Page 22 of Art of Sin

10fallacy

“This is a joke?”I ask, though I know by Trent’s expression it’s not. Beside him, Maggie grimaces in sympathy.

I look down at the gala invitation on my desk. Thick, satiny black paper with silver lettering. The sender is D&M Dynamics, and the envelope is addressed to Mr. Gideon Masters and Ms. Deirdre Moss.

There’s no way out of it. Not only will Maxwell insist on my attendance, I signed a contract that says I will attend all events my client does. My only hope rests with Gideon himself, and it’s half-dead and gasping.

I call him anyway, for the second time today. He doesn’t answer—again—so I leave another voice mail for him to call me back. I’m not polite about it.

“What are you going to do?” asks Maggie.

I sigh, rubbing a spot on my forehead that’s been pulsing since I woke up. “There’s not much I can do, unless Gideon declines to attend. Given that the event is Saturday and this invitation is seriously late, I’m guessing father and son had a peace talk. I can’t see Frank Masters inviting live dynamite to his party otherwise.”

“He didn’t mention it when we were going over his schedule yesterday.” Maggie sounds a little hurt, which only means she hasn’t been in the business long enough to see through manufactured charm.

Trent sighs—he, at least, is jaded like me. “He didn’t want a publicist to begin with. Who fucking knows what his motives are, other than to fuck with us.” He stands, dress shirt straining against muscular shoulders. “I’ll get started on media prep and damage control. Did D&M send back the guest list?”

I nod. “Forwarded it to you. What’s the social media update?”

“Dude has twenty thousand brand-new Instagram followers with only two posts.” His eyes narrow. “The second one is a little problematic.”

I saw the posts this morning. Unfortunately.

“I know, and I plan on remedying it as soon as he calls me back.”

Thankfully, the posted image is abstract enough that no one will recognize me. I still want it taken down. My face is obscured by my highlighted hair, my bare shoulder peeking through. It’s tasteful, though the suggestion of my nakedness is disturbing.

Once Trent is gone, Maggie grabs her phone and tablet. “Do you want me to get started on a dress for you?”

“Yes,” I reply, turning to my laptop to pull up my email. “The usual profile will be fine.”

“Are you sure you don’t want something a little more—”

“The usual, Maggie, thank you.”

She hesitates, then, “You got it, boss.”

* * *

Work keepsme busy the rest of the day, a blessing since it relegates Gideon to a distant corner of my mind. It isn’t until I’m driving home, stuck in traffic with the sun in my eyes, that the past few days catch up.

Gideon blazed into my life like a comet, his brightness throwing everything else into relief. Turning my habits and orderly world on its head. By his very presence, he highlights things I’d rather not think about. Echoes of the past, and the emptiness of my present and future.

Loneliness hits like a sledgehammer.

Trent and Maggie half-heartedly invited me to grab drinks, my decline a foregone conclusion. I wonder when they’ll stop inviting me. Give up trying to be my friends. For a moment, I consider calling Nate, inviting him over for dinner. But I won’t—can’t.

Nate has his own life now, friends and passions and hobbies. Even though he loves me, I know my company stirs up memories for him that are better left alone.

When I get home and turn on the lights in my condo, I’m struck by how bland the space is. Beige walls, cream carpets, mass-produced artworks and fake plants—expensive and realistic, but still fake. There are no photographs anywhere. The only clutter is on the kitchen table I’ve never used for a meal. Copies of press kits, correspondence, and a random assortment of products from clients share space with my closed laptop and a cup of cold coffee.

A memory of Gideon’s bare home assaults me; the similarities send a spike of anxiety through my chest. Ignoring it, I enter my bedroom to robotically change out of my work clothes. I trade spiked heels, pencil skirt, and silk blouse for leggings, an oversized sweater, and socks. In the bathroom, I wash the makeup off my face and pull my hair from its topknot, running my fingers through the highlighted strands.

Hands falling to the bathroom counter, I stare at the woman I’ve become and don’t recognize her. The shape of her nose is wrong, her hair too light, the scars on her forehead and jaw gone.

Only her eyes are the same. Blue or gray depending on the lighting, they watch me and mock my transformation.

“Get in here, girl. I’m hungry.”

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