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Upper East Side, NY
It had been two full days since Adelaide last spoke to Monet De Haan.
Not a glance in the hallways. Not a text. Not a cold stare across the courtyard or a biting remark in Lit class. Nothing.
She had gone dark.
Instead, she'd spent the weekend gliding through Manhattan like a socialite in a carefully curated fever dream. Spotted leaving Bergdorf's with three garment bags. Photographed at Café Gitane sipping lavender tea and pretending not to notice the cameras. She even made an appearance at a small fashion preview in SoHo—hand-in-hand with no one, perfectly alone.
It was distraction, yes.
But it was also strategy.
The Kingsley Heiress wasn't going to be defined by a kiss. Not even one that had left her entire body buzzing for days after.
If anyone noticed that she hadn't returned Monet's calls or that she'd dodged every one of her messages, they didn't say it. Not out loud. They just speculated. Online. On burner accounts. On subreddits.
And through it all, Adelaide stayed silent.
Until Wednesday morning—when her mother reminded her of the interview with Vanity Fair.
The clack of her mother's heels echoed down the main staircase like the ticking of a clock Adelaide didn't want to race.
She sat at the grand dining table, the morning sun filtering through the tall windows, her phone in hand and a croissant growing cold on its porcelain plate. The housekeeper had arranged the silver perfectly, but Adelaide couldn't care less. Her thumb hovered over her notifications. All unopened.
Her mother swept into the room, a vision of polished ambition in head-to-toe cream Chanel. She didn't sit. Just hovered, poured herself a glass of freshly pressed orange juice, and turned with that tight, purposeful smile that always came with a request.
"Darling," she said, voice too casual to be sincere, "don't forget—you have the Vanity Fair interview this afternoon."
Adelaide blinked up at her. "I thought that was next week."
"They moved it up," her mother replied, taking a measured sip from her crystal flute. "Everyone's dying to know how the most talked-about couple in Manhattan met. The secrets. The scandal. The spark."
Adelaide's stomach turned.
Of course they were.
Her mother continued. "Vanity Fair doesn't reschedule lightly. You'll need something striking—red and white, preferably. Symbolism matters. Monet's stylist already confirmed she's wearing that crimson Roland Mouret blouse with the white trousers."
Adelaide kept her voice steady, flat. "How nice for her."
Her mother raised an immaculately tweezed brow. "You two are still together, aren't you?"
