✺✺✺

                PARIS HAD NOTHING TO WEAR.

                Fine—that wasn't true. Paris had been designed an entire wardrobe just yesterday. But looking at it now, all she could think was, This going to end terribly. 

               The king's borderline hostile greeting had left her worried.

               If that was how the king acted, then what would the rest of the guests be like?

              The Charity Gala was in only hours, and Paris's hands were shaking.

              She was a doctor. Balls, palaces, princesses—that wasn't her territory. She probably would have been more calm right now tugging on a pair of surgical gloves in the operation room. 

              But she had to do this. For Rory.

              This was the world Rory had grown up in, and Paris wanted to be a part of it.

              A knock on the door yanked her attention just as it opened—revealing Alec. He gave her a white, gleaming smile. His blue eyes were twinkling with pure delight.

             "That man is delicious,"  Alec said. "Have I mentioned that?"

             "Yes, and I'm pretty sure it involved a weird conversation I'd prefer not to repeat."

             Alec collapsed back in the guest room's lounge chaise, but Paris didn't move. She was looking in the mirror, at her thickened lashes, her curly hair. 

             Was she a failure?

             No, she thought. No, she was Paris Young.

            She was Paris Alvarez Young, and she was a doctor. A pediatrician. She had graduated medical school. She had placed top of her class. And she, unlike some people, actually knew the lines to the play of Romeo and Juliet.

            I can do this. 

            Except her hands were still shaking.

            "Paris, love," Alec said. "You don't know what you're going to wear, do you?"

            He knew her too well.

            Paris nodded wordlessly.

            Alec grinned devilishly. "Well, that's what I'm here for."

✺✺✺

            PARIS CLOSED HER EYES.

            The party had already started.

            But Alec had insisted. Better to be late. You'll be the belle of the ball.

            Paris had rolled her eyes at that. This isn't a Disney movie. 

           But you would fit the part. 

           And even though she had made fun of him for that, she still couldn't help hoping that she did. Rory was a princess—the people at the Gala would be expecting perfection from anyone she brought.

           Paris knew that she didn't owe anyone perfection.

           But it had been a long, long time since she had dressed up. And she wanted this to be a moment. She wanted a Cinderella moment.

           So instead of taking another breath, instead of hesitating, Paris pushed open the two grand doors to the ballroom.

           There was violin music playing. Lively and high and thrumming. 

            But the song stuttered, as the attention of the crowd fell on Paris.

            At the top of the stairs, she felt—invincible.

           Powerful. 

           Beautiful.

           With every step, she became more confident. She bunched the folds of her crimson dress around her. The edges of her dress rustled against the stairs, a whisper of silk against marble.

            Paris knew what she looked like.

            Her hair was long and flowing down her back. Her strapless dress cupped her chest and tightened over her waist. The train of her gown cascaded like the molten petals of a drenched rose. 

            Out of all the people in the crowd, Rory was still turned away. Laughing at something Simon had said—or laughing at a joke she had made herself.

            When her head flicked up, her eyes sliding to the center of attention, they widened.

            At the bottom of the stairs, Paris paused.

            Rory's glossy chestnut hair was straight and sleek, twisted into a chignon. She was wearing a navy-dark suit, the edge of her shirt cut low over her tan chest.

            When she saw Paris, her soft lips parted.

            There was pure, arrogant desire in her stare. And combined with that, there was . . . it was a tender, endearing kind of wonder.

            Rory cut through the watching crowd like a knife.

           As though Paris was the only person in the room.

           The only girl in the world.

           "May I have this dance, Juliet?" Rory asked, with a slight bow.

           She held out her hand, and Paris didn't hesitate.

           "I wouldn't miss it for the world," Paris answered.

           The music began playing again, still a lively beat that strummed Paris's heartstrings. She felt awake, rippling with energy and life and—love. 

            "You're a terrible dancer," Rory said, laughing.

            "And you promised me skinny-dipping in a pink lake."

            Rory's eyes went glossy—hunger, desire. Her lips curved into a lush, unholy grin as she said, "We have to make it through tonight first."

            "Everybody is watching us," Paris said, and they were.

            The royals, the dukes, the duchesses—all the lords and ladies stole glances at them as Rory steered Paris in elegant circles over the dance floor.

            "I know," was all Rory said. A cocky grin.

            And then Paris surprised even herself by whispering, "Let's give them a show."

            Rory's grin turned crooked. Both dimples.

            When the song changed to something slow, deep, lovely, Rory's hands flattened over Paris's waist, the small of her back.

            Paris's fingers settled just over Rory's chest.

            She could hear the pounding of her heart.

            The rhythm of her heartbeat.

            And Paris surprised herself again. 

            By whispering, "I love you."

            Rory's touch became firm against Paris, and in the moment the song ended, she dipped Paris to the ground. Her back arched, supported only by Paris's touch.

            Gently, smoothly, Rory's palm slid over the center of Paris's chest.

            With her neck curved, her world upside down, Rory kissed Paris.

            And when Rory pulled back, lifting Paris back upright, she breathed into her ear, "I love you, too."

✺✺✺

How do we feel right now? 

Hopefully you don't hate me. Yet.

From the moon and back,
Sarai