Chapter 4

It had no signature.

I didn't need it.

Seraphina peered over his shoulder.

“That's romantic.”

“That's arrogant.”

“Also.”

Arabella kept the card, even though she could have thrown it away.

The graduation ceremony would be held in Holyrood Park, with guests, speeches, and a formal dinner. A perfect end to their university life.

Or so he thought.

Because at the end of the invitation, printed among the names of honor, was his.

Special Guest: Alistair Montrose, Chairman of Montrose Holdings Ltd.

Arabella felt like she was running out of air.

Seraphina smiled as if she had just been given tickets to the biggest scandal of her life.

“Bella, darling… this is getting interesting.”

Arabella was going to graduate. And Alistair Montrose would be there to see her.

On the eve of graduation, Arabella accepted a temporary job that promised to be simple: handing out flyers in front of a technology store.

The key word was promised.

“You didn't tell me there was a costume,” he said, eyeing the enormous advertising squirrel costume the manager was holding with a criminal grin.

“That's part of the charm.”

“From charm or from humiliation?”

“From sales.”

Arabella thought about the rent. About the bills. About how Caledonia Press didn't start paying until the following week.

He took the disguise.

An hour later, I was walking down the sidewalk of Princes Street transformed into a giant squirrel with a sign that read: REFRESH YOUR PHONE.

Seraphina must never find out.

The city was full of tourists, office workers, and students who pretended not to laugh. Arabella tried to maintain what little dignity she had left inside a hot, heavy, and ridiculously baggy suit.

Then the manager called her from the doorway.

“I need change. Go into the tailor shop next door and ask for small bills.”

Arabella looked at the narrow entrance of the neighboring shop.

“I don't fit.”

“Turn to the side.”

“Excellent. Military strategy.”

He squeezed in, brushing against a coat rack. The tailor shop smelled of expensive wool, wood, and men's cologne. A place where each suit seemed to cost three months of his life.

And there, next to the counter, was Alistair Montrose.

Arabella froze.

No. No, no, no.

He spoke to the tailor, in profile, while they took his measurements for a dark blue suit. Without a jacket, with the white shirt cinched at the shoulders, he looked even more out of place than in his office.

Arabella stepped back.

The costume hit the door.

He tried to leave.

The suit got stuck.

Shot.

Nothing.

“This isn't happening,” he whispered inside the squirrel's head.

“Miss Sinclair?”

Alistair's voice came from behind.

Arabella closed her eyes.

“No.”

“I recognize that way of arguing with the world.”

“I'm not Arabella. I'm… a marketing campaign.”

The tailor coughed to hide a laugh.

Alistair walked toward her. He didn't sneer. That, again, was worse. His hands carefully grasped the edges of the costume to free it from the door frame.

“Quiet.”

“Don't give me orders while I'm a squirrel.”

“Then cooperate while you're a squirrel.”

She let out a stifled laugh, humiliated and furious. Alistair pulled with precision, and the suit came unhooked. Arabella lost her balance. He caught her by the waist before she fell.

Although there were layers of foam between them, the gesture left her breathless.

“Does he always appear at my worst moments?” she asked.

“I'm starting to think they're the most interesting.”

Arabella moved away as best she could.

“I need change.”

“I need to finish this suit. It seems we both have complicated lives.”

The tailor handed over the banknotes with a smile that Arabella chose to ignore.

Before leaving, Alistair leaned slightly towards her.

“Don't wear a costume tomorrow.”

“I graduate tomorrow.”

“I know.”

The way he said it made the store disappear for a second.

Arabella went out into the street with her heart pounding in her throat.

Inside the disguise, no one could see her blush.

Thank goodness.

Because Alistair Montrose wasn't just going to see her graduate: he seemed to have been waiting for it for days.

Graduation day dawned with a silvery-grey sky, as if Edinburgh had decided to dress up without giving up its melancholy.

Arabella spent ten minutes looking at the black dress Seraphina had lent her. It was simple, elegant, and much prettier than anything she could have bought.

“Don't breathe too heavily,“ Seraphina said as she zipped up his pants. ”It's borrowed, not miraculous.”

“Thank you for the tenderness.”

“Tenderness will come when I see you receive the diploma without stumbling.”

Arabella smiled, but the joy was tinged with sadness. Her parents wouldn't be able to attend. Beatrice and Edmund were still in Glasgow, caught between work shifts and money problems. They had promised to call her. She had promised to send them lots of photos.

Small promises. The kind that hurt more because they're real.

When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. The dress accentuated her waist, her hair fell in waves down her back, and her eyes seemed less tired.

“You look beautiful,” Seraphina said, this time without joking.

Arabella swallowed.

“I feel like I'm using someone else's life.”

“Then walk as if it were yours.”

Holyrood Park was transformed. White lights hung from the trees, tables shimmered beneath transparent canopies, and the castle in the background seemed to watch over the ceremony like an ancient witness. Students, families, and teachers filled the place with laughter, cameras, and hugs.

Sebastian Lennox appeared in an impeccable tuxedo and with a smile that had always been too friendly.

“Pretty.”

“Sebastian.”

They hugged gently. He looked at her as if he wanted to say something more, but Seraphina appeared between them with the camera.

“Photo. Before things get intense.”

“We're not intense,” Arabella said.

“Still.”

The ceremony began with speeches from professors, applause, and that collective nervousness of those about to cross an invisible border. Arabella tried to focus on the moment. On her effort. On the sleepless nights. On the underlined books. On every time she thought she wouldn't make it.

Then a girl behind her whispered:

“My God. Is that Alistair Montrose?”

Arabella refused to look.

Seraphina yes.

And he grabbed her arm so hard that he almost cut off her circulation.

“Pretty.”

“No.”

“Pretty.”

“Don't say it.”

“It's here.”

Arabella looked up.

Alistair Montrose had just stepped onto the main stage next to Rector Beaumont. Dark blue suit, black tie, an expression impossible to read. The kind of man who didn't need to do anything to turn a college party into a courtroom.

And then he looked at her.

Straight.

No surprise there.

As if he knew exactly where to find her.

Arabella felt all sounds fade away.

“I want to leave,” she whispered.

Seraphina smiled without taking her eyes off the stage.

“Not on your life. Today you graduate and, apparently, you're also starring in a novel.”

The rector announced the special guest. Alistair took the microphone and spoke of the future, discipline, and dreams built through hard work, not privilege. It was a proper, elegant, almost cold speech.

Until his eyes returned to her.

“Sometimes,“ he said, ”true talent doesn't need to be discovered. It just needs to stop hiding.”

Arabella stopped breathing.

Seraphina squeezed his hand.

“That was for you.”

“Be quiet.”

“Never.”

And one secret still waited in the dark.