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And start cleaning out yourself.

The gorgeous monstrosity to fear

Is the one staring back in the mirror.

The only part of the song that fails me is what to do at the very end. As my notes trail off, I turn around. Most people look terrible when they cry. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone look beautiful when they’re crying. Your face gets blotchy. Your eyes scrunch up, and your nose too, usually, but Octavia’s the exception. Her face is nearly smooth, her eyes simply full of unshed tears.

One rolls down her face on the right—her unburned side. Then another slides down her face on the left, slipping over the ridges and curves made by the fire. As I look at her, Ifeelthe words of my song.

I wrote it for me.

But I also wrote it for her.

“My mother neglected me.” I’ve never said the words out loud. “She left me anywhere and everywhere. She was too busy getting high to care much where I was or what I was doing.”

Octavia swipes at her tears.

“I wrote that song for myself—I spent the first eleven years of my life feeling like a monster every single day. The lies people told upset me. My mom and my grandfather would tell me that she would change. They would tell me that tomorrow would be different. But the biggest lie they told was that they loved me, when every action betrayed them.”

She’s still crying, but the tears are coming faster.

“I know you probably thought the song was about you, and it is. You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met, and you have the most amazing voice. But I bet some people are too stupid to see it.”

Now she’s sobbing.

“That’s not because of you. I want to show the world and make them face their own ugliness. It’s all theirs. Not yours.”

Octavia pulls me against herself for a hug. “Fine.” Her whisper’s barely audible. “I’ll do it. But you’ll regret it.”

“Not for a single day,” I say. “If the world has any real beauty in it, we’ll win. And if they don’t, they’re the ugly ones. Not us.”

18

EASTON

It might not have been the best day to come in late.

“You said it would blow over.” Mrs. Yaltzinger’s quickly becoming one of my least favorite people.

I don’t slap her hand away as she shoves a newspaper in my face. I do, however, duck around her and keep walking toward my office. “Who even reads newspapers these days?”

“This is theNew York Times,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says, doggedly trailing my steps. “But thePostran it too, and they’re also several hundred thousand in circulation.”

I roll my eyes. “It was a rhetorical question. I don’t really care. My point was?—”

But Mr. Dressel’s waiting with Mr. Jimenez to attack together in my office. In my shock, I pull up short and nearly fall, dropping my briefcase, which is fine. I mostly carry it because it’s one of ours and it looks fancy. It has a few folders in it and my snacks, but nothing important. “How nice to see all of you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Mr. Dressel says. “But we said we’d give you time, and you said this whole thing would die down.”

“It’s not,” Mr. Jimenez says. “Look.” He shoves his phone in my face, which is at least more relevant.

I sigh slowly as I read what they’re all so bent on showing me. Apparently there was a photo of Bea and me taken while we were in the lobby atPer Se,and it’s a great one. “I wonder if they’d send me a high res image of that.” The caption says, “Sacrifice Nothingowner dines with its biggest critic.”

“Mister Moorland,” Mr. Jimenez says. “Please be serious.”

I scan the text, which is predictably a criticism of our brand that implies I must agree with Ms. Cipriani’s assessment, as we’re clearly still dating. Then it links to the video, which at least theNew York Timescan’t do.

Although, I suppose the online version can.

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