Chapter Eighteen
Now
I was up well before sunrise the following morning, unwilling to be late on my first day working for Sebastian, and hoping to avoid any further incurrence of his wrath. Slipping into a sleek navy pencil skirt and a flowing white silk top, I topped off the outfit with peep-toe Louboutins and simple silver jewelry — Vera’s bracelet included. I pulled the top layer of my hair up away from my face with a clip but left the majority hanging loose around my shoulders, and applied my makeup with more care than I typically bothered with.
I might not be in Cara’s league, but that didn’t mean I had to arrive looking like the fashion-illiterate schoolgirl I’d once been. The clothes, the shoes — they were my battle-armor for the gauntlet I was about to run. I stared at myself in the mirror and tried to summon the cultured, city woman who exuded confidence, walking aroundLusterlike she’d been raised shopping at Bergdorf Goodman, rather than the local Goodwill. I searched for her in my reflection, assuring myself this would be no different than any other day atLuster, but she was nowhere to be found. In her place, I saw the same insecure girl who’d worn a brave face each day of high school. The girl on the outskirts. The subject of every whispered rumor that left the venomous lips of Amber and her minions.
I groaned, dropping my forehead into my palms and wishing I’d taken Simon up on his offer to pick out my outfit and do my makeup before I faced the firing squad.Sure, he had a penchant for turquoise 1980’s inspired eye-shadow, but at least he’d have been there to kiss my cheeks, slap me on the ass, and tell me how fabulous I looked.
The sound of my phone ringing made me look up. Speak of the devil…
“Simon?”
“Baby! Just calling to tell you good luck and, even without my expert fashion advice, I’m sure you look divine. That man of yours won’t know what hit him.”
“He’s not my man,” I told him, rolling my eyes. “And I’m pretty sure he’s dating a model, so…”
“Baby,” Simon chided. “You’ve got boobs and booty. Trust me — those skinny little skanks have nothin’ on you, honey.”
“Thanks, Simon.”
“Thank me by telling me all about it over drinks tonight before your date with Desmond,” he said. “Now go, or you’ll be late and sexy Sebastian will have to spank you.”
“Simon!” I protested.
“Kisses!” He clicked off.
I laughed at his antics, feeling monumentally better than I had before his call. I squared my shoulders, grabbed my travel coffee mug, and was out the door before I had time to psych myself out again.
Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.
***
I was wrong.
Who’d have predicted that a ring of hell could be contained within the walls of the fourteenth floor of a perfectly innocuous looking skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan? Not me. Yet here I was, damned to an eternity of servitude in a place of nightmares. All that was missing were the fiery pits and ghoulish architecture. Satan was here, though — in the form of a buxom brunette, no less.
Cara: the devil incarnate.
I’d arrived with fifteen minutes to spare, but there were already several people milling about the office. A flurry of activity was in progress — assistants rapidly scribbling notes as their superiors tossed out concepts for photo shoots and set designs. Three men, each carrying several large photo canvases of famousLusterspreads from past decades, exited the elevator behind me and immediately began setting them up on easels around the room perimeter.
I stood near thewall, taking it all in as my stomach clenched with nerves. The floor was one large open space, with several work stations set up around the room and a conference table long enough to seat thirty by the far windows. There was a space cordoned off with racks of clothing and a small, mirror-enclosed platform, which I assumed was used for model fittings.
Recognizing no one, I had absolutely no idea where to start and, like a stream around a rock in the riverbed, people filtered by as though I were invisible. Which, at first, was fine, but after a few minutes began to piss me off. I was Lux Kincaid. No longer the high school wallflower, unsure of my place in this world. If Sebastian wanted me here to work, I was going to work. I didn’t wait around for orders like a meek intern. I was a professional, successful, career-driven woman. And if he didn’t like that, well, he could send me back toLusterand this whole ordeal would be over before it began.
Pulling my shoulders back, I threw procedure out the window, strode toward the center of the room, and jumped into the fray. I’d never been particularly good at following the proper decorumrulebook, anyway. After introducing myself as theLusterwriting correspondent for the Centennial issue series, I’d immediately become engrossed in a conversation with two friendly designers — both of whom, coincidentally, were named Jenny. We were so enmeshed in our discussion of a possible 1960’s revolution-themed photo shoot, we didn’t notice our audience until it was too late.
“I think just focusing on the hippie, flower-girl angle is going to limit us. It’s tired, it’s been done before,” I told them, impassioned as the idea bloomed in my mind. “We need a fresh angle — something that focuses on the huge changes that happened in society during that decade.”
The two Jennys nodded in unison, their eyes thoughtful as they absorbed my words.
“Clothing evolved with the culture — we could explore the fashion revolution theme. From the refined elegance of Jackie Kennedy and Audrey Hepburn — arguably two of the classiest 1960’s icons — to the sexually liberated culture of the late 60’s, where everyday women were finally free to wear what they wanted — from mini-dresses to go-go boots,” I prattled on, foolishly unaware of the reason my two conversation partners had grown wide-eyed and silent. “I just think that would be more interesting than a photo spread of the same frizzy-haired, headband-wearing model, running through a field of tall grass in a flowing floral print dress.”
“Well,thankfully,” an icy voice snapped from behind me. “No one cares what you think.”
Shit. That tone of unparalleled bitchery was unmistakable.
I turned slowly, dreading the encounter, and came face-to-face with Cara, who dwarfed me ridiculously in her five-inch stilettos. I tried to shutter my annoyed expression but was likely unsuccessful, given the fact that Sebastian was standing immediately to her left, gazing at me stone-faced and giving me heart palpitations.