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She was staring into her refrigerator, trying to decide what to make for dinner, when her phone began to ping and ping and ping.
Concerned, she picked up her phone. Not her family, but it seemed to be a work emergency. Her coworkers, including the evening desk clerk and the manager of the hotel, were all sending texts. Every message was some variation of,Is this you?
The links and screen grabs showed her outside the patisserie, arguing with Atlas.
“Nooo…”she groaned, flicking to scan the articles.
She’d been identified by name along with where she worked. Staff at the patisserie could have provided that information, she supposed. She was there several times a week.
But “a source close to the couple” was quoted as saying, “Atlas planned to propose to Iris while they were on holiday.” An accompanying photo showed him in a tuxedo with a stunning woman in a gorgeous dinner gown. She was delicate and elegant and she was the daughter of a viscount.
Stella’s stomach plummeted with inadequacy, then dropped again as she saw she was being framed as a home-wrecker, interfering in what was otherwise a fairy-tale courtship.
“Seriously?!” she gasped.
He could have said something about her when she asked about his family. Instead, he had jumped right into asking where she had gone that night—as if it was any of his business—and accused her of kissing him as a distraction tactic.
Now the whole thing was being twisted.
How could this be happening? No one at the patisserie would have suggested she was anyone’s Other Woman. People who knew her knew she barely dated, let alone got involved with men who were committed elsewhere.
The evening clerk texted.
People are calling to ask about you. Someone just asked me where you live. I didn’t tell them.
She was already swimming in outrage. Now she plunged into an icy pool of horror at the idea of being swarmed by paparazzi. She’d seen celebrities get mobbed while visiting here. It was horrible.
Hurrying to the door to her balcony, she twitched the drapes enough to see down to the street, but it was dark and the lanes were narrow and deep between the closely set buildings. It was difficult to tell whether those were locals and tourists going about their evening or someone more nefarious lingering in the shadows, hoping to catch her through the glass.
Ew…
She dropped the curtain into place and texted her supervisor.
I don’t think I should come in tomorrow.
Agreed.
That was the swift reply. Then:
I notified Head Office. They’re unhappy the hotel name has been brought into it.
“That’s not my fault, is it?” she hissed, then quickly texted back.
Is my job on the line?
I’m not sure.
That was the heart-stopping reply.
That man. What an absolute life-imploding toad!
She didn’t have Atlas’s number, but she quickly found the landline for Chalet Ruhe. Before she could dial, a call from an unknown number came up. Then a text from her downstairs neighbor.
She ignored the call and read the text.
Are you expecting company? Someone tried to get in as I was leaving for dinner. They said they knew you.
Don’t let them in, she replied, and began to panic.