Chapter 23

I’ve been ghosted.

Okay, technically, it’s only been twenty-four hours. But in girl math, that’s like six months, especially when you’re waiting for a text from a helicopter pilot who called you “Sticky” like it was the most charming thing he’s ever said in his life.

Theo.

THEO.

I hate how his name sounds like something you’d name a fictional prince in a trashy romance novel. And worse, I hate that I was already halfway through mentally designing our wedding invites by the time I woke up this morning. Cream cardstock, gold foil, a wax seal. Maybe a tiny little helicopter charm attached to the envelope like a deranged, sentimental psychopath.

But no. I woke up to zero texts, zero missed calls, and a single Instagram story from Emily about a banana croissant. Meanwhile, I’m in full psycho mode with my own expectations.

So much for Sticky Thursdays.

“Charlotte, let’s go,” Julian calls from the hotel hallway, holding two oat milk lattes and already wearing his grumpy-sunglasses-and-linen-scarf look. “We’re gonna be late for the boutique thing.”

The boutique thing. Right. I’m supposed to be a functional human influencer today.

We arrive at Maison Vivienne, which sounds elegant and French but has the emotional warmth of a freezer aisle. The boutique smells like lavender and judgment. Everything is pale, crisp, minimal, and somehow terrifying. Like if I breathe too loudly, I’ll owe them five thousand pounds.

A woman in all black with cheekbones that could slice through marble greets us with a look that says we don’t carry your size, but go off.

“Welcome. You’re the ambassador for the editorial feature, yes?” she says, eyes scanning me like I’m a broken coat hanger.

“I’m Charlotte,” I say brightly, pretending I didn’t just Google “how long is too long for a guy to text you back without being clinically dead.”

She doesn’t look me in the eye. I’m either too American or too… me.

She gives me a tight smile, gestures toward a velvet settee that looks like no one has ever dared to sit on it. “We’ve prepared some samples for the shoot. The designer is... protective of their vision. Please don’t improvise.”

Julian snorts quietly. I elbow him.

I’m shuffled into a dressing area where I’m handed dresses made entirely out of sadness and silk. Everything is neutral, slinky, and wildly inappropriate for someone who regularly eats boxed mac and cheese on the floor of her penthouse.

Still, I pose. I smile. I make love to the camera like my phone isn’t currently dryer than the Sahara.

Halfway through, I check behind a rack of trench coats like Theo might materialize out of the fabric and say, “Sorry I was abducted by aliens, here’s a love poem.”

He doesn’t.

A soft ping distracts me mid-pose.

CALLIE: what r u naming this piece?

“Floating in designer delusion”?

“Luxury and the Lonely Heart”?

I ignore her. Not because I’m annoyed, okay, maybe 12% annoyed, but mostly because I can’t string a coherent thought together when my brain is wrapped around a maybe-date that may never happen.

CALLIE: hellooo? do i need to FaceTime you into inspiration??

The boutique lady hands me a branded bag on the way out. “A small gift from the Maison,” she says, like I didn’t just sweat through a £900 dress for their content.

Inside the bag, I see a pair of satin gloves, a tiny vial of perfume in a fancy box, a silk scarf, and a gift card I will absolutely use irresponsibly.

Julian drags me back into the cab and says, “You need to start thinking of a title for the piece. Something sexy. Something… luxe.”

But my brain is on a permanent freeze mode. All I can think is: Why hasn’t he texted? Did I read it wrong? Did he lose his phone? Did I hallucinate the entire man and I’m actually in a coma right now being fed grapes by an Axton-shaped demon?

Axton.

Ugh.

I haven’t seen him since the rooftop incident. No texts, no angry calls, not even a vague emoji, oh wait, he doesn’t have my number. He could’ve texted me on Instagram.

But I know he’s still in this hotel. I can feel it in my bone marrow. He’s probably lounging two floors above me with his soulless redhead fiancée, drinking imported whiskey and laughing at my emotional instability.

Or maybe not.

I keep my head down as I glide to the elevator, sunglasses on like a shield. No sign of him, thank goodness.

My suite is quiet and sunlit when I step in. Everything smells like citrus cleaner and detergent.

My phone buzzes again, it’s Callie, but I silence it and toss it onto the bed.

I consider a swim. Maybe the pool will cleanse me of this male-induced psychotic rot. Maybe chlorinated water is the cure for emotional problems.

I change into my favorite black bikini and toss on a silk robe, with my pink sparkly flip-flops.

The pool is on the third floor. His suite may be on the fourth, if he took the penthouse, that is.

You’re just going for a swim. You’re not hoping to run into him in swim trunks. You’re a grown woman with a skincare fridge and a tax accountant.

I walk into the pool area like I’m not actively trying to spot a tall, brooding figure with a guilt complex and a jawline that could cut glass.

He’s not there.

Relief and disappointment hit me like a tidal wave. I sit on a lounge chair in my towel, glaring at my phone like I can will it to buzz.

I take a deep breath, trying to believe that this trip is mine to salvage, mine to enjoy. Axton can’t ruin it. That Theo is just busy, not ghosting me. That I can still write the kind of piece Callie needs, maybe something poetic and a little tragic, like Silk Dreams & Silent Boys.

And then, just as I convince myself that this trip is mine.

My phone rings.

Unknown number.

My heart shoots directly out of my ass.

I stare at the screen like it’s a ticking bomb. Then I answer.

“…Hello?”