Chapter 59

**G R A C E**

Maybe because I’m done taking vague advice or maybe because I trust Matt to give me a better, truer answer, I ask him, “Why do you say so?”

“What do you mean?”

He knows what I mean. “Do you tell everyone to stay away from him, or is that personalized advice just for me?”

He watches me, his jaw flexing as if he has the answer on his tongue but doesn’t want to give it to me. “Why are you studying criminal law?” I’m confused if that’s him diverting the conversation from my question, or if he is giving me my answer.

“I hate crime and criminals. I want to do everything I can to rid the world of them. I mean,” I pause to correct myself when I see him raise his eyebrow, “I will try.”

“Interesting,” he says without meeting my eyes. “That reminds me, by the way. Where is our host this morning? I guess he’s not fond of horseback tacos.”
Pretending this is the first time I’ve thought about Alex all morning, I force an innocent look and glance around like I haven’t already scanned the entire beach fifteen times trying to find his face. I shrug and say, “I don’t know. I guess so.” Then, without missing a beat, I scan for the sixteenth time, praying I won’t catch him helping that Russian sweetheart from last night onto her horse.

The tacos are gone before I know it, and horseback riding somehow turns into horseback racing. At first, I’m all awkward limbs and near-misses, but Matt is there every time, steady and patient, catching me before I can make a complete fool of myself. I don’t know how he does it—effortless like he was born on a horse—but eventually, I start to relax. By the third lap, I’m laughing, the sound surprising even me. It’s exhilarating, the wind in my hair, the steady rhythm of hooves hitting the sand. For once, I don’t feel like I’m trying to keep up; I just am.

And then we’re in the shallows. The horses’ hooves send water splashing as the waves lap against their legs. Matt slides off his horse first, tugging mine along and holding out a hand for me. “Come on,” he says, that infuriating grin on his face like this is the most natural thing in the world. Before I can think of a reason to refuse, I’m on the ground, the cool seawater swirling around my ankles.

He splashes me. He splashes me. I try to glare, but he’s already laughing, and it’s ridiculously infectious. “Oh, you did not just do that,” I say, wading after him. The next few minutes are a blur of water fights and laughter, the kind that’s too loud and too real to fake. For someone who’s supposed to be frustrating, Matt sure knows how to turn my world upside down. By the time we stumble out of the water, soaked and grinning like idiots, I’m not sure if I’m exhausted or just… full. In the best way.

We dry off as best we can, wrangle the horses back to where they belong, and head to one of the beach shacks for lunch. It’s simple food, messy in the way beachside meals always are, but it tastes like magic. Or maybe I’m just starving. The conversation is easy, nothing deep—thank God—but every so often, I catch his smile, and it feels like there’s more being said. Something unspoken, hanging in the salty air.

By the time we get back to the beach house, the sun is lower in the sky, painting everything in golden light. Sofia is already waiting, tossing me a knowing look. “You’re glowing,” she says, and I roll my eyes.

“Must be the sunburn,” I deadpan. But as I head to my room to get ready for the evening, I can’t help but catch my reflection in the mirror. Maybe I am glowing.

The ball. A masquerade. I didn’t even know those still existed. It feels absurdly dramatic, but I guess nothing is too dramatic and Sofia's world.

The invite had come in the form of a single text from Alex this morning.

"Masquerade tonight. 8 PM. Wear something dramatic.”

That was it. No follow-up. No, ‘By the way, I’ll pick you up.’ Nothing. Radio silence all day. Not that I’ve been checking my phone every hour or anything. Definitely not.

Sofia, of course, had stepped in like some fairy godmother. The second I told her about the ball, she was already digging through her seemingly bottomless collection of couture pieces. When I saw the dress, I couldn’t even argue.

It’s floor-length and sleek, made of some impossibly smooth fabric in midnight blue that seems to shimmer when I move. The bodice is fitted, with off-the-shoulder sleeves that drape like liquid silk, and the skirt hugs just enough before falling away like a cascade of stars. Sofia called it “classic but mysterious”—and I guess it fits.

My hair is another story. I stare at it in the mirror, damp from the ocean and a little wild from the wind. For once, I don’t try to tame it completely. I pull it into a loose, low bun, letting a few strands frame my face. It’s soft, a little undone, but not too much. Exactly the kind of effortlessness that takes way more effort than I’ll admit.

Makeup is next. I go for a smoky eye—not too dramatic but enough to match the vibe of the dress. A sweep of blush, a touch of highlighter, and a deep plum lipstick that makes me feel like I might actually belong at a masquerade ball. Sofia approves with a single nod when I step out.

“Oh, and this,” she says, handing me the mask. It’s black with intricate silver detailing, delicate enough to almost look like lace. I slip it on, adjusting the ties at the back, and stare at my reflection.

For a second, I barely recognize myself.