𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXXIX

           Janes pov
As Oscar Wilde once wrote, my existence is a scandal.

Walking down the streets of New York City, it's hard to miss the magazines. TMZ, Pop, People, Times—it's hard to miss the hundreds of copies being shelved, sold, advertised. Hard to miss my face splattered across every single one of them, my name whispered from lips I don't recognize, my story written and published by fingers that have never met me.

HEIR AND HEIRESS OF MULTI-BILLION DOLLAR COMPANIES RUN AWAY
The New York Times

TWO YOUNG BILLIONAIRES RUNNING AWAY. LOVE STORY OR SICK PRANK? HERE'S WHAT WE KNOW
People and Entertainment

'I MISS YOU' REPORTS BILLIONAIRE ALOIS IVERS IN A HEARTBREAKING SPEECH. READ TO DEEP DIVE INTO A STORY OF YOUNG REBELLION.
TMZ

YOUNG HEIRESS RUNS AWAY BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T GET THE RIGHT FERRARI
Pop Magazine

"Shakespeare was right," I mutter, sighing. My hands are gripping the papers tight, so tight that I can feel them rip between my fingers.  "Hell is empty and all the devils really are here, aren't they?"

Freezing hands stained with black ink grab the papers from out of my hold before tossing them in the cart with the others. This damaged, riveting boy has bought every copy we've seen today, emptying every booth in the little city of Manhattan—and his most recent annihilation? The shelves of this supermarket."If hell is empty and all the devils are here," He muses, rolling up the sleeves of his dark blue Ralph Lauren sweater as he pushes the cart away from the aisle. "Then I'll make hell our paradise."

I roll my eyes, shoving my hands into the pockets of my plaid skirt before following him. "Even you can't do that."

He tsks, using the tips of his finger to push back his tinted round glasses, the brown freckles on his nose fading. "If Hades can make Tartarus his personal Elysium, why can't I?"

"You're not a Greek god, Hen–" I start, but cut myself off before I could out us, paranoia causing my eyes to search for any ears that could've heard. The casual clothes, caps, and dim glasses are all we have to disguise ourselves with. We're concealing our faces, our bodies, our voices, our names, to keep anyone from seeing, hearing, or recognizing. My eyes bounce from the customers around us and the CCTV cameras—a chant in my ears, because I won't go back I refuse to go back I won't go back I won't be silenced I won't go back—

"No, but I'm a man in love." He says, picking up a pack of advil. "That wicked, deadly thing is more dangerous than any god."

"Oh, philosopher Vitiello, do tell how love is more dangerous than a god?" I muse, leaning against the cart as I watch him examine the ingredients.

"The gods have nothing to live for, to fight for," He starts, his fluffy dark hair bouncing just a little when he looks over his shoulder at me. "But I do."

"And what might that be?" I play along, crossing my arms over my chest—as if in an attempt to protect my heart from the blow of his answer.

He walks over to me, his hands resting on the railing–his hands so close to my waist as he leans over, towering over me. "You."

I scrunch my nose in disgust. "You're so obsessed with me, Vitiello."

A dark chuckle rumbles through him. "You have no idea," He mutters quietly before tossing the packet into the cart.

I tip my head back to see him, biting my lip in thought before asking, "Why do you need more Advil?"

"Migraines," He mutters but stops when he sees the expression on my face. "Relax love, I'm not going to get addicted."