CHAPTER 7: Morning After Masquerade

Adeline's POV

Sunlight cuts through my cheap blinds and lands directly in my eyes.

I throw an arm over my face. My feet protest the moment I try to stretch, still paying for those heels. I lift my head, noticing the mascara stains on the pillow. Whatever. Future Adeline can deal with that. Current Adeline has suffered enough.

The blue slip I changed into at 4 AM has twisted around my legs. I kick the sheets off. In this shoebox nothing travels far, my bed meeting my kitchenette, my kitchenette meeting my closet, my closet door hanging open because there's nowhere else to put it. Real estate agents might call it efficient use of space. I call it being able to reach the fridge without getting out of bed.

And hanging right there is the dress. It sways faintly, daring me to pretend last night didn't happen. Afternoon sun catches the silk and for a moment my whole apartment contracts around it.

My phone vibrates again on the bedside table, going since midnight. I reach for it and stare at the screen. Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three messages.

I guess I'm popular now, in the worst possible way. I silence the phone before curiosity convinces me to make my morning worse.

I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow that smells of drugstore detergent and the terrible decisions I made yesterday.

His hand at my waist keeps cycling back. Warm palms, his thumb moving slightly, and I couldn't convince myself it was the champagne or the chandelier light or the weight of everyone watching us.

BookTok has done irreversible damage to my brain. All it takes is one dangerous man, a hand at my waist and a low voice telling me to ‘follow his lead’ for my common sense to pack a suitcase and leave without saying goodbye.

I pull the sheet over my head, giving myself exactly three seconds of mortified delight, then drag it back off and stare at the water stain on the ceiling. It looks vaguely like Ohio.

My apartment feels smaller than it did yesterday morning. Reality presses down with the weight of poor construction and decades-old pipes.

I want to file last night away as a weird fever dream, one night, a companion job plus spy work, a strange overlit performance that's already finished.

Except I'm lying here with my pulse running uneven because of how he looked at me.

And I don't know what to do with that, because I also don't know who sent that warning text, and who would waste their time on a girl with a negative savings account.

Unless they already know something I don't.

My brain takes that and runs. What if there's a secret lineage? A lost fortune sitting in Europe with my face on the paperwork? What if Albert was sent to find me? What if those five men were a test?

I sit up straight, then I look at the ramen cup on my counter. Tuesday's. Still there, crusty and judging me.

Right. A hidden heiress who hasn't dealt with her trash, very regal.

I lie back down. I'm a twenty-four-year-old from Queens with a Costco membership and forty-three unread texts. There is no lineage. Someone ran the wrong background check and is now tracking me for no reason at all.

The ceiling does not confirm or deny.

My front door bangs open and I don't even bother sitting up. Clara. Nobody else enters my apartment with that much confidence and that little respect for hinges.

"You're everywhere." She thrusts her phone directly at my face, nearly taking out my left eye. "Adeline. Look."

Photos cover the screen. Me dancing with Albert's hand at my waist. My face turned toward him. Me laughing with Trust Fund Menace at something I can't even remember. I look far too comfortable beside a man I signed a contract with less than a week ago, which is probably why my stomach drops. “Oh, no.”

Clara scrolls to the next picture. “Oh, yes.”

The headlines are worse.

MYSTERY WOMAN CAPTURES ROSSI'S ATTENTION

WHO IS ALBERT ROSSI'S NEW COMPANION?

Then I scroll through the comments and immediately regret having eyes.

Gold digger alert.

Social climber spotted.

Give it a month before he trades up for a model.

My fingers go numb against the screen. The radiator clanks. My neighbor yells at her son as usual, muffled through the wall.

I shove the phone back. "Stop. My self-esteem can't take internet commentary before coffee."

Clara settles onto my bed, the mattress dipping between us. I can smell her vanilla perfume and see the worry she's not quite hiding in her eyes.

"Are you okay? Because you don't look okay."

Am I? Last night I felt capable, like I'd earned a place in that room full of crystal and people who speak three languages before breakfast. This morning I'm back in my studio where the toilet runs, the radiator clanks, and the walls are cardboard.

I am the same person I was two days ago.

Except now strangers have opinions about me, have already decided who I am, what I want and what I deserve.

So this is the cost. One night at a fancy gala and suddenly strangers think they know my whole personality.

"I'm fine."

Her expression says she isn't buying it.

My screen flashes. Mom's photo pop up, her wide smile from last Christmas, when I brought cookies from her favorite bakery. I almost let it go to voicemail, but guilt is a faster motivator than common sense.

"Hi, Mom."

"Adeline." Her voice is soft. Underneath the tone sits something else. "I saw the photos."

"It's not what it looks like."

"What does it look like?"

I leave that open because I don't know how to explain. She fills it.

"Is he good to you? Are you safe?"

Safe. I don't know about that.

"Do I need to call your cousin Vinny?"

"Mom, Vinny is an accountant. And yes, I'm safe. He's been respectful. Professional."

"Professional." She repeats. "The photos don't look professional, sweetheart."

They don't. We looked like a couple who had somewhere to be together after.

Silence. Then she says the thing I was dreading. "Could this be real? Could he actually care about you?"

That thread of hope in her voice kills me. She's thinking about the mortgage, the medical bills from Dad's years that still surface in collections letters, the life she rebuilt alone after he died, with me at the center of it.

"Mom, don't. Don't build a castle out of this."

"Why not? You're beautiful and kind and brilliant. Why couldn't a man like him fall for you?"

Because men like Albert Rossi don't fall. They calculate. They sign contracts, dress people up, and send them back when the event is over.

And someone was tracking me before he ever chose me and I don't know if those two facts are connected. I don't say either of those things.

"I have to go. I'll visit soon. I promise."

"Adeline…"

"I love you."

I end the call before she can say anything that makes me want what I shouldn't.

A knock at the door stops my impending mental breakdown. Clara and I look at each other. “You expecting someone?”

“No.”

Another knock follows, polite and measured. I look down at my rumpled slip dress and yesterday's mascara. If I'm murdered looking like this, I'm haunting everyone involved.

I open the door. A young delivery man stands outside with a brown-paper package tucked against his chest.

“Adeline Carter?”

I hesitate. “Depends who's asking."

"Clara appears behind me. “She's Adeline.”

Traitor.

He hands me the package and leaves without another word. There is no return address, only my name written across the top in dark, elegant handwriting. I stare at it for a moment, and my first thought is Albert which is concerning.

Clara appears at my shoulder. "What is it?"

I close the door and sit on the bed. The twine slips loose beneath my fingers as I unwrap the brown paper, revealing a small leather journal. I run my thumb across the cover and immediately recognize expensive craftsmanship when I see it, mostly because my rent has trained me to recognize anything that costs more than it should. Beneath it is a note on heavy cream cardstock. Same cursive handwriting.

‘You handled last night better than most people who've lived in that world their whole lives. Don't let them make you doubt that. — A.’

I read it once. Twice.

He noticed. Not the dress or the performance, but the work it took to stand in that room and pretend I wasn't a total fraud.

“What does it say?” Clara leans closer, but I fold the note before she can read it again.

“Nothing important.”

She stares at me. “Liar. Your face says otherwise.”

“My face is tired.”

“Your face is blushing.”

I look down at the journal. “I'm going to throw you out.”

Clara rolls her eyes, tossing a clean dishtowel at my head. "Fine. Keep your mysterious brooding secrets. But you are eating actual food today, not crunchy noodles, and you are texting your mother back so she doesn't get worried."

She grabs her purse, sliding her sunglasses into place with a click. "Bye! Love you!”

The door clicks shut, taking her vanilla perfume with it.

I carry the journal out to the fire escape, the closest thing my apartment has to a private balcony. Rust stains the metal, the brick wall across the alley blocks half the sky, and a pigeon I've named Joe watches me from the railing with the confidence of a landlord. I point at it. “Don't start.”

It doesn't move. I sigh, not having time to fight.

Afternoon sun warms my shoulders as I sit at the edge of the railing. I open the journal to the first page. Blank. No instructions, nothing that tells me why Albert chose this particular gift or what he expects me to do with it.

Maybe I didn't fake all of it last night. Maybe the confidence wasn't entirely borrowed. I think about the way I walked into that room, the way I pulled out that chair without waiting for permission, the way I answered questions even when my stomach was trying to crawl out through my throat. For one night, I belonged at that table.

My pen touches the page, and after staring at the blank space long enough to make myself uncomfortable, I finally write.

‘I'm not who they think I am.’ I stare at the sentence, then add beneath it, ‘I'm not sure I'm who I thought I was, either.’

The words sit there quietly, more honest than anything I've said all morning. I close the journal and look across the room at the dress hanging from my door, midnight blue and completely out of place in my tiny apartment.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.