Page 5 of Blue Moon

I only knew one Marc. Marc di Gregorio, Hollywood heartthrob. Two years ago, at a party, he’d whispered in my ear that I looked a little dirty and tapped my ass, and I’d thrown my glass of wine over him. But it turned out that I’d sat on a chocolate truffle and he was just trying to help, so obviously I could never face him again. At least it had been white wine rather than red. Anyhow, Marc di Gregorio wouldn’t be sending me earrings, so I was at a loss.

“Where’s the note?”

Luis fished around in a sparkly gold gift bag. “Right here.”

The paper was weird, like it was made from leaves, and the words were weirder.

My Dearest Cleopatra,

As I watch you, I can’t help but feel a connection that transcends time itself. Just as the Nile flows eternally, so does my love for you. I am convinced that destiny has brought us back together in this lifetime, the way it did in Ancient Egypt.

The moments we’ve shared have been a glimpse into the past, and I look forward to the future that awaits us. Soon, our paths will align once more, and we’ll create a new chapter in our story. Until then, know that my heart beats for you, my Cleopatra, and we’ll soon be together again.

With all my love,

Mark A

I wasn’t so good at reading, so it took me a moment to get through the whole note. Then I read it again and shuddered. A connection that transcended time? He’d been watching me? I mean, a lot of people watched me, but he said we’d shared moments? The note was mild compared to some I’d received, but my skin still crawled.

Aisha leaned over my shoulder. “Girl, tell me you have good security.”

“There are armed guards here, and my building has a daytime concierge and an intercom.”

“What about that guy who came with us to the TV studio?”

Two weeks ago, we’d made a guest appearance on a late-night talk show, and I’d sung one of my old hits and a new song someone else had written for Luna at the Palace. I’d hated every moment. Hated contractual obligations. Tomorrow morning, I had a photoshoot with a live snake, and if my current run of luck was anything to go by, I’d probably get bitten.

Anyhow, when I heard about the TV show, I’d called Emmy Black—Ryder’s boss—and begged her to find me a bodyguard who was the complete opposite of Ryder, partly because there would be crowds outside the studio, but mainly because Julius insisted he was coming along to make sure I behaved. Emmy had obliged by sending me Randall, who had a head like a bowling ball, a body like a tank, and a long-term boyfriend named Carsyn. The best part? Every time Julius got within six feet of me, Randall had scowled so hard that Julius stopped dead. Okay, not actually dead—that was wishful thinking—but he didn’t come any closer.

“He was only temporary.”

“You should be careful. The world’s full of psychos. I should know; I always end up dating them.”

“It’s just someone messing around.” Was I trying to convince them or myself? “A weird joke.”

Someone messing around… Like my half-sister? Cordelia had tried to scare me with notes once before, and it had worked, the spiteful little witch. Yes, this was exactly the kind of stunt she’d try to pull. She hated my success, hated that I was in the public eye, and even though I’d toned down my act, nothing would ever be good enough for her.

“You know what? Forget the stupid earrings. Forget keeping a low profile. Let’s go to the Peppermill.”

3

LUNA

Another day, another disaster. A hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped, then blew out a breath when I realised it was only Luis.

“How do I get the stupid SIM card out of this?” I asked.

“Aw, the screen broke?”

Yes, when I dropped the phone onto my dressing table after yet another fight with Cordelia. Okay, so I’d actually thrown the phone, but not very hard. Luckily, most of my gifts from last night were still in my dressing room, so I had a replacement available if I could only manage to free the SIM card.

“You need a widget for that.” Luis shook the box, and a little metal thing fell out. “You want me to have a try?”

I handed him the phone and slumped into the nearest seat. There should be a school for this—surviving modern life alone. How to deal with technology mishaps, how to manage your finances, how to cook, how to form healthy relationships. Instead, people were just expected to know all that stuff instinctively.

Although school didn’t always work out. As well as attending a stuffy private academy, Cordelia had spent a summer at the British School of Etiquette, and she was still rude, rude, rude. This morning had been no exception. Last night, I’d tried to ignore the “Mark A” note and have a good time, but my anger had still been simmering when I woke up, so I’d unblocked her number and fired off a text before I got out of bed.

Me

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