A Kiss For Three

chapter 23

I woke up to the sound of Manhattan breathing—the steady hum of traffic, the occasional shout from a street vendor, a dog barking somewhere below. Morning light sliced through the blinds, too bright for the headache pounding behind my eyes. I hadn’t drunk that much the night before. One beer. Maybe two. But somehow, my body felt like it had partied through a hurricane.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen, every step heavy, every thought heavier. Coffee. That was all I could think of. The smell of espresso filled the air, bitter and grounding, and I leaned against the counter, staring out the window.

The city was already awake, loud and unapologetic. Cars honked in anger, birds chirped like they had secrets to tell, and someone was playing jazz from a window down the street. Typical Manhattan chaos. I should have hated it. I didn’t. Somewhere along the line, the noise became home—the only kind of peace I trusted.

I carried my mug to my office and opened the window wider. Cool air rushed in, biting at my skin, but it felt good. It felt real. Then I sat behind my desk and opened my laptop, ready to drown in work. I didn’t want to go to the office.

Except the moment the screen lit up, my breath stopped.

Front page. My face.

It was a photo—me standing beside the painting Nico had made of me. The resemblance was undeniable. Even someone blind could have told it was me. And right beside it, in bold letters.

"WHO IS NICO MOREAU’S MYSTERIOUS MUSE?"

For a second, everything inside me went white. Then my phone was in my hand before I had even thought it through.

“Daniel,” I barked when he answered. “What the hell is this?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said, typing in the background. “Just saw the news. Looks like the press loved the idea of the great Nico Moreau painting some secret woman while having a wife. Makes a good headline.”

My hand shook. “This isn’t just a headline, Daniel. It’s a fucking disaster.”

“Relax,” he said, though even his voice sounded uneasy. “Could be some gossip column fishing for clicks.”

“It’s not gossip if the picture’s real!”

He sighed. “Then you’ve got a problem.”

I hung up before I said something I’d regret.

My next call was to Nico. Straight to voicemail. I called again. Nothing.

“Come on,” I whispered, pacing the room. “Pick up.”

Third try. Voicemail again. My pulse beat hard in my throat. Maybe he was still asleep. Maybe he hadn’t seen it yet. Or maybe he was already knee-deep in Camille’s rage.

I grabbed my coat and didn’t even bother to change. Jeans, a wrinkled shirt, messy hair—I didn’t care. I just needed to see him.

Outside, the city was wrapped in cold light. Autumn had that cruel beauty—sharp wind, clear sky, everything glittering like it was waiting for something bad to happen. I walked fast, barely aware of the people I shoved past. Ice-cold panic ate me alive.

By the time I reached Nico’s building, my lungs burned. The doorman recognized me and didn’t stop me, probably because I looked too wild to argue with. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering.

When I reached his door, I knocked once. Then again. Then again, harder.

“Nico!” My voice echoed down the hall. “Open the door!”

Nothing.

I slammed my hand against the wood until it finally clicked open.

He was there. Of course he was. I needed to tell him everything, to make him know, understand, do something. Together, we might have been able to come up with something.

I burst inside, panic swallowing me.

“Nico, we have to do something! Have you seen the news? This is a disaster. And if Camille finds out—” I started, but my voice died in my throat.

Camille stood next to the door.

“If Camille finds out,” she repeated smoothly, closing the door behind her, “then what, Miss Lowell?”

I froze. The silence that followed was so sharp I could hear my heartbeat. Nico was nowhere in sight. Just me and her.

She stepped closer, heels clicking softly against the floor. “Well,” she said finally, “I guess you did the job yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

She tilted her head, her smile cold. “I wanted you to find me proof of Nico’s cheating. You did. Just not with any other woman—with yourself.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter what happened.” She waved a manicured hand. “What matters is what people believe. And right now, everyone believes Nico Moreau painted his mistress.”

Her words hit like a slap. I took a step back, but she kept advancing.

“The first seed is planted,” she said softly. “Now all I have to do is water it enough for it to bloom.”

My throat tightened. “Why are you doing this?”

She smiled—a slow, practiced thing. “Because I can. Because Nico’s been careless. And because I like watching things fall apart beautifully.”

My hands curled into fists. “You’ll destroy him.”

“I’ll rebuild from what’s left,” she replied. “His money, his reputation—they’ll all be mine soon. And if you don’t get me more proof of his infidelity, I’ll make sure the world knows you were the proof.”

“You can’t—”

“Oh, I can.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can fabricate messages. Photos. Statements. I can make you a witness if I file for divorce, force you to stand in court and testify that you and my husband were lovers. Imagine the headlines. The scandal. The humiliation. And you know what? They’ll believe me.”

I could barely breathe.

Camille stepped close enough that I caught her perfume—sweet, poisonous. “Get me what I want,” she said, “or I’ll take you down with him.”

“Why?” My voice came out shaky. “Why do you need to ruin him this badly?”

Her expression hardened. “Because I want to. Do you really need a better reason from me?”

“That’s not justice. That’s madness.”

“Call it what you want,” she said. “It gets me paid either way.”

She crossed her arms, perfectly composed. “You have one week, Iris. One week to get me proof that Nico’s been unfaithful. Any proof. Or I’ll make you the proof myself.”

I stared at her, the silence stretching like a noose. “You’re insane.”

Her smile widened, teeth glinting like glass. “Maybe. But I’m a very well-connected insane woman. Don’t forget that.”

Then she moved to the door, pulled it open, and gestured for me to leave. “Tick-tock, Miss Lowell.”

My legs moved before my brain did. I stepped out into the hallway, my breath shallow, my hands cold. The door clicked shut behind me with finality.

In the elevator, I stared at my reflection in the mirrored walls. My eyes looked too bright, too wild.

One week. One week to undo everything, to change the game before she burned us both alive. The doors slid open, and I stepped into the morning light, knowing it was no longer morning. It was a countdown.