Page 32 of The Fake Date Deal

I saw in the mirror I’d turned red. I looked like a child on the verge of a tantrum, and deep in my guts, I felt like one too. I felt like if I saw him I’d scream in his face. I’d scream out all the hurt I felt when I read his note, and the cameras would catch me, and it would all start again.

SOCIALITE’S PUBLIC MELTDOWN

WHY THE PRINCE SAID “I DON’T.”

The Internet would breathe a collective “oh, honey.” There’d be no coming back from that. No saving face.

Why couldn’t Marco be racing in Zandvoort? Or Budapest, Nürburg, anywhere but here?

The phone rang on my nightstand — the room phone, not mine. I picked it up just as my own phone started buzzing.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Miss Hansley. This is the front desk. Your guests are downstairs. Shall I send them up.”

I blinked. My guests? My phone buzzed again.

“Miss Hansley?”

I snatched up my phone. Was this Rafael? He wouldn’t come here, surely, but what if he had? I couldn’t face him, not like this. Not half dressed, mascara-streaked, in my fuzzy slippers. I thumbed at my phone. Squinted at the screen. A barrage of texts popped up, all from my sister.

I’m sorry! I tried!

Are they there yet?

I told them to call at least, but you know how they are.

Our parents were here? In Barcelona? I tried to think who else she could mean, but it had to be them. I knew how they were, all right, and how they were was… like parents. They worried. They hovered. And they just showed up.

“Miss Hansley? Excuse me? Are you still there?”

“Sorry, uh…” I cleared my throat. “My guests — do you mean my parents?”

“Yes, miss. Your parents. Shall I send them up?”

Waves of emotion coursed through my body. Guilt, shame, annoyance. Dizzying panic. They’d been so excited about Rafael. And the wedding, the wedding — they’d spent a fortune. Were they here to yell at me? To drag me home? To propose a new match for me, someone not Marco? I cringed at the thought, a full-body shudder. I couldn't, could not, go through all that again.

“Send them up,” I croaked. Refusing to see them would just make it worse.

“I can’t do it again,” I said to the mirror, practicing how I’d say it when my parents came up. A gentle half-smile, a cool, even tone. Dignity, poise. I could do that. “When I get married, it needs to be on my terms.”

My voice cracked. I swallowed. I couldn’t do this. If they yelled, I’d cry. Nothing could stop me. I’d tried so hard, the day of my wedding. Tried to embrace it, to see it their way. If they couldn’t see that, if they blamed this on me?—

Steps in the hallway.

A tap at the door.

I stood still, not breathing, my hand to my heart. I could feel it pounding, about to break.

“Eve, are you in there?”

“Did we get the right room?” My father knocked again. “Eve? Is this you?”

“Coming,” I said, but it came out a whisper. I stumbled to meet them in my disheveled glory, my robe hanging open, my dress underneath. I should’ve reached out to them. Done this at a distance. Over a call, where I could hang up if I needed. Blame technology — Sorry, no signal.

“I hear her,” my mother said. “Eve? Are you there?”

I jerked the door open like ripping a Band-Aid. I don’t know what I expected, but what happened was hugs. A whole lot of hugs, both parents at once. They flung their arms around me and kissed the top of my head, patted my back like I was still little.

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