Lisbon Escapades

Chapter 2: Pretend Games

Cleo sat across from Crine in the hotel café, the aroma of fresh pastries and strong coffee wafting around them. Her sister’s sharp eyes scrutinized her over the rim of her cappuccino, and Cleo braced herself for the inevitable interrogation.

“So,” Crine began, setting her cup down with a deliberate clink. “Where were you last night? And don’t even try to brush me off with one of your ‘I was exploring’ excuses.”

Cleo smirked, stirring sugar into her espresso. “Technically, I was exploring. Just… not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Crine’s eyes narrowed. “Cleo.”

“Alright, alright,” Cleo said, waving a hand. “I met someone. We had drinks, wandered around Lisbon, and then... well, let’s just say it was a memorable night.”

Crine’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious? You barely got here, and you’re already—”

“Don’t start,” Cleo interrupted. “It was harmless fun. You know I don’t do strings, Crine. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to see him again.”

Crine sighed, leaning back in her chair. “I just don’t get it, Cleo. You’ve had so many chances to find someone who could really make you happy, but you always run away.”

Cleo stiffened, her playful demeanor faltering for a moment. “Maybe because happiness isn’t tied to a man or a relationship,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. “Not everyone wants the white-picket-fence dream, Crine.”

Her sister’s expression softened. “I know, sissy. I just worry about you. You say you’re happy, but sometimes it feels like you’re running from something.”

Cleo didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she took a slow sip of her coffee, letting the heat spread through her.

“I’m not running,” she said finally, her voice steady. “I’m just… living. And right now, that means enjoying Lisbon, spending time with you, and focusing on what I want.”

Crine studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But promise me you won’t disappear on me again tonight?”

Cleo chuckled. “Promise.”

The after-party pulsed with music, fashion glitter, and electric energy. Cleo stepped into the rooftop venue, a champagne flute already in hand, wrapped in a flowing silk dress that matched the mood of the night—bold, radiant, and a little dangerous. Lisbon twinkled behind her, the city lights mirrored in the glass panels surrounding the party.

Tonight was a celebration.

Naia’s debut collection had stunned the crowd—elegant, edgy, fearless. The models had walked like goddesses, and Crine, her sister, had glowed in her first runway appearance. Watching her glide down the catwalk had made Cleo feel something warm and unexpected—pride mixed with nostalgia. Maybe even hope.

She scanned the crowd and spotted Naia across the terrace, radiant in a structured white jumpsuit that screamed confidence.

“Look at you,” Cleo said, wrapping her in a hug. “Queen of the night!”

Naia grinned. “It’s insane, right? They clapped for me. Real fashion people. Clapping.”

“They didn’t just clap,” Cleo teased. “They practically bowed. You did it, Naia.”

Naia raised her glass. “To impossible dreams that aren’t so impossible after all.”

Cleo clinked her flute against hers. “Cheers to that.”

A few minutes later, she spotted Kaia by the bar, locked in conversation with Natasha and… already eyeing someone.

Cleo smirked. “You look like a lioness circling her prey.”

Kaia rolled her eyes playfully. “His name is Ceyx—how stupidly hot is that name? He’s tall, he’s French, and I think he’s looking for an excuse to talk to me.”

“Then go give him one,” Cleo said with a wink.

“Ten more sips and I’m on it.” Kaia turned back toward Natasha, who was laughing into her cocktail.

Natasha leaned in toward Cleo. “We should all move to Lisbon. Honestly.”

“Not a bad idea,” Cleo mused, sipping her drink.

That’s when Leandro appeared, as if summoned by the scent of mischief.

“Boa noite, ladies,” he said smoothly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his blazer. “Cleo, I was wondering when you’d show up. The party’s been far too civilized without you.”

Cleo turned slowly, eyeing him with a playful tilt of her head. “Leandro,” she purred. “Still handsome. Still insufferably smug. I see nothing’s changed.”

His smirk deepened. “And you’re still pretending you’re not secretly in love with me.”

She laughed, a low, velvety sound. “Please. If I ever fall for someone, they’ll be taller, dumber, and a lot more dangerous.”

He chuckled. “Careful. I do have a motorcycle now.”

“You would,” she said, leaning in slightly. “But you’re too safe, Kap. You’ll flirt, you’ll dance, but you’ll never chase. I like a man who might ruin me a little.”

“And I like a woman who thinks she’s untouchable.”

They clinked glasses, the game continuing like it always did—sharp, fun, and without risk.

Just how she liked it.

Until she saw him.

Max.

Standing across the room.

The glass froze midair in her hand.

He was dressed in charcoal black, cleaner and sharper than she remembered. His eyes scanned the room as if he was searching—or maybe watching. It didn’t matter. His presence struck like a quiet explosion in her chest.

“What the hell is he doing here?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Leandro followed her gaze. “Look who's here.”

Cleo’s mouth was dry. “Yeah.”

Their eyes met across the room.

The crowd faded. The music blurred. Her stomach dropped.

Max was here.

And he had seen her.

Cleo held her ground as Max began to walk toward them, his stride measured, composed—just like always. Her heart beat a little too fast for her liking, but she masked it behind a perfect smirk, tilting her head toward Leandro with practiced ease.

“So, where were we?” she asked him, trailing a finger lazily along the rim of her glass.

Leandro barely glanced at Max’s approach, still half-distracted by the sight of Naia across the room, now deep in conversation with a photographer. Cleo noticed. She noticed everything.

“Oh, right,” she added coolly. “We were flirting. Well—I was. You were doing that thing where you pretend not to care.”

Leandro grinned. “And yet you keep trying. I must be irresistible.”

“Or I’m just terribly bored.” She gave him a teasing wink.

Max was just a few steps away now.

Cleo didn’t flinch.

“Max!” Natasha exclaimed brightly, setting down her drink. “Didn’t know you were coming tonight!”

“Neither did I,” Kaia said, eyeing him appreciatively. “You clean up well.”

Max offered polite smiles and handshakes as he was welcomed into the circle, like he belonged there—because he did. They were all cut from the same social cloth: privileged, glamorous, chaotic. And yet only Crine, who now approached with two glasses of wine, knew the truth about what Cleo had left behind just this morning.

Cleo gave her sister a quick side glance.

Crine’s raised brow said everything without a word: Seriously?

Cleo’s tiny shrug replied: Don’t blow this.

“Max,” Cleo said with an easy smile, “look at you, crashing after-parties like a rebel.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “You know me—I follow good art and better company.”

Leandro clapped him on the back. “Good to see you, man. Didn’t think fashion shows were your thing.”

Max chuckled. “Not usually, but tonight’s collection was worth it. Naia killed it.”

“Speak of the devil,” Crine said, gesturing to Naia approaching from the side, radiant with success.

Cleo used the moment to lean into Leandro again, her voice low, eyes playful. “Don’t think I didn’t see you staring at her. Come on, Leandro… still pretending you don’t have a type?”

Leandro smirked but didn’t deny it. “Naia’s just… interesting.”

“Uh huh,” Cleo murmured. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Maybe.” His tone was casual, but his eyes had drifted toward Naia again.

Max caught the interaction from the corner of his eye.

And Cleo knew it.

Everything about her tonight was performance—every smile, every word. She laughed at the right jokes, sipped her drink with practiced nonchalance, and leaned just a bit closer to Leandro every time Max glanced her way.

He said little. Just enough to stay present.

Just enough to keep her uncomfortable.

Crine passed her another glass of wine with a quiet murmur. “Need backup?”

“I’ve got this,” Cleo said under her breath, lips barely moving. “Just act natural.”

“You look like you’re acting too natural,” Crine teased. “Dial it down, Academy Award.”

Cleo gave her a tiny, breathy laugh, then turned toward Max with a bright, impersonal smile.

“So, Max,” she said lightly, “tell me—what brings you to Lisbon again?”

Max looked at her for a beat too long.

Everyone else kept chatting, laughing, oblivious.

“To see something beautiful,” he said finally. “Turns out, I didn’t have to look far.”

Cleo’s heart stopped for just a second.

But her face never changed.

She smiled.

Lifted her glass.

And toasted the lie.

“To Lisbon,” she said. “And unexpected reunions.”

As everyone clinked glasses and the music pulsed louder, Cleo turned her face to the skyline, letting the city lights distract her from the burn beneath her skin.

Max was here.

And the game had just begun.