Page 3 of Pageant

Elyah strides past us to the door and takes the stairs two at a time. “Who cares? They are all the fucking same.”

I care. Everything must be perfect. This villa, the execution of the tasks, the crowning of the ultimate winner. I want sixteen women. If it’s not done right, then I don’t want to do it at all.

Kirill and I exchange glances as Elyah’s angry footsteps fade away.

“I’ll go hunting,” he offers, and gestures at the women in the cages. “There are plenty more where these came from.”

Kirill has already snatched sixteen women from the streets of Milan. American women. Brazilian women. French women. British women. The friendless ones who wander the streets late at night, easy prey to a man who dwells in the shadows. Every September, beautiful women pour into Milan from all over the world. They walk the runways of fashion week by the hundreds, all with ambition burning in their hearts. Hungry to be looked at, desired, adored.

I’m giving them exactly what they want. “Do it.”

We head back up into the fresh air and out through the front door of the villa. There’s a circular gravel driveway around an enormous marble fountain. Beyond are the high gates to the villa, the only way in or out that’s not over the cliffs.

“I’m worried about Elyah,” I tell Kirill.

He glances at the house and then back at me. “Once we begin, he will forget about her. He will forget about everything that came before.”

Perhaps Kirill is right. With sixteen playthings to torment and no one to interrupt us, what red-blooded man wouldn’t enjoy himself?

I take an appreciative lungful of the evening air as Kirill gets into his black Ferrari. “Good hunting, my friend.”

2

Lilia

In between swipes of the makeup artist’s brush, I grab a can of sparkling water. There are about fifty people in the backstage area, and even this late at night, the Italian summer heat is stifling. Hairdryers are blowing, models pose for selfies, and assistants run to and fro with armloads of dresses. The show producer is shouting at the top of her lungs, and as we get closer to the top of the hour, her voice becomes shriller.

I pull the ring tab on the can, and my acrylic nail snaps.

“Blyat,” I mutter.Shit. There’s no time to get it fixed before heading down the catwalk. I’ll just have to hope everyone’s too captivated by the vivid crimson evening gown I’m wearing to notice my nail.

The brunette model next to me turns in my direction with shining eyes and a delighted, incomprehensible sentence drops from her lips. I blink at her in confusion.

The woman’s smile fades, and she asks in heavily accented English, “You don’t speak Russian?” She has the high cheekbones and full lips of someone from Eastern or Central Europe. My own features are similar, though my hair is dark blonde.

I smile and shake my head. “Sorry, no. Just a few swear words I picked up from my father. Dad’s Russian, but I was born in America. Are you Russian?”

She shakes her head. “Kazakh. This is my first big show. What is your name?”

“Li—” I start to say but stop myself. Even after eighteen months, calling myself Lilia is a lifetime habit I’m having trouble breaking. “Yulia.”

“I am Ayna.”

She can’t be much more than seventeen. I’ve encountered dozens of women like her since I started modeling, village girls discovered by determined scouts, plucked from the Caucasus and Kazakhstan and sent down the catwalks of Paris, New York, and London.

Ayna reaches for a piece of sushi from a nearby platter and pops it into her mouth. “I love this,” she says, grinning, pointing at her mouth as she chews.

All around us, the other women are ignoring the food like they exist on air alone. Our bodies are our livelihood, and we’re constantly comparing ourselves to each other. Whose thighs are thinner? Whose breasts are perkier, skin more luminous, legs longer? Who will book the next show, and who is already getting past it at the ancient age of twenty-three?

Ayna seems oblivious to the unwritten rule, that even though we’re surrounded by food and free champagne, none of it should pass our lips, at least not when anyone else is looking. I smile and take a piece of sushi for myself. She’s right, it’s delicious. The makeup artist powdering my cheeks shoots me a look of reproach. I’m twenty, not seventeen. I should know better.

While we wait for the call that the late-night show is about to begin, Ayna tells me about her village and how much she misses her parents, all the while nibbling on pieces of sushi. I listen and talk to her, struggling through my exhaustion. The designer thought it would add mystery and flair to host this show at midnight. Let us sleep, for God’s sake.

Suddenly the show producer, a strident woman in her fifties with a lanyard around her neck, is standing in front of us, her nostrils flaring as she stares at Ayna.

“Are youeating?”

Ayna jumps guiltily, and sushi rice goes tumbling down the front of her evening gown. She shoves the rest of the piece back onto the platter and then stands there with her head down and fingers tangled together.

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