My eyes wander to the empty ice cream container andthe now-black screen of the laptop.
Daria breaks the silence. “And still no new riddle?”
I shrug. “Not yet. But it’s coming.”
I lean back in my chair, struggling to regain the stability I had before meeting Gaetano. When my future was set, the dark didn’t scare me, and “Little Baroness” felt like a title. Not a mockery.
24
Nicole
Day 11
Ared carpet lines the driveway in front of the twins’ Dragalevtsi mansion. After I confirm my name to the two bodyguards at the entrance, they mark me off their list.
I sashay forward, clutching the gift bag in my hand—two identical Cartier bracelets for the birthday girls. A small group of photographers waits by the gate, their flashes going off the instant they spot my newest dress. The deep burgundy clings to my curves, bold yet refined. My usually strict hairstyle falls in loose, effortless waves.
I smile as I glide past them on four-inch black stilettos. Pausing in front of a photographer, I strike a rehearsed pose: hip tilted, hand on my waist, chin slightly raised. The “G” on my forehead sparkles, decorated with tiny silver gems that catch the light like mini diamonds. I don’t even know why I’m bothering—only third-rate media are present, the kind people don’t actually follow.
Anyway, let them look. Let them shoot.
Gaetano’s games won’t break me.
Yet, the moment his name crosses my mind, a jolt runs through my body. My knees go weak, and I almost trip over my heels.
“Niki!” From the yard, Boyana rushes over, holding a glass in each hand. “Wow! Youarea goddess!”
She shoves champagne into my hand and grabs the other, pulling me toward the pool. Her gaze lands on the “G” on my forehead. “Honestly, at first I thought that fashion thingwas kinda weird, but the sparkles totally work! I might get one too…”
I press my lips together but say nothing. Instead, I greet the Karaivanov twins and two old classmates who are swaying to the low house beat, next to a tall table near the pool.
Kiril Karaivanov—Misha’s ex—stares at me with that familiar intensity.No, thanks.He’s the type of guy who acts like a teen his whole life: oversized T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves, jeans three sizes too big, a baseball cap, a massive chain around his neck, and designer sneakers. I’m pretty sure Misha was into him because he had a twin, and she thought the four of them could live happily ever after together.
“What’s the ‘G’ for?” he asks.
I lift my chin, bracing myself against the satin-draped table. “On behalf of the person who started the trend.” I grab the glass in front of me and take a long sip, my gaze flicking toward the corners of the yard.
“Oh, right! I’ve heard of it!” Boyana twirls a lock of her hair. “Everyone in the U.S. is wearing that to parties now. Who was the designer again? G, G…”
“Gaetano?” I offer, raising a brow. I don’t know whether I want to laugh or break down crying. Maybe both.
“Yeah, that’s him.” Camelia, a girl from our high school class, nods. “Some Italian guy, right? I think I saw something about him on TikTok.”
Kiril Karaivanov shakes his head. “I’ll never understand women’s fashion.”
“Preach!” his brother Samuil chimes in, waving his hand in support. At least he gives off the vibe of a grown man, with his white shirt unbuttoned just enough, skinny jeans, and polished shoes. “You wear strange stuff on your face, shoes you can’t walk in, clothes that don’t keep you warm,but hey, that’s fashion.”
Boyana leans forward, reclaiming the attention. “It’s called suffering for beauty! There’s nothing more satisfying than looking perfect, even if you’re hypothermic or your legs give out after four hours in heels.”
“That’s just insane,” Samuil replies flatly.
I raise my glass to him. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to keep up with trends now and then. If your brother did, he’d know Eminem hasn’t been ‘in’ in years.”
Laughter ripples around the table, even from “Eminem” himself.
He winks at me. “Baroness, hip-hop is forever. I’m sure you’re into it. You just pretend not to be.”
“Sure. If I’m three drinks in and you’re the last man on Earth.” I take another sip.
