Chapter 39
Cornelia
“Ihate masquerade parties,” Laurie says as he leans against the bar counter beside Annabelle.
She turns around and positions herself at my side so we can both look at him.
He’s dressed in a black shirt, black trousers, and a small black mask.
It’s not a surprising statement. Laurie has never been fond of them, given he’s terrible at recognising anyone behind a mask.
Which did make me wonder if that’s the reason Annabelle chose one that barely conceals her face.
“I’ve spent the last ten minutes chatting to people I was certain I knew—turns out I didn’t. You two are the only people I’ve talked to all night that I can say for sure are who I think you are.”
“Are you sure we’re who you think we are?” I grin at Laurie, then glance at Annabelle. “Are you really Annabelle Pieret?”
Annabelle sniffs a laugh and straightens the stick holding her mask so it covers her better. “And are you really Cornelia Monroe?”
Laurie looks at us, amused, but reaches for the stick with Annabelle’s mask to prove his point—that yes, of course, we are who we are.
As he does, his hands linger on hers a moment longer than necessary.
Annabelle looks up at him, a soft smile spreading across her face, and his eyes soften in a way I’ve only seen with Camille.
There’s something magical about watching two people fall in love, as if you’re seeing two souls find a home in each other.
At the same time, it makes my heart ache a little, reminding me of when it happened to me.
I feel this is my cue to leave them alone.
Laurie raises his brows after getting Annabelle’s mask. “We have one Annabelle Pieret here,” he says, pointing at her. “And—” He reaches for mine, but I bat his hand away.
“You know what? I think you’re just bad at recognising people. So I’ll go find some people you actually know,” I say, slipping off before either of them can object.
I would like to say I’m doing it for them, but the truth is, I feel an urge to go find TJ.
I walk around the club, and it takes me about twenty seconds to spot him—but I wish I hadn’t.
I freeze.
I freeze looking at him, but he doesn’t look at me. He is too engrossed in what he’s doing.
He’s in a booth, with his tongue deep in Weberly Johnson’s throat, both of them dressed all in white, looking almost angelic, though what they’re doing is anything but. They’re not exactly hard to miss—probably the only two people in the entire nightclub without masks.
I—I guess they took them off because they got in the way of their intense make-out session.
I just stand there, frozen, staring at them until a girl bumps into my back and mutters a quick sorry.
It… it kind of feels like… what happened with my mother all over again—but, of course, what happened with her was ten times worse.
Right now, I’m not his girlfriend.
He… he doesn’t owe me anything. Still, it’s an arsehole move.
He slept in my bed last night and the night before.
And I wanted him there again tonight.
I want to dig a hole, crawl in, and never come back. But since I can’t, I do the next best thing and run to a cleaning cupboard I know no one uses when the nightclub is open.
I get to it, and thankfully, it’s unlocked. I step inside and sink onto one of the long wooden benches along the wall. I rip off the stupid mask that’s been itching me for a while, toss it into the hall, and finally let myself cry.
I—I shouldn’t be surprised.
It’s not—
It’s not like I thought he’d wait for me. He didn’t even wait until he was single to sleep with someone else.
But it hurts. It hurts so deeply. It hurts so much that I wonder if this is what dying feels like. I think it’s worse because when you die, the pain eventually ends. And I feel like I’ll carry this pain forever.
I take a few shaky breaths, calming myself, when the door swings open. A tall man steps inside—brown hair, brown eyes, dressed head to toe in black, his face hidden behind a mask that covers almost all of it.
My immediate response is to wipe away my remaining tears instead of panicking at being in a cleaning cupboard with a man I don’t know. It makes me realise that perhaps my self-preservation instincts aren’t as sharp as I’d imagined. But I really hate people watching me cry.
“It’s occupied,” I tell him, as if I’m referring to a loo stall.
“I didn’t realise cleaning cupboards could be reserved.” He glances around. “Either way, it’s big enough for the both of us,” he says, his voice so smooth, settling onto the bench in front of me. At least, if he noticed me crying, he’s acting like he didn’t. Good.
Maybe I should freak out, but I don’t feel the slightest bit threatened by him. I feel oddly comfortable, but I’d much rather be alone.
I glare at him slightly. “Do you usually spend your time in cleaning cupboards?”
“Do you?” he counters.
He got me there.
“Touche,” I reply, feeling my breathing and my voice sound every second less like I had been crying a few moments ago. “But I have a reason to be here.”
“So do I.”
“What is it?” I press, thinking that if I find out why he’s here, maybe I can convince him to leave.
He leans back, as if settling in for a long chat. “You first.”
I narrow my eyes. “I was here first, so… no, you first.”
While you can’t reserve a cleaning cupboard in this nightclub, I was here first, so I do feel entitled to it. Besides, the only reason there are benches here at all is because TJ and I put them in.
He sighs. “Fine. I needed a respite.” He points outside.
“It’s really crowded out there.” That is something I can understand.
Then, he takes off his mask. “And I needed to take this mask off. It’s been bothering me all night,” he adds, and I nearly go full fangirl when I realise he’s Benedict Glounger—the Benedict Glounger.
You know, the one from that Netflix romantic hit show The Britentel, set in London during the Regency era.
I’ve binge-watched every season the moment it came out.
I try to hold myself back, but I can’t help it.
“You’re Benedict Glounger,” I say, my tone caught somewhere between a statement and a question.
At minimum, I don’t sound entirely like an overexcited fan.
I sound more like someone seeking confirmation.
Which I am. Perhaps he’s just an exceptionally good lookalike.
Benedict chuckles lightly. “And you’re Cornelia Rose Monroe-Nodrick.” I grimace at the mention of my full name. “Good to have that out in the open.”
“You know who I am?” I ask, pleased. A lot of people know who I am, but I wouldn’t consider myself a celebrity like him.
He nods. “Of course, you and your friend group are like the UK Kardashians.”
Disgusting, but I understand the comparison. We’re famous for existing.
I look at him—he looks so handsome. An intrusive thought takes over, and I blurt out, “Blimey, I just met my TV crush in a cleaning cupboard,” instead of thinking it.
He burst out laughing. “I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”
I compose myself quickly. “You’re taller than I thought, but other than that, no. Six-one?”
“Six-two.” Benedict corrects me. “Now your turn. What brings you to this cleaning cupboard?”
“My ex is practically eating…” I pause. I almost use the word actor as a derogatory term, but I don’t want him to think I’m judging the profession—what I’m judging is Weberly.
She hasn’t acted or done anything relevant in years, and what she has done can barely be called acting. “A girl out there,” I finish.
Somehow, it feels easier to open up to a stranger about this than to someone I know. Maybe it’s because I know I’ll likely never see him again.
“Was that why you were crying?” he asks. I hoped he hadn’t noticed, but he did. He was just nice enough to act like he didn’t.
“It could be, but it could also just be allergies.”
“I’m sure,” he says. “Was this the same ex-boyfriend who slept with your mum?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Was it true that you all were in a quartet, but then they turned it into a duo?” He nearly bursts out laughing again as he says it, and I can’t help but smile. The sheer absurdity of that tabloid article still gets me, and yet people claim creativity is dead.
“Completely true,” I tell him, and we both chuckle.
“Either way, he doesn’t deserve you,” Benedict says.
I smile. “In that, we can agree.”
He glances around the cramped space. “Are you really keen on spending the entire party here, or is there any way I can convince you to go out and let me buy you a drink?”
He’s flirting, isn’t he?
“You do realise this is a private party, and the drinks are free, right?”
“I do, but it wouldn’t have sounded quite as good if I had phased it that way,” Benedict replies smoothly.
“In that case, how about several?”