Chapter 27
MADDIE
The VIP cocktail party glows lemon-yellow, as if someone cracked open a giant citrus fruit.
Quench logos shimmer on every wall, every ice bucket, every napkin. Even the servers wear yellow vests and glossy smiles, moving through the crowd like well-trained bees.
I adjust Snorty’s black bandana. Then I lift him for a photo a reporter insists on taking.
“Hold him up a little higher, sweetheart,” she instructs, already snapping. “Tilt him toward the light.”
Snorty does not enjoy creative direction.
He yips indignantly, twists in my arms, then throws all four legs wide like he’s performing a canine vaudeville routine.
The photographer gasps. “Oh! That’s perfect.”
Of course it is.
I re-tie his bandana to achieve that flaring effect Antoine now insists on. “You’re impossible,” I say, kissing the top of his warm furry head.
Another reporter swoops in. “Maddie! One more shot—this time with Rio. And your dog, obviously. He’s an integral part of the brand.”
My stomach knots. But refusing would only make things worse.
The reporter escorts me toward Rio. Good. At lease Rio will see I’m not approaching him of my own accord.
He turns as we arrive, smiling his effortless, practiced grin for the camera.
But when his eyes flick to mine, they’re cold. Warning me not to speak. Not to assume anything.
The photographer pushes us closer together. “Yes, perfect. Hold the dog between you—great.”
I force a smile.
Snorty wriggles but settles, warm and calm in my arms. The one creature in this room who doesn’t judge me.
“Beautiful,” the photographer says, flipping her camera to show the screen. “Look at this!”
Rio barely glances. “Excuse me,” he murmurs, already walking away to rejoin Antoine.
“Would you please email it to me?" I ask the photographer. "I didn’t get a chance to see it.”
“I’ll send it now,” she says before walking away.
A moment later, a soft ping hits my phone. I open the email instantly.
There we are.
Rio. Me. Snorty. All bathed in warm light. Looking like a happy little family.
A lie, but a beautiful one.
I turn the screen toward my dog. He snorts approvingly at the image. Then he wiggles to be put down, eager to be part of the party action.
“Fine, but don’t go far,” I warn.
He gives me a classic yeah, yeah, yeah yip and trots off into the crowd. His short stubby tail wagging like he owns the place.
I follow him with my eyes for a while, then turn my attention on Rio. He's charming the crowd as usual. And making a trio of attractive girls giggle.
I take a deep breath.
Things were so right last night. How did they go so wrong?
A familiar yip sounds from somewhere across the room.
I look up and spot Snorty near the dessert table. His front paws braced against the knees of a young boy in a blue suit.
Samuel. Henry Lemon's son.
Snorty wags his whole back end, ecstatic by the attention Samuel shows him.
My heart softens. “Snorty,” I call gently as I approach. “You’re a shameless flirt.”
Samuel looks up at me, cheeks flushed. “He found me,” he says. “I hope that’s okay?”
“He likes good people.” I reply.
Snorty punctuates this by rubbing his head against Samuel’s pant leg.
Samuel giggles. It’s the purest sound in the room.
Henry Lemon steps up behind us, his shadow falling over his son.
Mr. Lemon’s bright yellow suit, tie, and even his pocket square are all marked with the Quench lemon logo.
He scans me, then Snorty, then his son’s smiling face.
It's hard to read him. I know from Antoine that he saw the tabloid photo. But accepted Antoine's belief that the tabloid was just blowing an innocent encounter out of proportion.
“I see the dog has made quite an impression.”
“He does that,” I say with a small smile.
Snorty yips proudly.
But then his yip turns into a shallow, wheezing cough. My stomach flips.
“What’s wrong?” Samuel asks, his voice climbing in panic.
“He’s okay,” I reassure quickly, kneeling to rub Snorty's chest. “He has a health issue. It flares when he gets excited.”
Lemon studies Snorty with unexpected concern. “Will he be all right?”
“Yes,” I say, though the worry in my chest hasn’t faded. “He just needs medical help. That’s why we’re here.”
This—this—is my opening. My chance to pivot from the tabloid -scandal to my autism research report.
But first I need to make sure he really believes the story I told today on Braxton's show.
"Mr. Lemon, about that tabloid ..."
"Just one moment, young lady," he says, instructing his son to stay close before leading me to two chairs.
I sit, nerves tight. We met briefly after breakfast, but this feels different. This feels like a summons to the principal’s office.
“My schedule is demanding, so I need to be clear.”
I sit straighter. “Of course.”
“I hope you do.” His gaze sharpens.
“Quench is not merely a soft drink to me. It is my creation. My brand. My investment. And tonight’s event? This showcase?” He gestures at the glowing ballroom. “A significant portion of my annual budget.”
“We appreciate that, truly.”
“Yes,” he says coolly. “But appreciating it isn’t the same as protecting it.”
Mr. Lemon studies me the way a jeweler inspects a stone. Checking for cracks, flaws, anything that might devalue the product.
“I’m not here to chastise you. But you must know this brand, my brand, cannot weather uncertainty. Chaos is bad for business.”
My pulse thumps in my throat.
“I did see the tabloid photo, Miss Smith. Antoine explained it. And I saw your interview with Braxton. It was good spin. It bought you sympathy.”
His gaze hardens. “But you need to know I don’t invest in sympathy. I invest in stability.”
He leans in.
“If there is one more incident—one more photo, one more hint this engagement is messy or fake—I pull the sponsorship.”
My breath catches. “You…you can’t. The concert is tomorrow.”
“I can,” he says calmly. “The loss will be Rio’s problem. And the band’s. And my charity’s. But the scandal?”
His eyes pin me. “That will have your name on it, Miss Smith.”
I swallow hard as he rises.
Then I calm myself by remembering that lightning rarely strikes twice in the same place.
For a moment, the clink of glasses and soft music blur together in a fog. My eyes sting, but I blink it away.
Not here. Not now.
I'm obligated to meet and mingle as Rio's fiancé until the party ends.
The ballroom glows bright yellow around me, buzzing with conversations I no longer hear.
Tomorrow is the concert.
And everything rests on what comes next.