Page 41 of Spearcrest Rose
We laugh, and it’s not until we’re both getting into the limousine that I realise he’s just called me his girlfriend.
But isn’t that the plan? For him to think we’re in a relationship?
What’s not part of the plan is how much I like it. The way it makes me want to smile until my cheeks ache, the way it makes my skin feel tingly and warm as if bathed in sunshine, the way it makes my heart feel so full it might explode.
Oh god. I’ve really, truly fucked up.
Theartgalleryiseverything I knew it would be: glittering with celebrities in designer dresses, influencers in couture and high society types who have more money than they could spend in a lifetime.
Arm-in-arm with Noah, I walk up the carpeted steps in the direction of the gallery atrium. Cameras flash around us, social media reporters with tiny mics clutched in their long acrylics crowding the edges of the steps.
Noah’s arm tightens around me.
“Why didn’t you tell me this was going to be so fancy?” he mutters against my ear.
“It’s not that fancy,” I reply against his cheek. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave your side, okay?”
We are ambushed by a famous influencer wearing an exquisite two-piece in hot pink satin.
“Seraphina Rosenthal—babes, you know I love everything you wear.”
I smile back graciously, and we exchange some cheek kisses. “Right back at you!”
“Will you tell all the fashion girlies out there who you’re wearing tonight?”
“Of course.” I turn to her camera, giving it my best social media smile. “This dress is designed and created by yours truly. I’ll be going to fashion school in the fall, so watch out for more designs from Dirty Princess by Seraphina Rosenthal.”
Noah’s arm tightens almost imperceptibly around my waist—encouragement I didn’t know I needed.
The influencer gushes about my dresses and quizzes me about my future label. I answer all her questions until she jabs her mic in Noah’s direction.
“And who is this fine bit of arm candy?”
He has the wide-eyed expression of a deer in headlights. “Um—Noah. Noah Watson.”
“And what do you do, Noah?” the influencer reaches for him and squeezes his arm. I throw her a look and she immediately backs away. “Whoa, you work out, huh?”
“I, um, do some boxing,” Noah says. He looks at me and mouths the wordhelp.
I laugh and lead him away.
“Talk to you soon, girl!” I call over my shoulder without looking back.
“If this is what being rich is like,” Noah mutters against my ear, “I’d rather be poor.”
“You get used to it,” I sigh.
“I don’t think I could,” he replies.
I can’t even blame him. This life could take some getting used to—but I’ve been living this way since I was born. The disorienting flash of cameras, the mics pressed into my face, the complete lack of privacy—they’ve all been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Even in Spearcrest, although we’re more or less sheltered from the real world, we’ve still somehow just created a smaller-scale version of what high society life is.
I’ve never known anything else, but if I could be anywhere right now, it wouldn’t be here. It would be somewhere small and remote and quiet—with Noah. No cameras, no mics, no social media and no eyes on me.
Because the moment we enter the gallery, that’s all I can feel. Eyes on me, piercing me from every direction. It’s a particular sensation, like something being stuck to you. Not painful, but uncomfortable and relentless.
Especially since I can tell they’re not looking at me because of my beautiful gown. They’re looking at me because of Noah. They stare at his face with slight, polite frowns, trying to place him. Asking themselves questions.Where have we seen him? Do we know him? Who is he?
Cocktail hour is in full force, so everyone is drinking and pretending to look at the artwork when they’re looking at anything but. My father is still nowhere to be seen. I’ve barely wrapped my fingers around a drink before I’m accosted by three couples of rich New Yorkers.