Rapture & Ruin (Rapture & Ruin 1)

“Good.” I could practically hear his dazzling smile over the phone. “Because you never did give me an answer. Can I take you out to dinner sometime? It’s the least I can do. I’m pretty sure my dad planted that article. Sorry about that.”

“What article?” I could scarcely keep up. The very fact that Niko had called me was baffling. What he was saying made even less sense.

“In the Times. I guess you haven’t seen it yet.” He sighed. “My father isn’t very subtle. He definitely approves of you, and he wants to fix us up. Just one date. That’s all I’m asking for. If nothing else, it’ll get him off our backs. But don’t get me wrong,” he continued, filling my stunned silence. “I would’ve asked you out anyway. I’m sorry if he’s made things uncomfortable. I hope that doesn’t put you off, because I’d really like to see you again.”

“But you barely know me.” And why had that protest popped out of my mouth? I should be thrilled that a man as devastatingly handsome as Niko was interested in me.

“I’d like to get to know you,” he countered smoothly. “Are you free this Saturday?”

“Oh, um. Sure.” I was so flustered that my agreeable nature overwhelmed reason. This was far too jarring, and he’d caught me completely off guard.

And what was this whole article-thing about?

“Great. I’ll text you, and we can work out the details.”

“Okay,” I agreed, my mouth moving on autopilot.

He ended the call, and I stared at my phone for a second, stunned.

“Who was that?” Davis asked. “You look totally shook. Was it that douchebag?”

“No.” I blinked, trying to clear my head in the wake of the short, dizzying phone call. “It was Nikolai Ivanov. He asked me out.”

“Oh my god!” Isabel squealed. “Hot, billionaire heir Nikolai Ivanov? From the fundraiser?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait, I saw him talking to you,” Charlie chimed in. “He’s totally gorgeous. Why do you look sick? Don’t you want to go out with him?”

“No.” My refusal was firm and immediate, and for some reason, Max’s dark eyes flashed through my mind. “I mean, I don’t know. He said something about an article his dad planted in the Times. I got flustered and agreed to a date.”

“What article?” Davis already had his phone out, entering my and Niko’s names into search. “Ohmygod,” he said in a single exhalation. “Holy shit.”

“What is it?” Isabel demanded.

We all crowded around the small screen. My stomach dropped when I saw the picture of Niko and me at the fundraiser. His hand was on my arm, and I was staring up at him with a stupidly awed expression on my face. I saw the headline, and I wanted to sink into the pavement: New York’s Own Royal Romance?

Davis eyed me, a teasing smirk tilting his lips. “All hail Princess Allie!” He offered me a small bow. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re a royal?”

Charlie slapped his arm. “Read the vibe, Davis. Don’t tease her right now.” Her big blue eyes were wide with concern. “You okay?”

Isabel snatched the phone from Davis and hastily began reading the article. “I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes,” she promised. “Let’s get you a martini.”

“No,” I countered, even as they ushered me forward. “I’d so much rather hear about your audition. And Davis, you had one today too, right? I haven’t checked in with you guys since you gave your performances. We don’t need to talk about me.”

Isabel waved me off. “You’re white as a ghost. I know you’ll worry about this all night if we don’t deal with it right now.”

I’d so much rather erase the article’s existence from my mind. I turned to Charlie, desperation touching my voice. “Seriously, we’ve talked about me way too much lately. What about your internship with Vogue? I’m so proud of you for landing that, and I feel like we barely discuss it. You must be just as stressed by work as I am.”

Charlie shot me a sympathetic smile and shook her head. “Uh-uh. We are so talking about you for a little bit. This is too important to ignore.”

Isabel shushed me imperiously. “Hush and let me read. I’ll share the deets in just a few minutes.”

Somehow, my feet moved, and we were inside the restaurant. My friends urged me into our corner booth, and I dropped down onto the padded leather seat, finally allowing my shaky knees to give out.

I hated the public scrutiny that came along with being Ron Fitzgerald’s daughter. In the past, the press had mostly left me alone other than snapping photos with my dad at important events. It was bad enough that some of the most awkward years of my life were forever memorialized on the internet. Now, that mortifying image of me stupidly staring at Niko would be popping up on thousands of news alerts on people’s phones. Anyone who followed the social column of the Times would receive a notification, and even a passing glance would ensure that they saw the embarrassing photo.