Bloodlines

The Monte Carlo sky looked bright and far too calm for my mood that morning.

Our black car rolled along the boulevard toward the French Academy, the most exclusive and ridiculous preschool I had ever toured. The kind of place where four year olds discussed gluten and toddlers took public speaking as an extracurricular. Poppy, of course, thought it was paradise. A stage built for talking, arguing, and shining.

She sat in the back seat in her car seat, legs swinging, bangs already slanted to one side after losing a brief war with a hairbrush five minutes earlier.

“Stop, Daddy! We’re close! I can see the gate! Look! That’s my school! We’re late! I have to get out now!”

Adrian stayed calm behind the wheel. “We’re three minutes early, Pop.”

“Three minutes is a lot! I’ll miss Miss Lila’s morning greeting! And I haven’t shown Clara my new glitter backpack!”

I turned in my seat and caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. “If you unbuckle yourself, I’ll stuff your mouth with a tuna sandwich.”

She froze. Sat perfectly still. Her face hardened into something that could have made Putin look gentle.

Adrian let out a quiet laugh. “You’re evil.”

“I’m just being firm. Different thing.”

We stopped at the main gate. A line of SUVs and luxury sedans already filled the curb. Kids in tiny blazers and tartan uniforms stepped out, greeted by staff wearing smiles polished to Hermès boutique level.

The second the car fully stopped, Poppy leaned forward like a hunting dog catching a scent. “I’m getting out now, okay! Daddy, carry me!”

Before either of us could answer, she reached for the door.

“Poppy!” My voice jumped an octave. “If you get out before I say so, I will take every piece of your glitter and throw it into the Mediterranean Sea.”

She went still. Slowly turned her head. “Mommy… you’re mean today.”

“Yup. I woke up at five because you screamed for bread that ‘didn’t look sad.’ Deal with it.”

Adrian opened his door and, in one smooth motion, lifted Poppy from her seat like airport luggage. One hand under her arms, the other supporting her round little butt.

“Penelope Belsky,” I muttered as I stepped out and straightened my blazer, “the theater award for Most Overreacting Human goes to you.”

She ignored me. Wrapped her arms around Adrian’s neck, cheek pressed to his shoulder. Then, with full drama and personal vengeance, she planted a loud kiss on his cheek.

“Daaa-ddy. I love you sooooo much!”

I stood beside them, hands on my hips. “Bye, sweetheart,” I said flatly. “Mommy loves you too.”

She turned her face away. Literally rotated her head ninety degrees.

Adrian glanced at me, amused. “Wow.”

Still in his arms, Poppy crossed her arms over her chest and squinted at me. “Mommy is scary this morning. Mommy nags. Mommy threatens to throw glitter away. Mommy .. you’re not gettin any kisses.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Okay. But remember, who pays for the glitter?”

“Santa Claus and Daddy.”

“Of course they did.”

A school attendant approached, recognizing us instantly. Because who else would produce a child that terrifying and that sweet in one body. Adrian set Poppy down. She bounced once, then turned, dragging her new glitter backpack that looked better suited for a drag queen’s birthday party.

“Bye, Daddy!” she yelled, waving. “Bye… Mommy.”

I stared at her. “Don’t say bye to Mommy like I kidnapped your unicorn.”

She grinned and ran into the courtyard, light on her feet, long hair swinging like she had just wrapped a shampoo commercial.

I exhaled and looked at the massive gate. “Why does it feel like I’m sending her into battle every day?”

Adrian slipped an arm around my shoulder. “Because you’re two are dramatic.”

“She’s dramatic. I just carry the sarcasm gene.”

We got back into the car. Inside, the leftover scent of kids’ perfume and glitter clinging to the seats made the space feel absurdly domestic.

I buckled my seatbelt. “If she’s still like this at twenty, I’m retiring to a remote village and raising goats.”

Adrian grinned. “I’m coming with you.”

“Condition is the goats can’t talk.”

He started the engine. “If we’re lucky, we leave them in Monte Carlo.”

I turned toward him. “Sounds like a plan.”

The car pulled away, leaving behind the most elite school on the Riviera and a small girl who might someday become President of the World. But today, she was just Poppy. A first class drama queen. And unfortunately, entirely my blood.

+++

My office sat on the third floor of a Belle Époque limestone building, complete with a small balcony and far too many ceiling moldings that turned renovation into a nightmare. But the light came in beautifully, and it didn’t smell like a room used to store old aristocrats’ corpses, so I kept it.

On my desk sat blueprints for a hotel project in Cannes. Two proposals from boutique clients asking why I insisted on Italian marble. Because if you want cheap marble, open a laundromat, not a flagship store. And one glass of iced coffee that had lost all meaning in life.

I typed revisions for an accessory shelving design priced like a Vespa motorcycle when the door knocked and opened without waiting. Naturally.

“Jas?” Daniella slipped inside, her bun halfway undone, her face caught between makeup and stress. My secretary since Poppy’s second year of life. Loyal, efficient, and the only human besides Salma who could last more than an hour with me without wanting to throw a chair.

“I swear,” she said, lifting a thick folder, “this is not a client who wants to turn everything beige. I know you’d shoot the next person who says ‘neutral is timeless.’”

“If neutral were timeless,” I hissed without looking up, “why does everyone want a statement wall? Pick a struggle.”

Daniella chuckled and placed the folder on top of the document pile with care, like she was setting down a small bomb.

I looked at the cover. Gold foil lettering. Formal font. More embossing than a British royal wedding.

Charity Gala – Monte Carlo Heritage Foundation.

Fantastic.

I narrowed my eyes. “What is this? And why do I feel like it’s about to ruin my already very ruined life?”

Daniella pushed her glasses up her nose. “An invitation. Charity gala next week. Extremely high profile. Business figures, nobility, old money. I mean, even the dress code says ‘white tie optional,’ and you know nobody shows up wearing ‘optional.’”

I opened the folder. Inside sat a formal letter on paper so thick it could double as body armor in a nuclear apocalypse. The Monte Carlo Heritage Foundation logo stamped boldly at the top. Beneath it, a list of sponsors, a column for senior donors, and of course.

“Shit,” I muttered.

Daniella reacted instantly. “You found the name?”

“No. I found something worse.”

My index finger tapped one line.

Javier Belsky – Patron Council Member.

Of course my oldest brother sat there as an honorary guest. Because my life would never feel complete without a little prestige flavored torture from the man who once locked my hamster in the fridge and called it a science experiment.

“Javier,” I murmured. “Living proof that Belsky DNA sometimes leaves the factory defective.”

Daniella cleared her throat. “Your grandfather’s involved too. Major donor. So… yeah. You kind of have to go.”

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the classic ceiling, the kind that could make a beginner interior designer lose their mind.

“He knows I’m allergic to events like this. Why is he doing this to me?”

“Because you’re the show pony, Jazz. You’re a successful single mom. You’re not a public scandal. You upgraded the family image after your brother got caught cheating with a Luxembourg nobleman’s fiancée. This is PR.”

“Great. I’m the family poster girl. I’ll wait for the moment they mint my face on a limited edition Christmas coin.”

Daniella laughed under her breath. “The gala’s at Villa de Marque. You know the place?”

“Of course. It used to be my parents’ favorite location for fighting.”

She froze. I flipped the invitation page, pretending not to notice her awkward silence.

“So I have to go?”

“Yes. Unless you want Javier to become a headline. Heir of the Belsky Empire Attends Without Controversial Sister.”

I rubbed my temples. “I’m not controversial.”

Daniella raised an eyebrow.

“…often,” I added.

She handed me a small envelope. “There’s an RSVP card. Plus one. Want me to put Adrian?”

I looked at her, then smiled. “Who else? Santa Claus?”

She smiled back. “I just asked because—”

“Because you enjoy chaos, Dani.”

“Because I know exactly what happens when all those last names end up in one crystal lit room full of expensive champagne.”

I stared at the RSVP card, tapping it lightly with my fingers.

A gala. Old money. Javier. Grandfather. A childhood villa. A dress code from hell.

What could possibly go wrong?

Everything.

And somewhere in the back corner of my mind, something pulsed strangely. As if my name had just been spoken by someone who no longer had the right to say it.

I pushed the feeling away.

I was Jasmine Belsky. And if anyone threw a bomb, I would stand in the middle of the room, wearing red lipstick, and say, “Wrong target.”

“Fill out the RSVP. Pick a menu I can kill with a fork if it tastes like plastic.”

Daniella nodded. “Noted. Should I order the dress too?”

“Black. Slim. Dangerous. If possible, add pockets for sharp objects.”

“Fashionably fatal. Got it.”