Page 134 of Cashmere Ruin

“You realize they also have water, right?”

“Yes,” I gasp, then down the third champagne flute in a row. Not because I’m celebrating early—because I’m losing my freaking mind. “Thanks for the tip.”

My dress made it to the top ten.Mydress. Something I made!

In forty-eight hours, my anxiety reminds me.Good luck making the cut withthat, champ!

When I reach for my fourth bubbly, Matvey swipes it right out of my hand. “Hey!” I protest. “I was drinking that.”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

I make a grab for it, but he’s already dumped it in the potted plant behind him. “That was my liquid courage,” I pout.

“That was a pounding headache tomorrow morning.”

“That’s Future April’s problem.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s unmistakable fondness there. “You can’t give your acceptance speech drunk.”

“Ha-ha. ‘Acceptance speech.’ You’re hilarious.”

“I fail to see what’s so funny.”

I steal a devilled egg from a passing tray. My stomach’s in knots, but I’ve read somewhere they were good for hangovers. Wait, was that raw eggs? I can’t remember. I can barely remember my own name right now.

“Acceptance speeches are for winners.”

“You sound awfully confident that you won’t win.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that I’ve already girlbossed too close to the sun. Time to get back down to Earth, Icarus.” I tap myself on the head just to make sure the message gets through.

“You’re already drunk, aren’t you?”

“Yes—No. Maybe? You pick.”

Honestly, I could get drunker. This is barely taking the edge off. I can still feel my anxiety gnawing at me like some starved squirrel. Which is weird, ‘cause I’m pretty sure it’s the one emotion I constantly keep fed.

“April.”

“It’s just…” I sigh. “I don’t want to get my hopes up. Isn’t it enough that I got this far?”

Even as I’m saying it, I know it’s a lie. Of course it’s not enough. Whoever says,“It’s an honor just to be nominated”is a bold-faced Pinocchio.

Who could possibly be happy with second place when first place exists?

When first place gets you a full ride to the Mallard Institute?

“No,” Matvey says predictably. “And you don’t believe that, either.”

He’s right, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. “Mm.” Still, when his hand finds mine, I squeeze it with all I have.

“Everyone, please gather to the main stage,” the announcer calls.

“Moment of truth,” I murmur.

We gather. Take our seats. The curtain slowly rises. Only three pieces can make it to the podium—and we won’t know the placements until the last moment.

“The first piece to make it to the final round is…” the announcer pauses dramatically. “‘Mermaid Dream’ by Anton Gutierrez!”

---