Chapter 3 Official Portrait
Official Portrait
ELLA
Alix’s hair is the color of pink cotton candy.
She jumps off the edge of the fountain outside the gates of Aldo Gardens and hauls me into a fierce hug.
My best friend is model-slim and striking, one of the rare private school girls to shake off the title of nepo baby when she became an international fashion muse.
She doesn’t hug like someone who has a luxury handbag named after her. (The Alix is as surprisingly capacious as her heart.) She hugs like she did in kindergarten, squeezing the breath out of my lungs, and squeals into my ear, turning us into a spectacle for a crowd of onlookers.
“Alix,” I protest, words muffled.
She leans back, holds my chin, and tilts me this way and that, finally uttering a guttural sound at the back of her throat.
“It’s a crime your mother doesn’t permit you to wear winged eyeliner everyday.
” She frowns, glancing over her shoulder.
“You’re not wasting all your hotness on one of these inbred aristos are you? I won’t allow it.”
“Hotness?” I dimple at her generosity. Tonight I’m wearing a cropped sweater, distressed jeans, and a comfortable pair of trainers.
Tortoiseshell glasses perch on my nose and a leather cross-body bag is a callback to my favorite Seongan anime, Roar’s Mansion.
Calling me hot is ridiculous, but my standing policy is that I’m never too good for compliments.
I peel out of Alix’s arms and get a peek at her other guests.
An odd mix. Modeling friends pose for selfies on the other side of the iconic fountain, making the most of long legs and good angles.
Girls from Saint Sissela’s gossip languidly behind expensive sunglasses, cigarette smoke wafting gently above their heads.
There is the usual assortment of weedy men from old families wearing high-waisted cream trousers and silk shirts open to their pasty chests, prepared to behave like cads given the smallest encouragement.
Loud American men who look like the only time they read is to skim the AI search results on Performance Maxing are engaged in a pull-up competition in the branches of the trees lining the grand avenue.
What if I brought home a Tucker or Brody to meet my mother?
A giggle escapes me. She would die. With gleaming eyes, I adjust my bag, not at all opposed to being very foolish with a man in chinos and a fleece vest. I’ve spent eighteen arduous months trying to find a new type.
Maybe tonight is the night I finally do it.
“Ready?” Alix asks, halting my prowl.
“Did you really rent out the whole park?” I ask. Royals are rarely allowed to indulge in lavish gestures without an opinion piece in The Holy Pelican decrying the waste, and I feel a pinch of jealousy.
Alix nods. “We gave away a thousand tickets to low-income families for the mid-term holiday. Tom’s idea.” That would explain the noise coming from the amusement park.
“That’s very sweet.”
“He got a group discount. Tom is very good with money, even though he has none of his own.”
I choke. “Alix, he’s an investment banker and you met in the Hamptons. He’s not exactly—”
“He’s not lavish, I mean. His car is a used 2006 Toyota Corolla, and he went to an actual junkyard to find a replacement motor for the passenger side window when my blowouts kept wilting.
” She looks over my head and finds Tom in the crowd.
When he gives her a wave, her whole face lights up.
“His love language is informative YouTube home repair videos,” she hisses. “Don’t tease him about it.”
“You wound me,” I reply. The weather on this April night is cool but dry, and a light breeze ruffles my hair, sending thousands of fairy lights dancing. “If he has a brother, set me up.”
“He has three sisters,” Alix laughs, tugging me up onto the edge of the fountain. A summer dress skims her bare legs and I worry for her. She’s the kind of person who trust-falls into relationships, and I wonder if Tom has learned to bring layers.
“Do one of your big whistles,” she asks.
I pinch my fingers against my lips and let out a piercing sound, cutting through the cigarette smoke and ennui.
More than five hundred heads turn in our direction and Tom threads through the crowd, reaching for Alix.
I see that he is wearing a sensible sweater and carries an extra jacket slung over his arm.
She catches his hand and laces her fingers through his. “We are sharing the park,” she calls. “If anyone acts like some spoiled princess— Oh, no offense Ella.”
“None taken.”
She continues. “—you’re dead to me.”
As one body, the crowd surges towards the open gates, weaving around the fountain like fish in a stream. My security officer, Thor, is keeping his distance, and I take my phone out, framing the bright lights of Aldo Gardens, my best friend, the ridiculous crowd…
Alix pauses at the gates. “If any of you gets into a scrape, don’t come looking for the bride,” she laughs. “Find Ella or Marc.”
At the sound of his name and the implication of his presence, a crisp, electric current prickles along the back of my neck.
Marc? I hunt the streaming crowd for a familiar figure, half Sondish, half Seongan.
I go up on my toes to look, my fingers working through my curls, and brush away the sensation.
“I’m right here, Ells.”
My heart stops and I close my eyes, hoping for a reset.
This nervousness is just my limbic system. Those early-formed neural pathways always herd me toward specific reactions like a rabbit following a game trail through a forest. It’s science, and when I turn around, it’s going to disappear. He’ll be what I have decided he should be—Noah’s best friend.
I turn, full of resolve. It melts slowly away when Marc emerges from the shadows of the tree-lined avenue wearing a dark Henley, the sleeves pushed up his muscled forearms. He holds a light jacket in his fist, a pair of jeans emphasizes his long legs, and a rigid gold circlet bands one wrist, kissing the base of his thumb.
When he gets closer I will note how his eyes are dark, fringed with lashes that make old women hold his chin and mutter, “Wasted on a man.” I will observe that his lips are full, curving in a gentle but unmistakably sensuous line.
I’ve known him so long, I tell myself, that everything about him is old news.
Still, my cheeks flush. My fingertips itch to touch him but I press the sensitivity away, urging myself to have some sense.
He’s leaner than he was last summer, his jawline more pronounced. I notice that, too.
He stops maybe three yards away, looking at me—lips slightly parted, teeth set, eyes intent and appraising.
Some profoundly adolescent part of me rips the clinical clipboard out of imaginary hands and scribbles her own observation.
Marc looks like a powerful nature spirit, assuming human form to tempt honest maidens with the promise of ruin.
Damn limbic system.
I grip the strap of my bag and summon Smart Ella from the basement where she’s lying bound and gagged. “You didn’t say a word about coming back.”
“You didn’t ask.” His glance flicks down the length of me, making his own observations.
I fidget under his leisurely inspection. “I’m still as short as I’ve ever been.”
He gives a low laugh and I close my eyes, repeating the mantra I use when I’m in Mama’s jewel vault. You can’t afford it.
“Welcome me home,” he commands, holding his arms wide.
I take a breath, and it comes with a painful hitch.
This is the reason I had to fall out of love with Marc van Heyden.
Every time he throws his arm over my shoulder or kisses my temple, the simple, careless affection feels like turning a screw into my skin.
It’s easier to shut away the part of me that wants complicated, grown-up things, because she is forever doomed to be disappointed.
I hop into his arms and he rocks on his feet. The smell of his cologne, a mix of pine and magnolia, drifts between us and I push out of his hold. I want more than he can ever give, and pretending things haven’t changed between us since I was fifteen is safer.
“What did you bring me?” I demand, putting out my palm.
He clicks his tongue. “I wasn’t on vacation. There was a lot going on—”
I pinch his waist. “Cool story,” I reply, my hand still out.
He places a gauzy parcel on my palm. “Someday I won’t bring you anything. What will you do then?”
“I’ll have more room on my bed, for one thing.” Thanks to Marc, I own more than a dozen stuffed raccoons.
“This won’t take up room in your life at all.”
I work the bow free, and a thin gold chain strung with tiny golden racoons falls into my hand. My mouth tucks with a smile. “This is a high-class way to call me a trash panda,” I say, winding the chain around my wrist. It’s way too big. No matter. “I can get it shortened.”
He takes it out of my hands and propels me backward until the edge of the fountain hits me on the back of the legs. I sit abruptly, fighting off a storm of hormones. Residual attraction. I can’t expect it to go away all at once, just because I told it to.
“You will not.” He sinks down on one knee, lifts my shoe to rest against his thigh, and turns his attention to the clasp, warm fingers brushing against the delicate bones of my ankle. He adjusts the chain, lightly tickling my skin, and looks up. “Do you like it?”
My cheeks are on fire and I look away from his steady gaze. “It’s nice.”
He winds a finger through one of my curls, and tugs it—a silent reproof for my apparent lack of enthusiasm. If I was fifteen a few minutes ago, I’m twelve now. By the end of the night, I fear he’ll be feeding me fish crackers from a snack baggie.
“Ready to have some fun?” He puts a hand on my back to lead me through the delicate lacework of metal vines embellishing the front gate, and when I shift, his fingers brush my skin. He pulls away like I’m made of magma.