Page 13 of Masked Hearts

“What plan?” I reach up to wipe my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t have time to explain right now, Theá. It’s a plan to get us out. I need to know if you can fake this until I’m able to tell you more.”

His words stop my tears at the source. Drying up the sadness, replacing it with determination and the smallest shred of hope.

“All of us? Noelle, too?”

“Yes. Can you do this?” he begs, shaking my shoulders slightly.

“Yes.”

This is the absolute last thing I want to do right now, but if there’s even the slightest chance that this could mean a way out for all of us, they might as well get my Oscar ready—because I’m about to put on the best performance of my life.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, Theá. Absolutely no one. Not even—”

His sentence is cut off by the door flying open.

“Eleanor,” he finishes his sentence, looking over at the devil herself.

“Why does it smell like depression in here?” she asks, looking around.

When her eyes land on what I assume to be my tear-stained face, her expression contorts in confusion. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I’ll let you explain.” Pierre kisses my forehead before standing to leave.

“Pierre,” Eleanor says.

“Eleanor, good to see you again,” he says, closing the door behind him as he exits.

“Why are your eyes sweating so much? Do I need to beat someone up?” Eleanor asks, holding her fists up.

I sniff and wipe my eyes again. “I’m okay, just some family shit.” I shrug it off and get up to walk over to my ensuite to rinse my face.

“Yeah, and I’m 6’6. I’ve known you for half my life. You are a horrible liar.”

I let out the most obnoxious snort. Eleanor is 5’2 at best, and even Noelle is nearly a head taller than her. What Eleanor lacks in height, she makes up for in beauty—she’s the book definition of an Instagram model. Curves in all the right places, skinny in all the others, and a face that most supermodels envy. Long, black hair cascades down her back until nearly her ass, the dark colour contrasting her pale, beige skin. And don’t get me started on her perfect eyelashes.

“It really is family stuff, though, Eleanor. I’m not even sure if I can talk about it.”

“But you tell me everything, Theá. Besides, you know I’ll find out eventually.”

She’ll actually find out soon since my father told me all of this had to happen by next weekend. So whether I like it or not, the entire world willeventuallyfind out that I’m marrying Antonio Vitale.

Vitale. Even the surname sounds weird.

Theresa Vitale.

Theá Vitale.

I’ve heard worse, I suppose, but it just sounds so unnatural compared to Theá Auclair.

“I’m getting married next weekend,” I blurt out, not even thinking as I continue to ponder about my soon-to-be surname.

“Is he cute?”

There are many emotions I expect Eleanor to react with, but the one I wasn’t prepared for was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“I just told you I’m getting married next week, and your only question isif he’s cute?”

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