Page 10 of Double Apex

“No. But tonight I had an inkling Miss Evans did not wear that dress for me—the way she watched the door after arriving, as if hoping to see someone.” He gingerly sinks his fork into a chunk of melon. “Now we know who, yes?”

Drunk Me is slightly into the way he pronounces “inkling.”

Wot the sheetis wrong with me?

Cosmin takes a grape from my fingers. “I also know you wore that shirt for me.”

The spite-scotch was a disastrous idea. My brain futilely tears through attic steamer trunks full of bitchy-clever replies.

He holds the grape between his teeth for a moment before it disappears into his mouth. At least I think he does. Though it may be a boozy time lag, combined with anger and my inability to stop looking at his lips.

Points, asshole.

If I were braver, I’d take off this stupid white shirt and mic drop it onto the table before sashaying away. But it’d be just my luck if the press got a pic of that: “Emerald F1 Embroiled in Melbourne Stripper-Frolic Scandal.”

I stand and scoop the almonds into one hand and snag a bundle of grapes in the other, exiting without a backward glance.

In the elevator up, I’m gnawing grapes directly off the cluster—every bit the shit-faced Roman emperor—when the random guy who’s riding with me chuckles.

“Need somebody to peel those for you?” he asks.

I examine him, a little bleary-eyed. He’s definitely admiring the cut of this shirt. His shirt’s not bad either, frankly, hugging a torso with weightlifter-y muscles that aren’t really my jam, but look good on him.

For a second, I contemplate being a different person for a few hours and letting him peel my grapes and everything else.

The doors open at his floor. He steps out and offers a hand for me to follow.

With my elbow, I prod the close button. Because I’m not that person, and my life won’t let me forget it.

4

BAHRAIN

LATE MARCH

COSMIN

My sister, Viorica, looks tired, but I know better than to say so. Last time we had a video call, I made some comment to that effect—purely because I’m worried about how hard she works for Vlasia House, the Ardelean Foundation children’s home—and it was lucky for me there were nine thousand miles between us. Rica is quite sensitive about being thirty-seven.

I’ve learned so much from her over the years. At times this has been painful—she can have a hot temper when provoked, which little brothers tend to do. She was fourteen when our parents died in a car crash and we were taken in by Andrei Ardelean. He was not a good man—cruel, in fact—though he was willing to throw much of his considerable fortune into my education and childhood karting career, starting at age five.

To Viorica he was a monster. I didn’t understand the extentof it at the time; I was so young. Now I know. And though he is dead, I still fight him. I fight his sharp edges, which are part of me. His arrogance, his manipulativeness.

Some days I can’t look in the mirror, and I repress a bitter laugh when people comment on my beauty. I only see the ugliness of my uncle’s face staring back at me.

I start our conversation—speaking in our native tongue—with a compliment.

You have done amazing work, Rica. The garden expansion is beautiful.

She rubs the bridge of her long, straight nose.

Thank you. But what Vlasia House needs most is a modern heating system—the third floor is so cold in winter—and that will be expensive. We already took such a big financial hit with the new roof.

She sips her tea. The video connection is good today—I see the steam rising from her cup. Behind her, she’s framed by the tall antique bookshelves in her office.

“Let us switch to English—I should practice,” she says.

“Of course.”

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