Page 30 of Dream On, Liar

My brows pulled together almost immediately.

There were mock-ups, branding decks, event concepts, guest lists. Sleek black-and-white slides stamped with the logo of a Formula One team.

Montclair.

I blinked. “Wait. I thought Ishaan worked for a corporation.”

“He does.” Samyra said around a bite of bagel, the lack of interest in her voice evident.

I looked back down at the proposal, a frown settling between my brows. “Then what exactly is this? And…are those rhinestones covering the logo mock up?”

A small laugh escaped her. “They are diamonds,” She sighed at my wide eyes. “Yeah, the corporation he works for has a subsidiary? Or is the parent company of…Singhania Diamonds.”

My expressions didn’t falter, if anything my eyes grew wider. “Oh…Oh wow.”

Singhania Diamonds were known for the status they held alone. Owners of the rarest stones in the world, their name showed up at royal weddings, museum exhibitions, film festivals, and on the necks of celebrities who pretended being draped in enough diamonds to redirect sunlight was somehow effortless. Even people who knew absolutely nothing about diamonds—me—still knew their name.

“Yeah,” She rubbed her temple like she had a migraine climbing up behind her eyes. “And this year, they’re becoming one of the team sponsors for Montclair. They want a big launch event for the partnership. Something cool and exclusive. In Monaco.”

“Hm.” I turned another page, my curiosity sharpening. “And they want your approval because...?”

“Ishaan wants my agency involved, and he wants me to be the lead on this.”

That made more sense. Samyra’s PR agency had somehow become the place brands crawled toward whenever they wanted an event to feel glossy and impossible to get invited to.

Still, something about her felt off.

Not nervous exactly. Hesitant.

Like she’d already spotted a problem somewhere inside the proposal and hadn’t decided whether she wanted to say it out loud yet.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What?”

She bit on her lower lip, like she was contemplating deflecting. “I was going to tell you this, last weekend…but everything just blew up and then just things kept on going downhill for you.”

“Samyra Thorne.” I said pointedly, planting my hands on my waist. “When has the mess in my life ever stopped you from telling me what’s going on with you?”

She sighed, placing her bagel on the plate. “You can’t blame me for holding back. You may have finally convinced yourself to enjoy this promotion over the last three days, but before that? You hadn’t stopped sulking since you came home from your father’s place.”

She paused deliberately, like she was building toward a closing argument, before pointing an accusing finger at me. “And I saw you sneak in that tub of Peanut Butter Half Baked ice cream at two-am.”

I froze.

Which, honestly, probably confirmed her point more than denying it ever could have. I almost never ate ice cream unless things were genuinely bad. It had become such a reliable warning sign over the years that Samyra treated the disappearance of a tub in our freezer like a national emergency alert.

Recovering quickly, I forced myself to shrug. “One ice cream slip and a little bed rotting does not qualify as justification for hiding things from me.” I softened my gaze. “We could’ve shared the ice cream, you know?”

Samyra made a strangled sound under her breath before slouching dramatically into her place, both hands covering her eyes like the conversation alone had exhausted her.

It was a very specific expression. The Samyra version of fine, the universe has defeated me that she rarely displayed to the me, let alone the world.

I immediately straightened. “Oh no. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she muttered from behind her hand.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

She dropped her hand just enough to glare at me. “Do you remember that guy from Manchester?”