Monte Carlo, Behave

One Week Later – Gala Night

The dress hung in front of the mirror like a threat. Black. Skimming the floorboards of my bedroom. The neckline dipped low enough to make Grandpa Belsky cough into his fist, but still safe for any glossy magazine spread. Daniella nailed the brief: slim, dangerous, maybe capable of hiding a pocketknife.

I stood before the wall mirror, the tiny chandelier overhead scattering light across the satin clinging to my body. The gown hugged my waist, fell clean over my hips, and split along one leg in a way that promised headlines if I ever misstepped: Some Belsky Accidentally Flashes Monaco Society.

“Nice,” I muttered at my reflection. “If I die tonight, at least the outfit won’t haunt me.”

The room had gone still. Eight o’clock blinked on the nightstand clock.

Salma had slipped in half an hour earlier, her hair twisted up without a plan, her shirt sparkling from Poppy’s craft session. She hovered in the doorway and whispered, “She’s out, Jazz. Three storybooks, one glass of milk, two verses of that Russian lullaby. You’re safe. She won’t break into the gala.”

“If she wakes up and finds me gone, send her a waffle photo tomorrow. Visual distraction.”

Salma’s laugh floated back as she wished me luck “mingling with the robed kingdom of money,” then vanished.

Now it was just me, the dress, and the urge to pretend the world didn’t exist.

I fixed the strap on my shoulder, breathed in, and leaned closer to the glass. The lipstick was already chosen: a deep red, nearly burgundy. I swiped another layer across my mouth, pressed my lips together, then studied the face staring back.

Green eyes smoked at the edges. My long hair teased upward at the crown, the rest falling behind me in loose waves. A thin gold necklace circled my throat, one small diamond at its center. I snapped a pair of small hoops into place.

“Jasmine Belsky,” I whispered, “you’re walking into a den of old money with a smile and zero fork-related assaults. At least until the main course.”

I tapped my cheek. Good enough.

The black clutch waited on my vanity. Inside: phone, cards, spare car key in case Adrian socially flatlined and wanted to escape early, lipstick, and a tiny pen that could double as a weapon if Javier trapped me in conversation.

I shut off the lights, stepped into the hallway.

The house changed after dark. The long corridor lined with portraits of Belsky ancestors watched like a jury unimpressed by my dress. The wood floor creaked beneath my stilettos.

I passed Poppy’s door. Half-open.

Of course.

I stopped, leaned into the frame, and peeked inside.

A star-shaped nightlight glowed softly on the side table. Poppy slept on her side, her hair sprawled across the pillow like a tiny battlefield. Her bangs brushed her forehead. Her mouth rested open, breath steady. The rabbit plush was wedged beneath her chubby arm.

On the floor lay her new glitter bag, tipped over, its contents spilled: unicorn stickers, crayons, and the sheet she’d made me sign this afternoon as her “forever love contract.”

That face…

A small pinch gripped my chest.

Her eyes were my green this afternoon, but the cheeks, the jawline, the shape of her lips… none of that came from me.

“I don’t regret you, Poppy,” I murmured. “I just want a word with God about copy-pasting faces.”

She let out a little whine in her sleep, her hand drifting up as if searching for something. I stepped inside, tugged her blanket to her shoulder, and pressed a quick kiss into her hair. Strawberry shampoo mixed with the scent of crayons.

“Sleep, tiny tyrant. Don’t wake up and decide you’re Cinderella tonight.”

When I reached the stairs, the distant hum of an engine rolled through the house. Headlights flashed across the tall living room windows.

My grandfather wasn’t home. He was probably at another villa making sure the staircase flowers met his standards and the champagne reached “cold enough to shame your enemies.”

I shrugged into a thin long coat more for aesthetics than warmth, then opened the front door. Monte Carlo’s night air drifted in, soft and salted.

Adrian’s car waited at the bottom of the steps, a black sedan modest enough not to scream for attention, expensive enough to sit comfortably beside someone’s bored yacht. The cabin light glowed.

Adrian stood beside the open rear door. His back rested against the car, one hand in his pocket, the other touching his watch as if he’d just checked the time.

His tux jacket fit neatly across his shoulders. Crisp white shirt. Bow tie slightly crooked in a way that made him look more human, less like a cologne sculpture. Dark brown hair pushed back, a few strands refusing obedience.

His eyes lifted as I stepped outside.

For a few seconds, he didn’t speak. His pupils dipped, trailing from my head to my feet like he was assessing the most critical project of the year. A slow smile surfaced, followed by a small shake of his head.

“If your goal is making everyone at this gala feel underfed,” he said in that low voice of his, “mission accomplished.”

I headed down the steps, stilettos tapping against stone. “If your goal is making me nervous, fail. I’m just wondering how impractical it is to wear a skirt this wide if we have to run from a fire.”

A short laugh escaped him. “If there’s a fire, I’ll carry you. The dress can double as a blanket.”

“See?” I stopped in front of him. “This is why I date a guy who lifts weights. Useful in emergencies.”

His free hand reached out, brushed my wrist, slid to my fingers, lifted them... then kissed them. An old gesture, smooth, the kind that should’ve felt tacky but somehow landed right when Adrian did it.

“Hi,” he murmured. “You ready, Chaos Queen?”

“As long as the chubby four-year-old isn’t tagging along, I can face anything.”

“She snoring?”

“Cutest snoring. If the French Academy held a snore competition, she’d bring home a trophy.”

Adrian laughed, released my hand, and helped me into the car. “Salma texted. She’s on standby in case Poppy wakes up looking for us. Says she stocked extra frozen waffles for negotiations.”

“We need to raise her salary.”

“I did that last month.”

I slid into the seat, careful not to trap the gown. Adrian closed the door gently, circling to the driver’s side.

Once he got in, the car felt smaller. Sandalwood cologne. Soft jazz humming from the radio. My heartbeat drumming way too loud for a formal event.

“One to ten,” he said as he started the engine, “how strong is the urge to bail and fake an illness?”

“Eleven.”

His mouth tilted. “Then I’ll give you an incentive. If we get through tonight without anyone wanting to kill you, I’ll make pancakes tomorrow morning. Heart-shaped.”

I snorted. “If we get through tonight without Javier creating drama, I’ll make the pancakes. Skull-shaped.”

“Very romantic.”

“Romance is overrated. Skull pancakes are honest.”

The car began rolling out of the driveway. The old Belsky mansion drifted behind us, its windows glowing amber. On the top floor, I pictured Poppy curling deeper into her pillow, hugging her rabbit, maybe mumbling about her glitter bag or Liam the Baby Shark.

Adrian flicked the blinker and turned onto the main road. City lights swept across the glass, sketching lines of brightness across the satin on my lap.

Villa de Marque waited at the end of the drive: crystal, champagne, the Belsky name that weighed heavier than one shoulder deserved, and a gala I had to face with a smile sharpened over years.

I leaned my head back for a moment, catching my own reflection in the window. Red lipstick. Green eyes. A face set for battle.

“Adrian,” I called softly.

“Hm?”

“If I start looking like I’m about to strangle someone with their tie... drag me to the dessert table. Immediately. No discussion.”

He nodded with grave sincerity. “Noted. What’s your safe word?”

“‘Macaron pistachio.’”