Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Well, I feel a bit like a third wheel,” I tease, “so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to run to the ladies’ room.”
“Come back,” Simon tells me, not hiding the heat in the command.
I look at him sharply and then to Tobias, who is grinning in recognition.
I make my way to the restroom, thinking about that. I don’t really want to hide, and tonight’s proven that even more. Jacqueline is either going to have to accept that I have feelings for her nephew . . . or not. But we should definitely wait until after the competition finishes.
I get to the washroom, where I really don’t have to do much, but it does give me a chance to calm myself and think. About Tobias, about Simon, and even about the fashion tonight.
I know I might be a bit hypocritical, criticizing Dead Cat Lady for her fashion while at the same time saying I don’t give a damn about her judging me . . . but I feel deep down that it’s different. If Dead Cat Lady wants to dress like that, that’s her business.
At the same time, I will defend Tobias against his father’s hate. Because that hate hurts. Dead Cat Lady’s fashion sense is just . . . clothing. But her commentary of Jeanette still rings in my ear, and I won’t support that type of degradation.
That’s the key, I realize. Not to be Pollyanna about it, but I truly want people to feel good and to be empowered to be themselves. In life, and in my clothing, if they desire. That’s why Dead Cat Lady and Tobias’s father irritate me so much—they want a societal norm where everyone bends to the will of the few who decree what’s ‘right’ or ‘normal’, when there is no such thing. We’re all just . . . who we are.
At peace with that thought for now, I leave the ladies’ room to head back to Simon and Tobias in the garden. I’m just about to enter the ballroom when I run into Tristan, literally, as he comes around the corner. “Oh! Tristan! Sorry!”
“Mademoiselle Autumn,” he says, looking me in the eyes. “You are very beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you. You look handsome.”
Tristan reaches for my cheek, his intent to kiss me clear, and I take a step back. “Tristan . . . you misunderstand. I’m not interested in you that way.”
“It’s Simon, isn’t it?” he rumbles, his voice darkening. “Of course it is.”
I’m surprised at his turn of mood and try to smooth things over. “Simon put this together for you guys. It looked like you were having fun?”
“Merde,” Tristan growls, stepping closer to me again. “He has . . . everything. This made him look good. You think I’m a dog at . . . fourrière. Tomorrow, I will be back in rags, getting harassed by the police again. The money won’t even go to us. Just make House Corbin look good, probably buy him a new Bugatti.”
There’s so much hurt and rage in his voice, and while I don’t know what a fourrière is, I get Tristan’s point. What is in Tristan’s past that hurt him so deeply that he can’t see how much Simon cares for him, for all of the boys at the orphanage?
“Simon does care.”
His bitter laugh is loud in the narrow hallway, and I start to feel afraid for my safety. My years in New York have taught me a lot, and I start to look for exit points, other guests, and assess my weapons, which are mostly my hands, elbows, and knees. In the background of my head, I replay self-defense videos while watching Tristan carefully, praying it doesn’t come to that.
“You believe that? He has so much practice on girls. Can make a girl like you believe anything,” he spits out, looking me up and down. “Simon cares about looks and himself. I see the truth.”
Keep him talking, Autumn. “Then why are you here? Why did you come if you think Simon is a fraud?”
Tristan stabs a finger toward the garden, his face flushing with anger. “Because those boys are my friends. Only friends I have. I protect them, and they don’t see the truth yet. But I’ll be here when they do.” He pounds a fist to his chest with a thwack. “All of this is fake. All of it. You don’t see it either, do you?”
“Tristan, listen to me,” I tell him gently, trying to reach him through his rage and resentment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your past or why you feel the way you do. But yes, many of those people are fake. Simon isn’t, though. I hope . . . I hope you can see that he does care.”
Tristan’s face trembles, and I can see the tears of anger and hurt in his eyes. “It’s not fair!”