Page 2 of The Princess and the Fraud

“I don’t smoke.”

“In fact, neither do I.” His words became slightly strained as he fell into the chair across from me, as if he’d been relieved to be off his feet. “Nor, it seems, do I sleep. Though perhaps, given that it’s nearly one in the morning, you and I are in the same boat on that one as well.”

The cadence of his words definitely screamed affluent.Nor, perhaps. They slipped so easily from his tongue, as if he rarely used anything else. Then again, on this estate, it was more common to find someone who spoke in dollar signs than not. The only broke ones on the property were the staff.

Even with the obvious financial divide stretching between us like a border between two countries, something inside me sighed, as if I, too, had been relieved of some weight. Finally, a soul to talk to. Finally,someone.

“So, then.” He leaned back in the wicker chair, eyeing me. The gas firepit gave off no smoke, but the flames were so low that the night still hung between us like its own haze. “What brings you, Ms. Non-Smoker, to this dark patio instead of warm and in bed?”

Oh, why was I out here? What brought on this existential crisis had been a domino of things that seemed never-ending, a list that Ireallyshouldn’t unload on a stranger. “I was waiting for someone.”

“A romantic rendezvous?” He arched a brow. “Should I leave?”

Now I did laugh. “Not like that. I meant I was waiting forsomeoneto show up. Anyone.”

“For anything in particular?”

I opened my mouth, but this time, the words were hesitant. “Just to talk.”

He leaned forward, close enough that the orange glow of the flames stretched up further and flushed his face. Definitely my age. “Well, I’m here now. And I’m all ears.”

When I imagined unloading on a stranger, I’d envisioned them old, hard of hearing, wise. Not young, wearing Italian leather loafers worth more than my apartment, and one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen.

That word—handsome—zapped me, even in my thoughts. Guilt, sharp and cold, chased away the urge to spill my secrets.East coast, he’d said. I took a guess. “You’re here for the Conan-Huntsly wedding tomorrow?”

A corner of his lips twitched, gracefully allowing the change in topic. “A mind reader, is she?”

“Most of the guests are from California. That’s where the bride and groom are from.” They’d come back to Annalise’s hometown for the wedding, probably because her mother would’ve rather sold her soul than allow her daughter to be wed anywhere other thantheAlderton-Du Ponte Country Club. “Which do you know? The bride or the groom?”

“Groom. You?”

He didn’t know I worked here. It took me a long moment of debate, whether I wanted to be honest. “I don’t know either of them,” I lied, looking away. “But from all the decorations I’ve seen, their wedding will be beautiful.”

“The Wedding of the Century, as they’re calling it.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think there was scorn in his tone. “Some streaming platform is filming the whole thing, did you know? It’s all very grand.”

“You sound bitter,” I told him lightheartedly. “You’re not harboring secret feelings for the bride, are you?I’mnot interrupting the secret rendezvous, am I? Sneaking away the night before her wedding?”

And the stranger responded in the same dramatic vein. “Oh, indeed. I was all set to follow my heart, but now you’re here, so I suppose it’s a missed opportunity. Tragic, really.”

A small smile touched my lips, and it felt strange. The muscles in my cheeks almost ached with it. Apart from the last five minutes, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled. Even just a little bit.

“So.” He shifted into a more conversational posture, propping an elbow on his chair’s arm and resting his head on his fist. “Tell me whatever had you seeking someone out tonight. It has to be something. Otherwise, as I said before, you’d be in bed.”

“Doyouhave something? Is that whyyou’renot in bed?”

The flames almost made his eyes look like they were glowing. “You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”

It was how he looked at me that prickled my skin. I wasn’t a ghost wandering through the Alderton-Du Ponte walls. Iwasreal. “I want to jump,” I told him.

“Jump,” he echoed. Then stiffened. “Like, off a bridge?”

“A metaphorical bridge. I want to metaphorically jump.”

He relaxed. “All right. I’m following you. Metaphorically. Why do we want to jump?”

We. Of course, it didn’t apply to him, but that word—we—instantly softened something inside me. My existential crisis was no longer limited to me and the now-silent mosquito.

“I’m a cellist,” I found myself saying, but the words instantly soured on my tongue. They were foreign, too, a confession I hadn’t admitted to anyone in half a decade. Words I’d sworn to never say again. And yet they’d slipped out so easily to this stranger. “I mean, I play the cello.”

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