Kate

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I honestly believed it, when I held Wes in my arms and swore it wouldn’t come to this. Bought right into my own bullshit, and even now, I keep checking my phone, expecting some eleventh-hour reprieve.

Got him!

Abort mission!

You’re off the hook!

Come on. Come on. Come on....

My phone roosts in its charger, still and silent.

I feel vulnerable. Alone. Max went into battle mode after the meeting, readying his disaster plan. Kyle and Rachel disappeared to DC, and Wes, reluctantly, to London. Carson’s been incommunicado, and me, well...this is why I never wanted to be a model. At least, it would’ve been, if I’d known what the job entailed. I’m parched, my shoes are pinching, and I can’t even smile under all this makeup. And I’ve been fending off a sneeze since my false eyelashes went on—a fight I don’t dare lose. Not with a small army of pins arrayed across my bust, ready to let the air out of my tits.

I shouldn’t complain, not when I’m already making a nuisance of myself, but.... “How much longer?”

The seamstress—Marie, I think—looks up. “Five minutes, ma’am.” She plucks a pin out of my hem and clenches it between her teeth. “It’s just, you’ve got two inches on Katya, and you’re, ah...you’re quite....”

“Bosomy?”

“That’d be the one.” Her needle flies, and my hem brushes my ankle. I am taller than Katya, which is weird, because my note said—what was it? Poor, dumpy Kate Miller. At five ten, no one would call me dumpy. No one who knew me well enough to have collected all that dirt. Guess they were going for humiliation over accuracy.

Humiliation. Ten minutes from now, I’m going to be tottering down the runway in six-inch heels, falling out of a dress made for a woman with the silhouette of a hat stand.

“Are there any, like...big necklaces back here?”

“Ma’am?”

“To cover....” I fan the tops of my breasts, already beaded with sweat. The fabric barely covers my nipples. It’s obscene.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Marie gets to her feet. I hold my breath as her needle weaves across my chest. She tugs the bodice up. I take a sip of air and it slides back down, fabric straining. “Yeah...we’re going to need some tape.”

Perfect.

Three minutes later, I’m as ready as I’m going to be: tucked, taped, pinned, and primped, a cascade of onyx beads drawing attention to my chest more than concealing it. With my luck, I’ll end up with an indecent exposure charge to go with whatever I get for pushing someone into the crowd. Assault, probably. I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s quite a fall—three feet, maybe four. Add heels to the equation, and...fuck. Am I about to hurt someone?

A spotlight flares to life, and the first wave of models lines up.

“Your cue, ma’am.”

I take my place at the end, feeling faint. If I only go through with half of this—the non-violent half—will he only reveal half a secret?

The line starts to move.

I so can’t do this.

They’re not walking—they’re gliding. A pack of gliding teenaged swans, and me bringing up the rear, and now I do feel dumpy, chest like a pigeon, feet like a Clydesdale—I look like a farmer. An absolute rube. I can see them walking as the line moves up, hips swaying effortlessly, feet barely skimming the ground. I can’t do that. Wouldn’t know how. Their heads don’t even bob.

The girl in front of me straightens her skirt. Her—she’s the one I’ll have to push. She can’t be more than eighteen. A slip of a thing. She strides forth, gown billowing.

I trail behind, platforms clunking. My skirt’s made of the same fabric as hers, but it drags where it ought to float. Cleaves embarrassingly to my thighs. God, it’s between my legs, clinging—do I have camel toe? In a dress? Cameras flash, capturing my disgrace. Isn’t this enough?

I’m falling behind. I pick up the pace, and my skirt finally dislodges itself from my crotch. But now I’m leaning forward, tottering on my heels, and my bodice is straining—I can feel the tape pulling against my skin, and any second...any...second....

Fuck it. I clap a hand to my chest and keep walking.

My victim reaches the end of the runway. She strikes a pose, turns, and strikes another. She’s smiling, sort of, this cute quirk to her upper lip. Like a kid living out her dream, which is exactly what she is. And I’m about to fuck that up. She’ll never even know why.

I bite my lip. Most of my secrets aren’t horrible. So I’m kind of a klepto. And a catfish, and a dine-and-dash artist, and an Internet troll. I could keep walking. Strike my pose. Swallow my mortification and spare the girl.

But if all of us thought that way, or most of us... I’m not sure if Kyle followed through on his. He’s been tight-lipped since Rachel’s breakdown. And Carson—I could see his pride getting in the way. Even Wes—and Max....

She’s coming my way. Now or never.

Max. I’m doing this for him. I destroyed his life once. I can’t risk it again.

I grab her by the arms—I don’t even know her name.

“What are you—”

“I’m so sorry.” I shove her hard. Her nails score my wrist, and over she goes. I can’t look. I turn away, hand clapped over my eyes. All around me, people are shouting. I can see flashbulbs going off through the cracks between my fingers. Someone screams, a guttural, gurgling sound. Pure rage.

I take a halting step—the wrong way. I need to get out of here. Turn back, run, not—

Pain erupts, sharp and sudden, at the nape of my neck. I look up. Did something...fall on me? A hot trickle courses down my back. I pat at it and...yeah. That’s blood. “What—?”

I step on something hard and almost lose my balance. A shoe? I got beaned with a shoe?

Bare feet slap the runway. I turn, and her other shoe catches me across the cheek. I scream and throw up my hands, but there’s no escaping her fury. Sharp nails scratch my chest. I hear tape rip, and...laughter. That’s laughter. A few shrieks, a few shouts, but most of them are laughing. Laughing at me, bare-breasted, getting trounced with a stiletto. And it hurts—she’s really letting me have it. Assault charges, nothing. I’ll be lucky to escape without stitches.

“Stop—please!”

“Bitch!”

I skid away. My heel skates off the side, and the ceiling lights flash before my eyes. I clutch thin air, brace for impact, and someone catches me. Sets me on my feet. I sink to my knees, wishing I could keep going, all the way through the floor. This is worse than I’d imagined. Infinitely worse. There’s blood in my eye, in my lashes, running into my mouth. Let Carson accuse me now! Got off easy, did I? Can’t picture some veteran going after him with a shoe.

“Why’d she do that?”

“—don’t know; out of nowhere!”

“Here—get a shot of—”

I shy away from the voices, the cameras. I’m completely hemmed in, the crowd knit around me, the runway at my back. All I need is someone to start chanting Fight! Fight! Fight....

Please...please...get me out of here.

There are hands in my hair, tilting my head back. I shy away—

“Hold still. I’m a doctor.”

—oh, fuck. If she stitches me up right here, I’ll die. Absolutely die.

She lets my head drop. “Okay! Going to need you all to clear a path.” She’s waving her arms, attracting more attention, as if every eye on the room wasn’t already on me.

I hang my head and let her pull me to my feet. I’m towering over everyone in my ridiculous heels, staggering like a drunk as she leads me through the crowd. Cameras and cell phones line the aisles, capturing every excruciating moment. I’ll never live this down. Never, ever, ever. Not in a million years. I’ll be a red carpet joke: Who are you wearing? Kate Miller. Oh—where’s the shoeprint?

I’ll have to change my name. My whole brand. My profession.

The cool night air hits me as we slip out the fire exit. Seconds later, the door slams behind us, cutting off the chorus of jeers.

This had better be the end.