Page 19 of Twisted Promise

The other shoe dropped, and there she was, on the softest love sofa with a glass of pineapple-watermelon sparkling juice that she didn’t want.

Anya appreciated the setup for the confessional interview: a cozy chair to settle into, soft lighting that created an intimate atmosphere, a blanket draped over her legs, and the glass of what could only be described as a dubious concoction to remind her not to get too comfortable.

The interviewer smiled kindly, her excitement poorly masked, and Anya doubted she even tried to hide it.

Viewers had already latched onto the idea of her and Alessio being an item, and the director was clearly ready to milk the moment for a bombshell exclusive that would leave the paparazzi gnawing on their SD cards.

Maybe she saw it as a free therapy session, she thought with a weak chuckle. Or perhaps a chance for a cathartic trauma dump.

But when she conveniently remembered the contract, which said double pay for additional changes from the director, Anya felt encouraged to tell her story and let Alessio know they were not perfect together.

She was as damaged as he was perfect.

* * *

FIVE

The first time Anya saw Alessio was on television. It was summer, the air sticky with oppressive heat, and hideous seagulls hovered nearby, eyeing her melting ice cream cone.

His parents were interviewed while he stayed between their legs. He looked like a prickly sea urchin with a bow tie, from his untamed dark hair to the nastiest little scowl on his face. His mother placed a hand on his head to smooth over the stubborn strands, but Anya hoped she’d pluck him up like a parsnip.

A seagull dove to snatch her melted ice cream, but it kindly left the cone crushed between her pudgy fingers.

Her parents, dressed in price-tagged summer hats and sunglasses, swirled around from inside the boardwalk shop.

She pointed at the boy on the small TV and blamed him for her missing snack. It was her fifth birthday, so she was allowed to lie.

They were not having any of that, but they still bought her a cup of ice cream.

* * *

FIFTEEN

She saw him on TV again. He was taller and still supported the same scowl, but he was meaner.

His hair was brushed and looked presentable—though not hospitable.

She learned his name was Alessio, and he was from a wealthy but humble family.

A microphone was shoved under his nose after an archery match, asking how he felt about the trophy that stuck out from the trash bin just an inch before the screen cutoff.

She wondered what he ate to grow that tall and searched online for his diet. There were guesses and knockoff meal plans based on previous athletes in similar fields.

Anya’s heart sank as she saw the bleak plate of chicken breast and waterlogged vegetables. She accepted she would not grow to be a six-foot supermodel.

Alessio smacked away the microphone. Behind him, competitors exchanged wary glances, but the journalist pressed on, either bold or oblivious.

They prodded about his parents’ latest investments, his training regimen, rumors of a sprained muscle, and even his love life.

He disregarded them like they were a forgotten pencil behind a desk.

He spoke to them with the calmest and most condemnatory insults she had ever heard from anyone.

A fur-bristling cat was her second impression of him.

He mocked their work ethics, and then he went after their lack of successful recognition and meaningful contribution.

She laughed, cranking the volume higher as she tried to figure out how he could keep such a neutral face.

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