Page 152 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

She starts with foundation, working it in. Then comes a hint of blush, just enough to bring colour to my cheeks, followed by eyeliner.

A few careful sweeps of mascara, and she finally steps back, studying my face.

“There,” she murmurs. “Ready. Just one last thing.”

She uncaps a gloss and leans in, brushing a soft sheen across my lips.

When she’s done, she pulls back and tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that makes me laugh.

“What?” I ask.

Her expression softens, and her smile grows faint. “You look beautiful,” she says quietly. “Like… really beautiful.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What’s gotten into you? You’re never emotional.”

She waves a hand at her face, her grin breaking through. “I know. Must be the hormones, my period’s due, or I’m coming down with something.”

A laugh escapes me, but before I can say anything, she suddenly claps her hands. “We’re not done yet.”

She darts toward my bag, rummages inside, and pulls out a pair of Louboutins, setting them in front of me with a triumphant smile.

“Another present?” I ask, looking up at her.

She smirks. “You’re welcome.”

I slip my feet into the heels, stand, and reach for my coat. After fastening it, I pick up the clutch Octavia laid out on the bed, tucking my essentials inside, my phone, lipstick, glucose meter, and a small tube of glucose tablets.

“I’ll be right behind you, the car’s waiting!” she calls, already halfway to her room. “Go on, give me five minutes.”

I shake my head but do as she says. Heading downstairs, I step out through the front door, the sky has started to dim. A black car waits at the curb, the driver already moving to open the door for me.

I nod politely, offering a small smile, and slide inside. Pulling out my phone, I check my messages.

Nothing from Arlo. The small pang of disappointment that follows is ridiculous, and entirely unacceptable. I ignore it, opening social media instead, scrolling aimlessly to occupy my mind.

I stop scrolling when a familiar photo fills the screen, one of me and Arlo. It’s been circulating everywhere online, from the academy gossip pages to scandal sites.

The picture was taken a few days ago, back at St. Monarche´. He looks tall, stoic, serious as ever, yet his eyes are soft, fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room. I’m laughing at something, head tilted slightly, completely unaware of the camera.

The next slide is a close up of my hand, the diamond ring gleaming in the light. It’s been reposted dozens of times, thecaption threads speculating endlessly about our engagement, our history, our families.

The sound of the car door opening startles me. I look up just as the driver holds it open and Octavia slides in, her pink hair down in soft waves. I lock my phone and slip it into my clutch.

I turn to her, brow furrowing. “Why the hell are you wearing jeans while I look like I’m attending a gala?”

She smirks. “Stop complaining about everything.”

I narrow my eyes but don’t bother replying, she’s definitely up to something. And most of the time, when she’s like this, trouble follows.

The driver circles to the front, takes his seat behind the wheel, and within minutes, we’re gliding through Paris. The city unfolds around us in flashes of light and movement until, ten minutes later, we stop in front of the Eiffel Tower.

We thank the driver and take the private entrance reserved for VIP guests to go up the Tower.

“If you insist we take the stairs instead of the lift, I’ll cut you,” I warn, tilting my chin at Octavia.

She bursts out laughing. “You’re so dramatic.”

A hostess greets us at the entrance and directs us toward the lift. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about payment, but Octavia catches my expression and shakes her head.