Chapter 26

The only way I can describe my outfit right now is pastel elegance. I’m talking full-on floral daydream: flared tea-length dress covered in soft pink roses, a matching pillbox hat with a little netted veil thing (because why not), pearl gloves with matching earrings, and heels so dainty I could cry.

I even curled my hair in those vintage waves that take five years off your life to perfect.

Do I look like someone who’s about to take down a cheating ex, a fake fiancée, and potentially seduce a helicopter pilot?

No.

I look like someone’s delicate niece who lives in a literal dollhouse and drinks tea with ghost children. But it’s fine. It's all part of the look. Theo’s been texting me since last night, I woke up to “Still trouble?” followed by a winky face, which made me squeal into my pillow like a deranged Victorian princess. So yeah. I needed to feel hot.

And I did feel hot. Right up until I got to the garden party.

The moment Julian and I step into the venue, it’s clear I missed the vibe memo. Everyone else looks like they just stepped out of a Zara ad, effortless linen, flowy muted dresses, relaxed sandals, minimal makeup.

Meanwhile, I’m standing here looking like I’m about to give a dramatic reading of Pride and Prejudice to the Queen.

A group of girls nearby glance at me, their eyes dragging slowly over my gloves like I just stepped off a time machine. One of them whispers something behind a champagne flute and giggles. I try not to visibly combust.

“Oh no,” I mutter, gripping Julian’s arm. “I’ve overdressed. I look like a poodle at a poetry slam.”

One girl stares directly at my gloves with her mouth open. Another gives me a once-over that makes me question if I’ve shown up in a literal wedding gown.

Julian glances around once, then back at me with the most serious expression I’ve ever seen on his face. “Darling. You look like vintage Dior, and every other woman here looks like burnt oatmeal. You win.”

I snort-laugh so hard I nearly dislodge my hat. “You’re just saying that because you want my opera cake.”

He gasps. “How dare you. I want it because I’m gay and have taste.”

He guides me toward a table draped in white silk and covered in fancy little pastries that look expensive as hell. Mille-feuille, raspberry tarts, baby éclairs, tiny works of art I immediately shovel onto a plate because I’m nothing if not classy.

Julian takes a thousand pictures of me holding a fork mid-bite, tilting my head like I just invented sugar. He makes me twirl in the middle of the garden until I forget about the judgey girls and my soul-crushing embarrassment.

Still, I feel weird. The sunlight is too direct. My heels are too clicky. I keep expecting someone to hand me a napkin and ask me to perform a Shakespeare monologue.

By the time we’re done posing in front of the giant orchid arch and pretending to be influencers who like each other, I’m laughing again.

That’s when I remember.

Phase Two.

Operation Find Mr. Rowe.

“Okay,” I say, licking mille-feuille cream off my finger. “Let’s do this.”

Julian follows me into the lobby of the hotel, still holding two extra cupcakes like our emotional support animals.

The receptionist looks up with a perfectly polite smile, the kind that says I will ruin your life if you ask for a late checkout.

I walk up casually, well casually-ish and I lean one elbow on the counter and immediately knock over a stack of brochures.

“Oops,” I whisper. “Sorry, my bad. Just, clumsy. Anyway. Hi.”

She blinks. “Good evening.”

“I’m looking for a guest,” I say, in what I hope is my best elegant heiress with secrets voice. “Mr. Rowe.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t give out guest information,” she replies in that sing-song customer service tone that makes me want to scream into my velvet pillow.

I nod slowly. “Right. Of course. Privacy. Totally understand.”

She smiles.

I smile harder.

Julian coughs. “Here we go.”

I reach into my teeny-tiny clutch, which is mostly filled with emergency blotting papers and an unopened lip balm, and pull out a crumpled ten-pound note. I slide it across the counter like I’m a spy in a movie who forgot how money works.

She blinks down at it. “Ma’am… this is… ten pounds.”

I cough. “Right. A test. Just making sure you’re not corrupt. You passed. Great job.”

Julian wheezes behind me.

I reach back in and this time slide out a full twenty, then, on impulse, an unopened mini Jo Malone sample I got from the press box upstairs. “How about now?”

She eyes the perfume like it might be laced with arsenic. “This is highly irregular- ”

“I’m irregular,” I blurt. “Emotionally. Socially. Gastrointestinally. But I really need to know what room he’s in.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”

“I’m a revenge-seeking goddess, actually.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Julian drops one of his cupcakes. The frosting lands like a slap.

The receptionist sighs, then very quietly taps something on her keyboard. “Mr. Rowe is staying in the east wing. Penthouse level.”

I gasp like she just gave me the password to heaven. “You’re an angel. A queen. The moment I take down the she-devil, I’m sending you a fruit basket.”

She deadpans. “Have a lovely evening.”

Julian and I march toward the elevator with the shaky adrenaline of people about to commit a minor felony.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he whispers, licking frosting off his fingers.

“Never doubt the power of desperation and expensive perfume.”

As the elevator doors slide shut, my reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls, hat slightly crooked, gloves smudged with icing, heart pounding like a drumroll.

Phase Two is officially in motion.

And if this hat falls off in the wind while I’m running toward destiny, so be it.

I’m not backing down.