. I’ll never have to see him again.
“How many people in this bar do you think have blood boys?” Spencer leans in to ask.
I scrunch my face. “Blood boys?”
“You know, where they infuse their blood with a younger, healthier person’s blood as a way to slow down their aging.”
I side-eye my brother. “Ew, where did you hear that?”
He shrugs. “Twitter. But the main reason they want to live longer is to conquer more businesses. It’s weird because the people
that live the longest are Mediterranean great-grandmothers who have eaten tomatoes, focaccia bread, and wine their whole lives.”
My stomach growls at his words, having survived the afternoon hiding out in the hotel room on nothing but complimentary biscotti
and espresso.
“So the things they want to live longer for are the things that are killing them faster?” I offer.
“Yeah, like you’d live longer if you just took that money and chilled the fuck out, ya know?”
My mind drifts to an image of me living in a beach hut; sand in crevasses at all times, sunburn, sea-salt crunchy hair. I
shudder, a nightmare. But on second thought, a beach bar with no responsibilities does sound good right now.
As we step into the throng, Spencer converts to CEO mode, immediately abandoning me for his new friends.
This is just like when we started secondary school.
We’d always been in the same friend group, but he’d insisted that we have our “own friends” now that we were in Big School.
Of course, whenever I had friends over, he would charm them, declaring them as his own once he’d socially conquered them.
He would have sleepovers and I was not invited.
He bounds over and is greeted by his new besties. All founders and CEOs. They are acting like they are friends now, but I
don’t think he fully understands how each one of them would throw him into traffic for a shot at placing in the top three.
To him, this is just a fun experience he can look back on fondly, but for them, TechRumble is a battle royal in Armani suiting.
Left to my own devices, I beeline toward the open bar.
After ordering a Negroni, I lean against the cold edge and scan the crowd.
A sea of gray, navy, and black with pops of tie color, but never too loud because that would be obnoxious.
My eyes snag on Dominic, a commanding presence with so many eyes on him.
Studying his face among the average businessmen truly makes me understand how Spencer was describing him.
This man looks like a movie star. So unbelievably unattainable based on his face and stature alone.
But combined with his wealth and unique brand of magnetic yet stoic charisma, I can see why every single person’s body language subtly gravitates toward him.
I know the feeling of everyone knowing who you are when you walk in the room.
But my version doesn’t stem from awe and adoration; it was from a sickly mix of judgment, anger, and pity.
Maybe going through that experience makes you acutely aware of when people are staring at you.
Which is how my skin buzzes when I catch sight of Oliver looking straight at me from a group of Odericco assistants.
His demeanor shifts, tensing at the sight of me.
He tilts his head, furrowing his brow into a question.
“What?” I mouth, taking a sip of my drink to avoid looking awkward and uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.
As he wades over to me, I can’t stop my mind flashing to how he looked in the hotel room, the last time we were alone. His
thumb brushing against my open mouth. He glides through the crowded floor with ease, a tiger swimming through lily pads as
people ebb and flow to give him purchase. People glance at him, some a second glance, probably due to his access to Dominic
Odericco. To many, he’s the gatekeeper and access granter. To me, he’s the person my brain is telling me to stay away from,
but my body refuses to leave. My feet remain glued to the floor until he’s towering over me at the bar, his scent lingering
against my lips as I take another defiant sip of my drink.
“I thought you’d finally decided on disliking me.” His lips curve as he scans my face with bright twinkling eyes.
I crinkle my nose. “What are you talking about? I—” I stop as the memory hits me. “Oh my god, I completely ignored you this
morning. I’m so sorry.”
He blushes ever so slightly, giving me a confused look. “Were you blowing me off because I asked you out?”
I place my drink on the bar and shake my head. “No. Well, yes. Maybe. Not really.”
He huffs a laugh. “Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up. I just thought you weren’t interested in me.”
My chin tilts to meet him. “I haven’t fully committed to the plan of not being interested. It’s just . . . complicated.”
“Then this is me generously giving you the opportunity to explain yourself.” He lifts a brow and crosses his arms. His thick hair flops to the side as he leans against the bar. There’s a cheekiness to his demeanor, but I can feel the undercurrent of nerves passing through him.
I guffaw. “I have nothing to explain. I think I’ve made myself very clear already.” Heat crawls up my spine.
He scoffs a laugh, running a hand over his light stubble. “Are you serious?”
I know for a fact that I haven’t made myself even slightly clear. I’m confusing myself with my own actions. My focus should
purely be on this competition, but my attention continues to be dragged in the opposite direction, toward the big red arrow
saying “hot, charming American wants to take you out.”
Am I acting just like Spencer? Playing pretend, living vicariously through a character I’ve made up. Violet isn’t meant to
be any different than Jess except in name, but only when I saw Malcolm did I realize I’ve felt so much lighter playacting
as Violet. The past felt detached, rather than etched into my bones.
Maybe Oliver would like Jess just as much as Violet, but I can’t take that risk. Can I? Every man who has entered my life
doesn’t stay long enough to garner a second date. But being forced into these situations with Oliver has allowed him to get
under my skin, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
He raises his hand and orders a drink from the bartender. “You’ve said you were only interested in being friends, and yet
whenever we’re in a room together, you can’t take your eyes off me.”
My cheeks flare. So much for subtlety. I guess I’m not as covert as I thought.
“Yes, I can.” A feeble attempt at rebuttal considering I can’t currently unlock my eyes from his.
Oliver thanks the bartender as a matching Negroni in a frosted glass is placed in front of him. He takes a long sip, then
begins to cartoonishly count on his fingers.
“You kissed me in a hot tub; we had an amazing time in the shower. In your room, you looked like you wanted me to kiss you, but then you say you would never want to go for dinner with me, then you start making the . . . what did you call them?” He taps his soft lip with a finger.
“‘The ooey-gooey eyes’? Then you give me ooey-gooey eyes from across the room at the speed networking thing this morning,
but by the time we were face-to-face, you acted like I didn’t exist.”
My lips purse. Fuck, I am throwing him for a serious loop here. If the gender roles were reversed, this would be a toxic red
flag nightmare.
He tilts his head. “So forgive me if I’m confused, but you haven’t exactly made yourself clear. If you want to be friends,
that’s fine. I’ll happily be your friend. But that’s not how you look at friends, Violet.”
The fake name hits me like a truck, a big fat reminder as to why I’ve been acting like this.
I go to take his arm. “I’m just—” My elbow smacks against my drink, knocking it clean over and leaking red liquid across the bar top.
The crowd looks over at the sound of smashing glass, a few resounding “wheeeeeeys” coming from the British contingency in the room.
Negroni creeps over the edge and begins to drip on the floor, causing both Oliver and I to jump back.
I glance at the crowd, feeling the heat rising in me completely dissipate into cold embarrassment.
“Fuck, sorry,” I say to the bartender as I take napkins and try to soak up the booze, cutting my hand on a tiny shard of glass
in the process. “Ow.”
Oliver steps toward me, taking my hand and assessing it. He pulls a small shard out of my palm, blood oozing out of the cut.
He takes a black napkin and presses it against my skin, using his thumb to put pressure on and wrapping his fingers around
the other side of my hand.
“It’s okay. I got it,” the bartender says with a weak smile, obviously annoyed to have to stop serving for a couple of minutes
to clean up my mess. The crowd waiting for drinks aren’t the most patient of clientele.
“Sorry,” I repeat, internally cringing that this keeps happening in front of Oliver.
My eyes dart back to the crowd to check if anyone is still looking at this display of fondness between the two of us. My first
glance brings a sense of calm that nobody really cares what is going on at the bar. That is, until a sharp jolt of pain runs
up my neck, goose bumps rising all over my body. I glance again, eyes locking on Malcolm’s. He’s in the crowd, inconspicuous,
blending in with everyone else apart from the bright blue eyes that are fixed onto mine.
People say in these moments your blood runs cold.
But mine goes hot, like someone is holding a lighter to my arteries.
Why is he here? Did he come here, uninvited, just to check his theory?
A journalist just following a hunch? The pure hatred radiating from him goes straight to my stomach, lancing me so hard I have to check a shard of glass didn’t penetrate me there.
I thought maybe I’d gotten away with it at the speed networking event, but now the look of satisfied recognition curling around his mouth tells me he’s finally certain.
Malcolm knows Violet is Jess. Malcolm knows Spencer is not a CEO. Malcolm knows Jess is a liar and a fraud.
My heart barrels over itself, beating so hard it covers the sound of the mingling crowd. My fingers grip the edge of the bar,
sweat instantly pouring from my palms. My breathing hitches, coming out in broken inhales and shaky exhales. My hands begin
to shake, my vision blurring and knees turning to jelly.
I can’t be here. I have to get out of here.
I glance back at Malcolm’s position in the crowd; he is talking to a man I don’t know, but his eyes won’t get off me. Like
bugs crawling under my clothes. I swallow down the stinging in the back of my throat, begging my breathing to slow. He could
be telling that man about me right now. Malcolm doesn’t know the full extent of what’s going on, but he knows Spencer is an
actor and my real name. Even at the surface level, it’s enough to get us kicked out of TechRumble. Enough to make me a laughingstock
again, enough to tarnish Wyst’s reputation, enough to bury me and everything I’ve worked for in a grave of shame and online
gossip.
“You’re shaking,” Oliver says, squeezing my palm. “Are you bad with blood?”
I clamp my eyes shut for a second, trying to assess which course of action will cause the least damage.
Finally, I pick the lesser of two evils, giving Oliver a small piece of the truth. “You said I seemed distracted earlier?”
“Yeah.” He blinks, waiting with bated breath.
I swallow, my mouth dry. “Right before you sat down in front of me, I found out my ex is at the conference.”
He blinks, brows knitting. “I’m guessing that didn’t end well?”
“No, it ended really fucking badly.” My voice cracks.
He studies me. I’m vibrating, glancing around the party making sure Malcolm isn’t anywhere nearby. Fuck, I have no idea where
to go. I don’t even have a room key.
I turn back to Oliver, his eyes following me to the man staring daggers at me through the crowd. “Can you take me somewhere
that isn’t here?” My voice is squeaky as I look up at him.
He straightens. “Of course, want me to tell your boss?”
Scanning the crowd to locate Spencer, I find him talking animatedly to Dominic, who looks genuinely enthralled. At least he’s
making use of those ten minutes Oliver secured.
“No, I don’t want to interrupt them. Are you allowed to leave?” My eyes are watery as I glance up at Oliver’s taut jaw.
“I’m here as an errand boy, and getting you out of here is more important right now.” He squeezes my arm. “Let’s go.”
Leading me out of the thickly crowded room, Oliver puts a protective arm around my waist. “This okay?” His weight around me
feels like a buoy stopping me from drowning.
“Yeah,” I breathe. I don’t know whether the feeling of electricity is the stress of seeing Malcolm again or Oliver’s skin
on mine. It’s confusing, but my stunted heartbeat evens out as we burst out of the room into the empty hotel lobby and head
straight out the front door.