Chapter Eighteen
Charity
The first text comes while we're waiting for our eggs.
My phone buzzes on the diner table. Mother. I almost ignore it—after Friday's disaster, I've been expecting angry calls and demands to "discuss my behavior"—but something makes me check.
Mother: Call me. Immediately.
My stomach tightens. That's not her usual tone. That's panic.
"What's wrong?" Draco asks, reading my expression.
"I don't know." I'm already dialing. "My mother sounds—"
She answers before the first ring finishes. "Where are you?"
"At a diner. Near the vet clinic. Lucky needed emergency—"
"I know where you are." Her voice is ice. "Or rather, half of Manhattan knows where you are. Did you think no one would notice Charity Pembroke leaving an emergency vet clinic at two in the afternoon with an unknown man?"
My blood runs cold. "What are you talking about?"
"Check your phone. The internet. Any social media platform." She sounds furious and terrified. "You've been photographed. Both of you. And people are asking questions."
I pull up Instagram with shaking hands. Type my own name into the search bar.
The first post is from @ManhattanSocialite, posted two hours ago:
Charity Pembroke (yes, THAT Pembroke) spotted leaving SilverPoint Vet Clinic with mystery man. Who is he? ?? #ManhattanElite #SocietyGossip
The photo is unmistakable. Me and Draco walking hand-in-hand out of the clinic. My hair is wild, coat askew, face pale with exhaustion. But I'm smiling at something he said. And he's looking at me like I'm the only person in the world.
We look happy. We look real. We look completely smitten.
"Charity?" Mother's voice cuts through my shock. "Are you listening to me?"
"I see it," I manage.
“Tell me you are not involved with that man.” Her voice is sharp, clipped. “The street magician from Friday. Charity—what on earth are you doing parading around Manhattan with him?”
"His name is Draco." I force myself to stay calm. "And yes, he's the same person. We took our dog to the emergency vet. That's all."
"'Our dog.'" Mother's laugh is bitter. "Charity, do you have any idea what this looks like? The Pembroke heiress sneaking around with some performer, spending the night at veterinary clinics. The speculation is already starting. People are digging. Asking questions."
"Let them ask." I'm surprised by how steady my voice is. "I have nothing to hide."
"Nothing to—" She breaks off. "Your father wants to speak with you. Tonight. Both of you, apparently, since you seem determined to involve this man in everything."
"Fine." I glance at Draco, who's watching me with concerned eyes. "We'll come by after we check on Lucky this evening."
"Not the mansion. Too many staff who might talk to the press." Mother sounds like she's thinking fast. "Father's office. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
She hangs up before I can respond.
I set down my phone carefully, like it might explode. Draco reaches across the table, covers my hand with his.
"What happened?"
"We've been photographed. It's online." I turn my phone so he can see the post. "My mother says people are asking questions."
He studies the photo, expression unreadable. "None of these people know who I am."
"Yet." The word hangs heavy. "But they will. If people start digging…"
I don't finish the sentence. Don't need to. If anyone digs into Draco's background, they'll find… what? A man with no last name, no traceable history past a few months ago, no digital footprint except recent street-performance videos.
They'll find a mystery. And mysteries make people curious.
Our eggs arrive. The waitress—a tired woman in her sixties—sets down the plates without looking at us. But the younger server behind the counter is staring. Phone half-hidden behind the coffee pot.
"We should go," I say quietly.
"We should eat." Draco picks up his fork. "Running makes it look like we're hiding something."
He's right. But my stomach is churning too hard to think about food.
My phone buzzes again. Then again. And again.
Text from an old school friend I haven't spoken to in years: Is that you in the photo on Manhattan Socialite???
Email from a charity board member: Dear Charity, I hope you're well. I couldn't help but notice…
Instagram notification: Someone tagged you in a post.
Another notification. And another.
"Charity." Draco's voice is gentle but firm. "Put the phone down. Eat your eggs. We deal with this one thing at a time."
I force myself to take a bite. It tastes like sawdust, but I chew and swallow. Take another bite. Focus on the simple act of eating instead of watching my carefully controlled life spin out of control in real-time.
By the time we finish—Draco eating steadily, me picking at my plate—my phone has accumulated forty-seven notifications.
We take a taxi back—easier than trying to Uber to the back gate again. The driver glances in the rearview mirror once, does a double-take when he sees me, but doesn't say anything.
By the time we reach the cottage, my phone is on fire.
More tags. More comments. Twitter is exploding with comments, most of which say something like, "Who is Charity Pembroke's mystery man?"
I scan the comments, each one making my chest tighter:
Looks like a performer or artist. Those are definitely thrift-store clothes.
He's hot though. Good for her.
The Pembroke family is going to HATE this.
Anyone recognize him? Reverse image search isn't turning up anything.
Love how happy she looks. When was the last time we saw Charity Pembroke smile like that?
The last comment hits differently. When was the last time I looked that happy in public? I can't remember. Every photo from charity events, every society page appearance—I'm always wearing the same polite, distant smile. The mask my parents taught me to wear.
But in this photo, I'm not wearing any mask at all.
"They're digging," I tell Draco, showing him the social media thread. "Trying to figure out who you are."
He reads in silence, expression carefully neutral. "What happens when they find out?"
"I don't know." Honest answer. "There's no playbook for 'ancient Roman gladiator dating Manhattan heiress.'"
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. "When you put it that way…"
"It's absurd." I sink onto the cottage sofa, phone still buzzing in my hand. "This whole thing is absurd. We saved Lucky's life this morning. That should be the story. That we cared enough about a stray with a limp to spend twelve thousand dollars on emergency surgery."
"But that's not what makes it interesting," Draco says quietly, sitting beside me. "What makes it interesting is that you're Charity Pembroke and I'm nobody, and we're together, anyway."
The way he says "nobody" makes my heart hurt.
"You're not nobody."
"To them, I am." He gestures at my phone, at the endless stream of speculation. "I have no family name, no pedigree, no social standing. That's what they're trying to figure out—why would someone like you be with someone like me?"
"Because you're kind." The words come out fierce. "Because you woke up when Lucky whimpered and knew immediately there was something seriously wrong. Because you stood up to my parents and called them on their bullshit. Because you see me, not just the Pembroke name."
He pulls me close, presses a kiss to my temple. "I know. But they don't know that. All they see is the mystery."
My phone buzzes with a new notification. This one makes my blood run cold.
Father: The press is calling the house. Handle this. Tonight. Seven o'clock. No excuses.
I show Draco the text.
"Your parents want to see us."
"I gathered." He's very still. "What do you think they'll say?"
"Probably give us an ultimatum." I lean into his warmth, drawing strength. "End this relationship publicly, issue a statement, pretend you never existed."
"And if you refuse?"
"Then I'll find out exactly how serious I was about leaving."
The words hang in the air between us. Leaving. Actually doing it. Not just talking about being free but claiming it.
My phone buzzes again. Another tag. Another comment. Another piece of my privacy stripped away.
But underneath the panic and the fear, there's something else. Something that feels almost like relief.
Because the secret is out. Not all of it—not Draco's history, not the gladiator revelation—but the part about us being together. That's public now. Real.
No more hiding in the cottage. No more pretending he doesn't exist when I go back to the mansion.
"We should check on Lucky," I say, needing to focus on something concrete. "Make sure he's still stable."
Draco nods. "I'll call the clinic."
While he talks to the vet tech, I scroll through more posts. Someone's compiled every photo they could find of me from the past year—charity events, gallery openings, society pages. In every single one, I look like a porcelain doll. Perfect. Lifeless. Exactly what my parents wanted.
And then there's today's photo. Messy and real and happy.
The difference is stark.
"Lucky's doing great," Draco reports, ending the call. "Vet says we can visit this evening if we want. He's been awake and eating."
"Good." I set my phone face down on the table. "Before we see my parents, let's see him. Remind ourselves what actually matters."
"Charity." Draco kneels in front of me, takes my hands. "Are you okay? Really?"
I think about it. Really examine how I feel underneath the panic.
"I don't know," I admit. "I'm terrified. But I'm also… I'm tired of hiding. Maybe this is what needed to happen."
"You don't have to decide anything right now."
"Yes, I do." I squeeze his hands. "My parents are going to make me choose tonight. I can feel it. So I need to figure out what I'm choosing before I walk into that room."
"What do you want to choose?"
The answer comes easier than I expected.
"You." Simple. Certain. "I choose you. I choose us. I choose freedom over their approval."
His smile is brilliant and heartbreaking. "Then that's what we'll tell them."