Page 1 of Beauty
ONE
SIENNA
“Why don’twe call your brother? He’ll fix this.”
Frustration flares to life inside me. Everywhere I go, people think it’s the most logical answer.Call your brothers.Use your family name.
For years, I’ve taken that advice, and look where it landed me. I’m two seconds from signing away the right to do the one thing I love.
I glare at the piece of paper in front of me, refusing to even glance at my attorney. “I paid you to resolve this, and you resolved it.” As the pen slides against the settlement documents, a boulder presses down on my chest.
Wasn’t a settlement supposed to make this feeling go away? The mediator said that if everyone was unhappy, then he’d done his job.
I feel beyond miserable, so he’s succeeded there. Yet the people on the other side of the table are all smiles.
I would be too if the finalization of this settlement meant my bank account balance had just increased by more than a million dollars.
A million fucking dollars. It’s certainly worth more than their designs.
Fuck, my head throbs from going over every step that led me to this moment.
The moment I agreed never to open another fashion house and promised never to sell another design. A thirty-year prison sentence wouldn’t feel this harsh.
But it had to be done. The vultures sitting across from me know what my family is worth. This is about dollar signs and revenge. Revenge that is rightfully sought. All they’ve worked for is gone. It isn’t their fault. It’s mine, so this is my punishment. An eye for an eye, I suppose. But not quite, because they’ll get to design again. They’ll have to start over, but they’ll have that chance.
I won’t.
Money isn’t enough for them. They’ve taken my livelihood and my passion too.
“I want to thank you all—” the mediator starts in French.
But I’ve heard enough. I have no fucks left to give. So I push back from the table and walk out of his office without a backward glance.
Behind me, people I once considered friends snicker. Friends? More like back-stabbing bottom-feeders.
I don’t stop. I keep walking until I hit the street corner where my favorite café is located. After ordering a cappuccino with a shot of sambuca, I slide into an uncomfortable black metal chair. Parisians don’t care about comfort. They care about appearances. The way the gorgeous black lines of the chair contrast with the cream-colored cushion. The highest of heels and the tightest of belts cinched around waists.
I love everything about this city, yet five minutes ago, I gave up any reason to stay.
It feels like only days ago when Catherine Bouvier offered me my own television show, a show that would follow me as a bright, up-and-coming designer in the cutthroat world of fashion.
And now, here I am, almost six years later, left with nothing. I still can’t figure out how it all went so wrong. Or what I’ll do with my life.
So I close my eyes, take a sip of coffee, and try like hell to forget.
Six Years Ago
“Surely you can find someone with more experience.”
A flight attendant appears with the glass of champagne I ordered, and I mouth athank you, though my focus remains on Catherine Bouvier, the acting editor for the best fashion magazine on the market,Jolie.
Through the screen, Cat spears me with a glare. She’s famous for the expression, really. She’s also famous for being insanely gorgeous. She’s tall, with long black hair, oversized natural lips that always look glossy, and eyes the color of whiskey.
The eye color is fitting, I suppose, since whiskey is what made her family rich. A whiskey company, in fact, that closely rivaled that of her husband’s. For years, their families were enemies, though lately they all seem to get along. Cat and Jay recently married, and they have a teenage daughter and a toddler.
The whole family will be joining me in Paris next week to start filming our television show.
Cat and I both come from money. From large well-known families in Boston too. We’re the only daughters surrounded bybillionaire brothers. Women who have chosen to buck the family business and go after our true passions. Though that’s where our similarities end.
