Bad Reputation, Better Smile

Ricky took my hand and led me through the crowd. A few guests turned to look. Someone called my name. My aunt from Cartagena waved far too enthusiastically.

I ignored her.

Then I saw Rhysand Bernadi.

And the most annoying thing was that Ricky had not been exaggerating.

The man stood at the edge of the terrace overlooking the ocean, one hand in the pocket of his black trousers, a short glass in the other filled with something that was very clearly not champagne. He wore a white shirt with the top two buttons undone and a lightweight black jacket that looked like it had been thrown onto his body by an angel with terrible taste in dangerous men. His height made everyone around him look like trial versions. Broad shoulders. Thick black hair, a little messy in the front, as if he had combed it with his fingers and a series of bad financial decisions.

His face…

Sharp cheekbones. Clean jaw. A mouth that did not look friendly but made you wonder what it would feel like when he stopped talking. His eyes were blue.

Beside him stood a tall blonde woman in a silver slip dress. I recognized her face after two seconds, a model I had seen a few times on YouTube, walking for brands that made women willing to give up carbs just to look elegantly miserable. Her name was probably Celeste. Or Celine. Or something that sounded expensive when whispered by a French photographer.

She laughed at something Rhysand said.

Then Rhysand turned before we had even reached him. His gaze moved from my face to my dress, paused briefly on my hand in Ricky’s, then came back to my eyes.

No smile. No warmth.

Just judgment so naked I almost wanted to ask if he needed a clipboard.

“Rhys,” Ricky said.

“Riccardo.” Rhysand’s voice was low. There was an Italian accent there, not thick, but enough to make every word send a small kick through my nerves.

Ricky went tense beside me. I remembered then that he hated being called Riccardo.

“This is Maya,” Ricky said. “Maya de Cruz.”

“I know who she is.”

I arched an eyebrow. “I’m hoping that’s because I’m the bride-to-be, not because you have a habit of keeping files on women at parties.”

The model beside him smiled. Ricky let out a stiff laugh.

Rhysand looked at me a fraction of a second too long. Then the corner of his mouth moved. “Maya de Cruz,” he said. “Finally.”

I held out my hand. “Rhysand Bernadi. The legendary one.”

He looked at my hand. Then he took it.

His hand was warm. Large. His fingers closed around mine with polite pressure, but there was absolutely nothing polite about the way he bent and kissed the back of my hand.

His lips touched my skin for only a second.

A very brief second.

Brief enough to be called family etiquette.

Long enough to remind my spine that it had nerves.

I pulled my hand back, because I had many flaws, but losing control of my expression was not one of them.

“Ricky finally chose someone too interesting for his standards,” Rhysand said.

Ricky laughed. Stiffly. “Supportive as always.”

“I’m complimenting your future wife.”

“By insulting me.”

“Efficient, isn’t it?”

I smiled sweetly at Rhysand. “I like men who save time. Usually they save on empathy, too.”

The woman in silver laughed, for real this time.

Rhysand glanced at her, then looked back at me. “And I like brides who bite.”

“I only bite when someone puts his finger too close.”

“Make a note of that, Ricky.”

Ricky squeezed my waist lightly, just enough to remind me that this was his family. His night. His stage. I took a breath and put on the face I usually wore when men explained Latin American politics to me after reading two Bloomberg articles.

Rhysand tilted his head. “Twenty-two, right?”

I glanced at Ricky. He looked like he wanted to sink through the wooden floor.

“My age?” I asked.

“Your shoe size.”

“Too bad. I prefer questions with answers that can be bought.”

Rhysand took a sip of his drink. “Too young.”

“I’ll inform my birth certificate. Maybe it can work on itself.”

“And too long.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your life.” He said it casually, almost lazily. “Too young and too long to end at the altar with Ricky.”

“Rhys.” Ricky’s voice carried a warning.

I waited for myself to feel offended for the right reasons. Because he had insulted my fiancé. Because he had insulted my choice. Because a man I had met thirty seconds ago thought he had the right to touch my future with dirty hands.

I smiled. “I was just thinking your life seems too expensive and too empty to spend it frightening women at family parties.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow.

“Maya.” Ricky said.

I ignored him.

Rhysand looked at me like I had just placed a knife on the table and he appreciated my choice of silverware. “I’m not frightening you.”

“You mean you haven’t succeeded yet.”

“Beautiful women are usually easier to scare than they admit.”

There.

Right there.

I knew this type of man. Stupid asshole threw out misogynistic comments because they did not know any better. Rhysand Bernadi tossed them like coins into a pond, then enjoyed watching the ripples move across people’s faces.

He liked testing limits. Too bad for him, I had been raised by Colombian women who could slice a man’s ego with a butter knife while still stirring soup.

“I agree,” I said.

His eyebrow lifted.

“Beautiful women are often afraid.” I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray without breaking eye contact. “Usually because boring men keep mistaking beauty for an invitation to discussion.”

Rhysand’s smile actually appeared this time.

Ricky swallowed. “Rhys is joking.”

“I know,” I said softly. “So am I.”

Rhysand gave a low laugh.

“So,” I said, shifting my attention to the model beside him, “you must be very patient.”

The woman laughed. “Why?”

“Because standing next to a man who thinks he’s the main event must be exhausting.”

“I’m Camille,” she said, holding out her hand. “And yes, exhausting. But sometimes the view is nice.”

“Camille,” Rhysand said, his tone warning.

“Rhys,” Camille replied, mimicking his tone perfectly.

I liked her.

Ricky did not.

I could feel the tension in his body. Tonight was probably not the night to make his older brother and his brother’s model girlfriend like his future wife by firing tiny knives at each other from behind smiles.

But honestly, I already tired.

Tired of standing. Tired of being praised. Tired of being the version of Maya that could be packaged in a white dress and handed to the Bernadi family with a satin ribbon. Tired of convincing myself that this nervousness was normal.

Tired because Rhysand Bernadi had appeared and, in two minutes, managed to make me feel too aware of my own skin.

“Ricky said you live in Italy,” I said, because manners were a second dress I could wear even when they itched.

“Most of the time.”

“Being trained to become president director?”

“Being trained to sound obedient.” He glanced briefly at Ricky. “I prefer to call it making sure the old men on the board don’t sell the company’s future because they still think oil is a religion.”

“And you’re the high priest?”

“Not yet.” He took a sip of his drink. “For now, I’m just the eldest son showing up late to his brother’s party.”

“With a bad reputation.”

“Reputation is just a story people tell when they don’t have access to the facts.”

“Interesting. Usually men with bad reputations say that right before proving the reputation true.”

Camille laughed again.

Rhysand leaned slightly toward me. His cologne came with the ocean breeze, dark, expensive, unsweet. “Do you always have an answer?”

“Not always.” I smiled. “Sometimes I only have a pretty face and bad intentions.”

“Dangerous.”

“You seem familiar with the concept.”

I tightened my grip around my champagne glass.

“Are you sure you want to get married tomorrow?”

Ricky went rigid. “Enough.”

I looked at Ricky. There was something on his face I had never seen before. Then I looked back at Rhysand. He did not look like he was joking now.

“That is a very polite question for a pre-wedding party,” I said.

“I’m famous for being polite.”

“You’re famous for the Monaco scandal.”

“The photos never got out.”

“Pity. I like documentation.”

“Then don’t marry a boring man. The documentation will be tragic.”

“Rhys.” Ricky said his name again, sharp this time.

I felt something inside my body close.

I set my champagne glass down on the small table. “It was nice to finally meet you, Rhysand.”

“Was it?”

“Not really, but I was raised well.”

His smile stayed right where it was. “I’m starting to doubt that part.”

“Good. I hate being predictable.”

Ricky touched my arm. “Maya, wait.”

I patted his hand gently. “I want to sit down for a minute,” I said.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t.” My smile did not fall, but Ricky knew me well enough to stop. “You have guests. I just need five minutes.”

Then I left them.

I walked away with my head held high. My dress moved around my legs. The ocean breeze touched my bare back. I heard Camille say something quietly. Heard Ricky answer in a low voice. Heard Rhysand laugh once.

I did not look back.

I would not give him the satisfaction.

I walked past the flower tables, past my cousins photographing dessert, past an old investor staring at me two seconds too long until Mama appeared out of nowhere and stepped into his path like an avenging angel in emerald diamonds.

“Todo bien?” she whispered as I passed.

I nodded. “I just need air.”

“Air is everywhere.”

“Without men in it.”