Page 93 of My Lucky Star
The husky conviction in her voice drew my eyes back to her, catching the sunset’s glow on her face. I imagined myself gliding across the Bosphorus Strait and beyond.
I leaned in to kiss her, instinctively, but she glanced at Emir on the front seat, shaking her head. “What?” I whispered.
“He doesn’t know, does he?”
I shrugged. “Does it matter?”
I could tell it mattered to her. She was here to save my career and fulfil any expectations my asshole brother had placed on her. I sighed, leaning back in my seat, my eyes still on her like a security camera pointed at the safe. Always watching.
The car stopped in front of a building I vaguely remembered. I’d been here for a party or gathering of sorts years ago. “Wait. Who’s the stylist?” I asked Emir.
“I arranged someone you used to work with onAskta Sansli. Made her sign an NDA. There are not that many people we can trust.”
“Who? Deniz? Melis?”
“Melis.” He sounded surprised, like I couldn’t possibly remember the names of people who dressed me and did my hair and makeup for eighteen months.
“You’ll love Melis,” I assured Aria. “She’s an artist.”
“A costume designer,” Emir corrected.
“And an artist. She creates digital paintings,” I corrected back with a flash of annoyance.
“Whatever,” Emir grumbled in Turkish. “As long as she can make this girl look the part.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Aria without bothering to turn. “Looking like Burcu is not enough. She has to look like hot, successful Burcu, not... homely Burcu.”
I had to hold down my fists to stop myself from sucker punching him from the back seat.
Chapter 33
Aria
ICOULDN’T TAKE MYeyes off the medley of colors and shapes flickering past the window. Modern and historic, polished and derelict, decorative and sleek. Istanbul had it all, sometimes within the same building. The sheer amount of color and chaos of human life made me want to slow down, so I’d have enough time to stare at everything. Compared to Istanbul, Napier felt like an empty theme park. Boring.
In this neighborhood, nothing seemed sacred. One could simply drill a hole and pull a bunch of uncovered cables through the wall of a 200-year-old building –such as the one we’d now stopped in front of. Emir got out of the car and opened the door for me. Cem strapped a mask on his face and followed us.
Racks of gaudy souvenir socks camouflaged the building entrance. I didn’t notice the open doorway behind them until Cem pushed past the socks and disappeared inside. We trailed behind him into an arched hallway of crumbling brick, lit by yellow torches. Red velvet couches and a red fridge flanked the wall and a lone cat ambled down the well-worn stone steps.
