Page 66 of True Colors

I look at my watch and lean back in the seat of the sedan. I decided to get a driver for the night so I could indulge in champagne at the opera and not worry about blood alcohol levels.

And…okay, fine, I wanted to make it special for Anouk. At least I didn’t order a limousine, so there’s that saving grace.

“Where are you?” my sister demands.

“On the way to the opera.”

“Hmm. Who with?”

“None of your business.”

Long pause.

“Oh my God! You’re dating someone.”

I sigh. “Ria, I’m hanging up now.”

“Who is it?”

“Bye, baby sister.”

I end the call just as the car stops in front of her apartment building.

I jog up the stairs to the porch, in a rush, to see her. She opens the door wide before I can knock, like she was waiting for me.

And for a full five seconds, I forget how to breathe.

She’s wearing a navy dress—clean lines, deceptively simple, skimming her body and falling just below her knees. A soft cream shawl is draped over her shoulders, the fabric light enough to shift when she breathes.

At her throat, a pearl choker rests against her skin, drawing attention to the elegant line of her neck, hiding her scar.

Her hair is swept up, pinned back in a way that leaves her face bare and luminous. Without it falling forward to hide behind, I notice the sharp grace of her cheekbones, the delicate angles of her jaw, the gentle slope of her shoulders. Her collarbones are defined. Her shoulder blades make subtle shadows beneath the dress when she moves.

She looks like she stepped out of another era—black-and-white elegance dropped into the modern night.

Audrey Hepburn, if Audrey Hepburn had green eyes and a quiet, watchful stillness that pulled you in instead of demanding attention.

I reach her and take her hand in mine.

“You look….” I swallow. “Incredible.”

Color floods her cheeks. “Th-thank you. You look…um…v-very…handsome.”

I’m in a suit; I made an effort; I wanted to look good for her. But I’m nothing compared to her beauty.

“Ready?” I hold out my arm, and she slips her hand through the crook of my elbow.

“Yes,” she whispers, answering all my questions, even the silent ones.

The War Memorial Opera House glows in amber light as we walk up the steps. People in gowns and tuxedos stream past us, chatter drifting through the open doors.

Anouk stops under the grand chandelier, eyes wide.

“W-wow.”

“You like it?” I ask.

She nods, overwhelmed in the best way.