HASALYNX PRESS
Read Romance Ebooks Legally — Anytime, Online, With a Monthly Subscription

Chapter 1. Charity Case at Dinner

(Mila's POV)

The afternoon heat had settled into the walls of my bedroom like something alive, pressing against the cheap plaster and the faded posters of bands I'd stolen from my mother's ex-boyfriend when I was fifteen. I was pacing, which was useless because there was barely enough floor space to turn around, but pacing was the only thing that kept me from screaming. Three steps to the desk. Three steps back to the bed. Three steps to the window that had been painted shut since before I was born. The air was thick and stale, carrying the ghost of my mother's cigarettes from last night, the faint sourness of the radiator that clanked even in July, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of my own fury.

Denise was sitting on my bed, her legs folded beneath her, her round face flushed from the walk over and the climb up three flights of stairs. She'd come straight from the tram, still in her summer dress, a pale yellow thing with tiny white flowers that looked like something her mother had sent from Paris. She'd stopped at the bakery on the corner and bought a bag of croissants, and now they sat in a brown paper bag on my desk, growing stale in the heat, because I couldn't eat.

"Okay," Denise said, her voice warm and careful. "Tell me again."

"I'm going to kill him." I'd already said it. I'd texted it to her in all caps. "He spent the entire dinner ignoring me except to make snide comments. He said my mother's gratitude was a 'performance.' That she'd perfected the art. Like she's some kind of—I don't know—actress playing a role."

Denise winced, touching her wrist tattoo absently. "Oh, Mila."

"And then he toasted me. With his wine glass. Like I was a joke."

I was remembering it all again, the way the evening had unspooled like a bad dream. The villa had been too hot, the air conditioning struggling against the July heat, and my mother had been wearing a new silk blouse that Mathis had bought her, something cream-colored and expensive that she kept touching like she was afraid it would disappear. She'd been so happy, so desperately happy, smiling at Mathis across the table, her laugh too bright and too loud. And I'd sat there with my fork in my hand and felt like I was watching someone else's life.

Mathis had been charming, as always. He'd asked about my journalism classes, about my plans for the summer, and I'd given him short answers because I couldn't stand the way he looked at me with that practiced patience. He was generous, I knew that. But there was something about him that made my skin crawl, something I couldn't name.

And then there was Lievan. He'd spent the first half of dinner ignoring me entirely, which was fine. Better than fine. I'd almost relaxed, almost let myself enjoy the food, the expensive wine that my mother kept refilling because she thought she was being sophisticated. And then, just as I'd been starting to think I'd made it through, he'd spoken.

"Interesting choice," he'd said, his voice smooth and lazy, his eyes fixed on me with that amused expression I'd come to hate. "The jacket. I didn't realize funerals were in season."

I'd been wearing my black denim jacket because I always wore it, because it was mine, because it was the one thing in that house that reminded me of who I actually was.

"Maybe I'm mourning something," I'd said flatly. "Maybe I'm mourning the fact that I have to spend another evening listening to you talk about yourself."

My mother had made a small, distressed sound. Mathis had laughed, a warm, diplomatic laugh. And Lievan had smiled at me, a slow, deliberate smile.

"She's feisty," he'd said to the table at large, as if I weren't right there. "I like that in a charity case."

Charity case. He'd called me a charity case, and everyone had pretended not to hear it. My mother had kept smiling, her hand on Mathis's arm. Mathis had reached for the wine. And I'd sat there with my fork in my hand and my pulse thrumming in my ears.

"He kept going," I said now, pacing harder. "He said I should take notes. Watch my mother. Learn from her. Because she'd 'perfected' being grateful. His exact words, Denise."

Denise sighed. "What did you do?"

"What could I do?" I dropped onto the bed beside her, the mattress sagging under my weight. "My mother was right there. She thinks this is her chance. Her big break. And I can't be the one who ruins it."

Denise reached over and took my hand. Her palm was warm and soft, her nails painted a pale, glittery pink. "Mila. You know you're not a charity case."

"Of course I know that." I pulled my hand away. "But that's the thing, right? He knows it too. He just wants me to feel like one."

I thought about the way Lievan had looked at me tonight, really looked at me, his eyes tracking across my face like he was reading something I hadn't meant to write. He'd been cruel, yes. Arrogant and dismissive. But there'd been something else underneath, something that had made my skin prickle in a way that had nothing to do with anger.

Denise was watching me carefully. "I think he likes you."

"Likes me?" I laughed, too sharp and too high. "He thinks I'm a joke. He thinks my mother is a joke. He thinks we're both just trying to get our hands on his father's money."

"And are you?"

I stared at her. "My mom is in love. That's what it is. She thinks Mathis is her fairy tale prince. And yeah, she likes the money. Who wouldn't? But it's not about the money. It's about the fantasy. The escape."

Denise nodded slowly. "And you? What's your escape?"

I didn't have an answer to that. My room was too small for this conversation, too cramped and too hot, and I could feel the walls closing in. The afternoon light was fading, turning the grey courtyard outside my window into something softer, but the heat wasn't letting up. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead, trickling down the back of my neck.

"My escape is getting out of here," I said finally. "Getting through this summer. Going back to school. Becoming a real journalist."

Denise smiled, but it was a sad smile. "That's not an escape. That's just the future."

"Same thing."

We sat in silence. From downstairs, I could hear my mother's voice, high and bright, talking on the phone to her own mother. She was telling her about the dinner, about the dress she'd worn, about how Mathis had looked at her across the table. She was performing her happiness for anyone who would listen, and I wanted to scream.

"Mila," Denise said softly. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. The anger. It's eating you alive."

"I know." I leaned back on my hands. "Every time I see him, I feel like I'm going to explode. It's like he's taken everything I hate about the world and put it in one person. And then he smiles at me, and I want to hit him or run away or both."

"Both," Denise said thoughtfully. "Hit him and then run away. Very efficient."

I laughed despite myself. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm practical." She leaned over and bumped her shoulder against mine. "Listen. You only have to survive this summer. Three months. And then you're back at school, and you never have to see him again."

"That's true." I turned it over in my mind, the possibility of a future without Lievan in it. It felt like a relief, like a weight lifting off my chest. But there was something else underneath, something I didn't want to examine too closely. "Okay. I can do this. I can ignore him. I can pretend he doesn't exist."

"Exactly." Denise squeezed my hand. "And in the meantime, you can vent to me. That's what I'm here for."

I looked at her, at her kind face and her warm eyes, and I felt a surge of gratitude. "Thanks for coming over. I know this isn't—"

"Don't," she said firmly. "This is what friends are for."

We sat together in the fading light, and for a moment, the heat didn't feel so oppressive. Denise had that effect on people. She made everything feel a little lighter, a little less impossible.

"You know what you need?" she said suddenly.

"What?"

"A croissant." She reached for the brown paper bag on my desk. "They were fresh this morning. They're probably stale now, but they're still good. You should eat something. You didn't eat dinner."

"I couldn't."

"I know. But you can eat now. Eat something." She pulled out a croissant and handed it to me. "And then we'll figure out a plan."

"A plan for what?"

"Survival." She smiled. "That's what this summer is. Survival. And we're going to get through it together."

I took the croissant. It was soft in my hand, and I could smell the butter even through the paper. I broke off a piece and put it in my mouth, and it tasted like comfort, like a normal evening in a normal world.

"Okay," I said around the bread. "We can do this. We can survive the summer."

"Exactly." Denise leaned back on her hands, her eyes bright. "And who knows? Maybe things will get better. Maybe he'll get bored and leave you alone."

"Maybe," I said, but I didn't believe it. Something told me Lievan wasn't the kind of person who got bored.

I looked out the window at the grey courtyard, at the laundry hanging on the lines, at the concrete cracked and stained from years of rain. Somewhere out there, in the wealthy enclave of Sint-Martens-Latem, Lievan was probably lounging by the pool, his sunglasses on, his smirk firmly in place. He was probably thinking about me, about how easy I was to rile up, about how funny it was to watch me squirm. And I hated him for it. I hated him so much it felt like a living thing inside my chest.

But there was something else there too. Something small and quiet that I couldn't name. Something that made my pulse race when he looked at me, even when I wanted to slap him.

I shoved the thought away and took another bite of my croissant.