Filthy/Gorgeous [Rewrite]

I had a lot of time to think while I was in New York. Especially since most of my evenings involved me sitting alone in a hotel room, staring out of the window after I’d woken up from another nightmare. But past experience had already taught me that 1 a.m. was always the best time to brood over all my problems.

I had been away from home for four days, and I’d already had a nightmare every single night. They were always the same kind of dream, beginning with me standing in front of a mirror, preening, and then slowly my reflection begins to shift until my face morphs into my dad’s. The rest of the dream was different every time, but still some variation of me turning into him, leaving Alexis and my mom behind, effectively erasing myself from their lives.

I told myself maybe these nightmares had been brought on because I’d been debating whether to reclaim the name Skarpsvärd for branding purposes, but deep down I knew it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that I was already disappearing from everyone’s lives like he did. In my dad’s case, we might never know the reason why, but for me, it was obviously because work was forcing me to. But the “why” didn’t really matter, only the end result did.

I’d spent most of my life proving I was nothing like Hampus Skarpsvärd. Yet the reason I even bothered to prove it was because my deepest fear was finding out that our resemblance went deeper than sharing a similar face. What if his personality was embedded in my DNA and there was no escape? It felt like the harder I tried to be unlike him, the more I recognized the similarities between us. I hated the way he had treated my mom, and I swore I’d never do that to anyone in my life, and yet I had spent most of high school sleeping with girls then dipping from their lives. In Becky’s case, I’d ghosted her almost exactly the way my dad ghosted my mom. Was my fate inescapable?

Of course it wasn’t. And it was up to me to make sure that was true. But to do that, something else in my life had to go. I’d figured that out almost a month ago, but ironically enough, I hadn’t had time to do anything about it. What the hell should I cut back on, though? The salon wasn’t even up for debate. Giordano wasn’t an option either, because I’d signed a contract with him and I was obligated to carry out my duties until it ran out. My online shop was the first step towards achieving my biggest goal in life and it was already doing far better within its first few months than I ever could have dreamed; plus it helped my friendship with Jim, since we collaborated to keep it running. So obviously I wasn’t giving up on that.

That left the podcast.

I’d only taken that job because my arm was broken, when I needed something to keep me afloat until I could take on my position at Lebouc again. Now, over a year later, my arm was healed and my chair was always filled with clients, but I was still treating the podcast like a full-time job, writing episodes at 2 a.m. and dedicating hours every week to recording them because I couldn’t bear the idea of letting Pauline down. After all, I’d been part of the reason the podcast had taken off the way it did. Pulling out now felt like abandoning her…or worse, like proof that I really was the kind of person who dropped people when they needed me most.

I rolled over and hugged the extra pillow beside me, trying to soothe myself with delusions that Alexis was there in Manhattan with me. I punched the thoughts of my dad and my career back down into the pit of my stomach and instead tried to think about something better—like the way Alexis’s face looked when he’d seen one of the Ombra d’Oro commercials for the first time. When the ads dropped a few weeks earlier, I’d gathered him and Jim to watch the commercials together, the same way I had when my first podcast episode was released. Back then, Alexis had been proud of me. This time, when he saw me in motion, seductively peddling Giordano’s new fragrance, he’d practically needed a paper bag to breathe into.

Honestly, the commercials had turned out even better than I’d imagined. The camera panned over a velvety dark sky scattered with stars to my silhouette cloaked in shadow, slowly revealed as dawn broke and light spilled over my face and body in molten gold, timed with the swelling crescendo of Cacciapaglia’s “Lux Libera Nos I.”

I barely got a few seconds to gloat to Jim before Alexis ushered her out of the apartment, determined to have the official Ombra d’Oro man all to himself.

A few days later, he told me that Michelle had texted him to report how his family had found out about my newest endeavor. That’s right, I realized—since all of this came about after The Outing, none of them had any idea I was working for Giordano now. The news had been delivered straight to their living room by the ads themselves. Apparently, Mrs. Birch had caught sight of the commercial while Michelle was bingeing The Bachelorette, which led to her promptly turning off the TV and banishing her daughter to her room, as if it were her fault that the commercial existed. Then, when Michelle’s monthly teen lifestyle magazine arrived with a perfume ad featuring me, Mrs. Birch canceled her subscription on the spot. Now Michelle was livid that I was still managing to ruin her life despite not even being in it anymore.

It was great.

Marguerite and Rosalie had lost it, too. Once they got over how mad they were that I hadn’t mentioned the Giordano deal to them sooner and started talking to me again (their silent treatment lasted fifteen minutes), the constant barrage of texts from them made me long for the short-lived silent treatment.

(Just kidding.)

Actually, their enthusiasm and support had meant a lot to me, and even helped keep me moving forward when the sudden attention threatened to shake my cool, confident exterior. “Threatened to” being the keywords, since it never actually was shaken, but still…modeling for Pepito was one thing, and becoming the face of a Giordano fragrance was another. The press coverage didn’t come close to being the same, and I was opening myself up to far more criticism this way.

Speaking of which…

Since my cousins had been so helpful to me during my ascent to the stars so far, now that I was once again suffering from insomnia in the middle of the night while I was all alone, I wondered if Marguerite would be the answer to my problems now. Normally I would turn to Alexis, but it was one in the morning, and I didn’t want to wake him just to make him listen to my complaints. I mean, yes, we were getting married, and that was something he was going to have to live with for the rest of his life, but he needed a good night’s sleep once in a while, too.

But Marguerite lived three hours behind me, so it was only 10 p.m. for her. Plus she lived to hear the juicy, sordid details of my life. Even if I didn’t end up talking about my personal concerns, I knew she’d be dying to hear all about the day I’d had.

I picked up my phone and dialed her number.

She answered on the second ring. “Oh my God, finally. I thought you were never gonna call.”

“You were expecting me?”

“Duh. I thought we agreed you’d keep me filled in on everything going on in the lifestyles of the rich and famous.”

“You agreed I’d keep you filled in. I said I’d catch you up whenever I felt like it.”

“Ah, but I see you feel like it now,” she said, in a ‘gotcha’ tone of voice. “So spill the deets. What’d you do all day? It was the press preview today, right?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t all that exciting, to be honest. Since it was closed-door, it was just a room full of journalists, a few celebrities, and Giordano taking all the attention while he answered some questions about what inspired the perfume. I didn’t even get to move around. Giordano instructed me to just stand around looking pretty and avoid saying anything, because he wants me to maintain a mysterious image for the perfume. So mostly I just posed in the middle of the room by the perfume bottle like a human centerpiece.”

“Gee, sounds like a tough life,” she deadpanned. “Did Big G budge on the ring thing, at least?”

She was talking about my engagement ring. When I arrived in Manhattan a few days earlier, the first thing Giordano noticed about me was the ring on my finger—not to congratulate me, but to tell me I had to take it off.

“You can’t wear any jewelry that isn’t part of what we style you in,” he had said when we’d met in his office so he could brief me on what I’d be doing over the next few days. “Certainly no jewelry that isn’t gold, and absolutely no hints about your relationship status. You’re supposed to be the Untouchable, Unknowable Man of Shadows, full of mystery, like the lover no one can ever attain…not flaunting your engagement in front of the customers’ noses.”

I had replied with something vulgar.

And now I replied to Marguerite with, “Nope. I did what I could to fight him, but in the end, he forced me to take the ring off, at least when I’m actively promoting the perfume. But I still keep it in my pocket, which is something, I guess.”

“What a dick,” she said. “But anyway, tell me the important stuff. Which celebs were there? Did you see Channing?”

“Sorry.”

“Frick. Any Hemsworths?”

“Nope.”

She groaned. “Dang, it really wasn’t exciting.”

“Not so fast. Wait until I tell you what the other models there said about me.”

“Ooh. Your tone tells me it wasn’t all praise and compliments.” I could hear her settling back against her pillows. In my mind, I pictured her in a pink silk dressing gown with a feathered collar, a matching sleep mask pushed up on her forehead, a glass of champagne in one hand and her phone in the other. A Cheshire cat grin would be spreading across her face as she waited for me to spill the tea.

“More like jealousy and cattiness,” I said. “They were whispering to each other like they were trying to be discreet, but the stage whispers and the fact that they parked themselves three feet away from me made it pretty clear they wanted me to hear them saying I’m not a ‘real model.’”

She gasped. “You’re the face of a Giordano perfume. How does that not make you a real model?”

“I think that’s the problem. They tried to make it seem like I’m not hot enough to be the “Untouchable, Unknowable Man of Shadows”, but I can read between the lines. They were implying that I don’t deserve to have this role because I didn’t climb through the mud to get noticed like they did. I got scouted and now suddenly I’m here. They kept whispering about how I’m an embarrassment and going to fuck it all up because I’m too inexperienced to know how this world works.”

“Oh my God,” Marguerite wheezed. “Meow, meow, hiss, am I right?”

“Exactly! I mean, I know they were just trying to psyche me out, but that’s not the way to do it. I may be insecure about a lot of things, but my looks is not one of them.”

“My little egomaniac,” she said fondly. “You deserve all the luck, confidence, and success in the world.”

No wonder my instinct had told me to call Marguerite for comfort. The giant hotel room felt less empty with her voice filling it.

But that thought brought my mind back to why I’d needed to call her in the first place.

“Oh!” I added. “At least I managed to twist Blessy’s arm into negotiating with Giordano to let me take off a weekend in the middle of the month so I can go home for my mom’s birthday. Between the launch and all the interviews, it’ll have to be quick, but I’m determined to be there.”

“What a devoted son you are,” she said, with zero traces of sarcasm, making me feel even better about myself. “Did you already go to her wedding dress fitting?”

“Yeah, a month ago. She was glowing.” I had to hold my phone away from my ear when she squealed.

“I don’t suppose you’ll give me a sneak peak of her dress with any photos you may have taken? Or even just a detailed description?”

“Sorry. You’ll just have to be surprised and awed with everyone else when she walks down the aisle.”

We bickered about it for a few more minutes before she finally gave up, realizing I wasn’t about to break my promise to my mom and ruin the surprise of her wedding dress.

Then Marguerite said, “Hey, isn’t it almost two in the morning where you are? What are you doing gossiping with me? Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep for another big day tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have anything scheduled until early afternoon. I can sleep in late if I need to.”

And to be perfectly frank, I hoped my mind would let me. Until I had to show up at the stylist’s suite for my wardrobe fitting at one the next afternoon, I didn’t have all that much to do with myself. I normally would have been thrilled to have all morning free, but I didn’t have enough time to head to Brooklyn to visit Tater and Doodle, and I could only visit Cindy, Marisol, and Hui at the old Lebouc so many times without looking lonely and pathetic. Besides, they had to work, so having me pop in for a surprise visit every day would just throw off their schedules. Plus there was Court. I didn’t want to see him, plus he was ignoring me so I wouldn’t make him literally gag with my success again.

By the way, guess whose face was taking up ten stories of ad space in Times Square? Giordano’s PR team had taken me there the first day I arrived to unveil it to me: 7,000 square feet of LED screen wrapping around Nasdaq Tower so people could see my shimmering face emerging out of the darkness as they walk around the square. I wish I could have seen Court’s face the first time he saw it. According to Cindy, he had tried to step into the path of an oncoming bus.

I wished so badly that Alexis could come down to visit so he could see it in person, too. We’d have to get a different hotel closer to it, though, because every time he was presented with my large-scale modeling photos, he short-circuited and jumped me like a zombie after brains. Except it wasn’t brains he was interested in.

But instead of cheering me up, that thought just brought back the pang in my heart. Marguerite’s voice might have made the giant hotel room I was in feel less empty, but when we ended the call, it was still just me there, alone. Giordano had gotten me a suite in one of Manhattan’s highest-end hotels, located in West Manhattan just a couple of blocks from the Giordano Building so I could be at his beck and call. And he was covering all the expenses himself, which must have been pushing well into quadruple digits per day. Normally I should be eating it up, right? But how could I enjoy living in the lap of luxury when I was completely alone? What good did a king-sized bed, two living areas, and a dining table for six do me on my own?   

I still couldn’t sleep even after talking to Marguerite, so I got out of my enormous bed and wandered into the adjacent living area. It had floor-to-ceiling windows with a corner view of the Manhattan skyline, lit up and alive despite the time of night.

On second thought, Alexis would have hated it. I was twenty floors up—his acrophobia never would have survived.

I’d have to keep him safe in the gigantic walk-in shower, I guess.

Ah, finally a train of thought that lifted my spirits. I fell asleep a little after three in the morning, trying to come up with a plan to convince him to come down to the city for a weekend so we could do a trial run for our honeymoon.

.:.

The next day was going to be my biggest one yet. It was the event. Giordano was hosting a full-blown red-carpet affair that night, complete with paparazzi, branded photo ops, and a joint appearance where I’d stand beside him to answer questions from the press. After that came the VIP dinner.

I actually managed to sleep in until eleven. My body woke me at the usual time I’d get up to prepare for Lebouc, but I forced myself to roll over and get a few more hours in. The last thing I needed was to show up with puffy eyes and dark circles.

But that still left me with an hour and a half before I had to head to the stylist’s suite. I decided to use it wisely by doing something that would refresh me.

Alexis answered my video call right away and had me smiling in a single sentence.

“Hey, Untouchable, Unknowable Man of Shadows.”

“Hey, Shining Light of My Life.”

“I’m surprised you have enough free time to call me in the morning. Isn’t today a busy one?”

“Not for another hour. Actually, I just got up a few minutes ago. This room is too damn huge and lonely without you.”

“Take me on another tour of it,” he demanded.

My first night there, I’d called him and given him a virtual tour as I walked through the suite, showing him everything on camera. He especially loved the marble bathroom, which was about the size of our whole apartment back home. I did the same now, ending with a flop onto my still-mussed bed.

“These silk sheets are wasted on me alone,” I lamented.

“Imagine what they’d be like if I were there. We’d slide right off.”

“Don’t put ideas in my head when there’s nothing I can do about them.”

His teasing softened into something gentler. “Then let’s promise ourselves we’ll be in a room like that together someday.”

“Hopefully sooner than someday,” I said. “I know you weren’t thrilled with the idea of coming down here with me, but are you absolutely sure you won’t, just for a couple of days? I’m actually not as busy as I expected. I’ve usually got whole mornings free.”

“Well…” He looked thoughtful, and I could tell he was already halfway convinced.

“I was thinking last night this place would make the perfect honeymoon suite for us,” I continued, with a suggestive bounce of my eyebrows.

He smiled. “Either that, or we could save the money for a down payment on a house.”

“We can do both with what I’m making from this job. Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather go. Paris? London? Some tropical island where you don’t have to wear pants?”

He laughed and shook his head. “I’d rather not spend my honeymoon sunburned. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind somewhere more quiet and less extravagant. Not because I’m modest, but just because I wouldn’t be paying attention to the scenery anyway.”

“A secluded cottage in the Alps, then? Kyoto in autumn? Maybe Edinburgh?”

“They all sound nice.”

“Done,” I said. “All of them it is, then. I’ll work my ass off so I can take you around the world. I’ll even throw in a parasol as a bonus so you don’t get sunburned.”

“Your thoughtfulness is exactly why I’m marrying you. But I doubt even I could get sunburned in Edinburgh in autumn.”

“I bet you could.”

He feigned an offended gasp. Then his voice turned softer as his face shifted to something more thoughtful. “You know, I’ve been thinking about this lately, too. I mean about the wedding. If we want to plan our honeymoon for autumn, maybe we should pick a wedding date close to it.”

I sat up straighter. “Yeah? Got one in mind?”

“Well, September fourth’s already our anniversary. It’s right on the edge of autumn, but technically still summer, which I know you’d like. Why not keep it simple and make that our wedding day, too?”

I pictured it instantly: the two of us exchanging vows under a deep blue September sky, the air still warm but tinged with fall. “Lexie,” I said. “That’s perfect. And I won’t have to memorize a new date, which helps me out a lot.”

“But it means we only get one day to celebrate each year instead of two.”

“No, because we’re obviously going to celebrate every single day of the year.”

He laughed. “True. Though early September might be tricky for our guests. Everyone’s heading back to work and school by then.”

“If they can make it to my mom’s October wedding, they can make it to ours in September,” I said. Then I grew more serious when the weight of what we were talking about hit me. “Wow. So we already have a date.”

“Exactly thirteen months from now,” he said.

Thirteen months. The thought filled me with such bright, buoyant energy that even after we hung up, I floated through my long afternoon of wardrobe fitting, hair styling, and makeup without my feet ever touching the ground.

That feeling only got stronger when I saw myself after it was all done. Giordano had designed an ensemble just for me: a tailored black velvet suit woven through with fine gold metallic thread that glinted only at the perfect angle, paired with a midnight-black silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive. Originally, he had wanted to add a thin gold chain under the collar, but I’d managed to talk him out of it, explaining that there was a fine line between high fashion and making me look like a mobster on vacation in Las Vegas. We compromised on a gold lapel pin shaped like the looping Giordano logo and thin gold hoops in my cartilage piercings. The look was completed with a light dusting of gold-toned bronzer on my cheekbones and a touch of Ombra d’Oro on my pulse points.

We began at 12:30, and by the time evening rolled around, I was ready. The event was scheduled for six, perfectly timed so the setting sun would drench the scene in gold as guests arrived at Cipriani 25 Broadway. As the face of the entire campaign, I was slated to arrive with Giordano himself, front and center.

Everything unfolded exactly as planned. The moment our car pulled up, the lights outside the venue dimmed, and the piano and vocal crescendo of “Lux Libera Nos I” reverberated through the air. The conversational buzz of reporters, celebrities, and even the gawkers corralled across the street by barriers and NYPD faded into an anticipatory hush as I stepped out of the car. The carpet glowed under golden spotlights, the rest of the street kept deliberately in shadow.

Camera flashes erupted. I smiled the way Giordano’s team had taught me: enigmatic, head tilted just so, trying not to squint against the blinding lights. The faint gold accents in my outfit shimmered and made me radiant as I emerged from the shadows perfectly timed with the music, just like in the commercials.

Even the most self-absorbed guests couldn’t help themselves. I heard them murmuring to each other:

“My God, but he is handsome.”

“Who are his parents? Zeus and Hera?”

“Breathtaking. Haunting. Ethereal.”

My ego didn’t need this.

Good thing I had Giordano and his perpetual lack of faith in my intelligence to keep me humble.

As I reached the step-and-repeat—a black wall emblazoned with Giordano’s golden logo—I mentally repeated the mantra he’d been drilling into me all week to prepare me for the barrage of press questions and the joint Q&A to follow: Stay mysterious. Stay aloof. Give them just enough to leave them wanting more, and not a syllable more.

When the journalists lining the path to the building’s entrance stopped me with questions like how it felt to be Giordano’s new muse, I delivered the carefully vague, monosyllabic answers his team had coached me on. Honestly, I felt like I was giving less mysterious and more airhead.

Just before I entered the venue, another journalist thrust a microphone toward me. “Do you think Ombra d’Oro makes men irresistible?” she asked.

Mystique, mystique, mystique, my brain chanted. Enigmatic, enigmatic, enigmatic. ALOOF.

As if my brain and my mouth have ever had any sort of meaningful link.

“I’m not saying it’ll turn them into me,” I said, “but it might get them one step closer. Ahahaha.”

A ripple of charmed laughter followed. Giordano, a few steps behind me, shot me a warning glance that said I was skating on dangerously thin ice.

Inside, the main ballroom looked like something out of a fever dream. Cipriani’s already opulent walls shimmered with shifting gold projections, as if the whole place were submerged in molten light. Above, the vaulted ceiling had been transformed into an inky night sky twinkling with golden stars. Gilded mirrors caught the glow of candlelight flickering in tall, golden candelabras set on tables draped in black silk and crowned with blood-red roses in gold-flecked onyx vases.

Ombra d’Oro was everywhere—in the air, in the gift bags, on the luminous installation at the center of the room where perfume bottles hovered on glass pedestals before a towering mural of my face, sultry and backlit, glaring out at the crowd.

Now that’s the type of décor I like to see!

One of my biggest regrets was not insisting that Alexis be here with me. But if I couldn’t even wear my engagement ring, having my actual fiancé on my arm would’ve been an even harder no. The whole time I was mingling with guests and members of the press (giving more mysterious answers that made me look vacant but earned pleased smiles from “Big G”), I kept wishing I could pull out my phone to snap pictures of everything and send them to him, asking what he thought about stealing some of the ideas for the wedding reception next year.

Then as the evening unfolded and red-carpet arrivals melted into cocktail hour, then into the VIP dinner, all thoughts of anything beyond Giordano’s extravagant menu fled my mind. Everywhere I looked, guests stood beneath glittering chandeliers sipping cocktails and nibbling on aperitivos: black caviar blinis topped with 24-karat gold leaf, whipped goat cheese tartlets crowned with black truffle shavings, caramelized fig and prosciutto crostini drizzled with balsamic reduction, and flutes of prosecco shimmering with edible gold dust.

At the VIP dinner, I was placed at Giordano’s right hand. Investors, fashion editors, and celebrities filled the tables around us. Their conversations carried on around me while I sat there, a stiff-backed human centerpiece yet again, mostly expected to look pretty and contribute nothing else. Waiters emerged with creamy squid ink risotto topped with seared scallops and gold leaf accents, alongside charred broccolini brightened with lemon zest, or tenderloin medallions glazed in a wine reduction and sprinkled with gold salt, served with baby potatoes roasted in black garlic. The pièce de résistance—or, since Giordano was obsessed with being Italian, the pezzo forte—was a dessert created especially for the occasion: tiramisu Ombra d’Oro, made with black cocoa and dusted in gold powder.

And for me? Fuck all. Not a single bite. The only thing I’d been allowed to eat all day was a protein shake eight hours earlier. I was starving and starting to get jealous and a little pissy. The only thing keeping me from lunging at someone’s leftovers was the looming shame that would come from forgetting my chocolate allergy at the most important event of my life and breaking out in a syphilis-looking rash in front of the international press and their cameras.

The instant Giordano and I were no longer the target of the guests’ omniscient gazes, at least for the moment, I took the opportunity to complain about feeling faint.

“You must stick to the diet plan, Erik,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re being photographed from every angle. You need to look sleek. Besides, the Untouchable, Unknowable Man of Shadows wouldn’t be caught dead eating in public. It would ruin the mystique.”

“May I at least have a Tic Tac, maestro?”

He shot me another warning look for the sarcasm, but the faint twitch of a smirk betrayed his amusement. “Fine. But do it where no one can see you. I don’t need rumors going around that you’re popping ecstasy at my event.”

“Please, I haven’t popped ecstasy since my junior year of high school.”

So I slipped away to one of the many shadowy alcoves and hid behind a column to savor my luxurious dinner of ONE TIC TAC (I ended up sneaking two.) It wasn’t exactly a new experience—back in March, during the first Ombra d’Oro campaign shoot, Giordano had dictated my diet every minute of every day, keeping me on a strict keto plan to maintain my lean, sculpted look. I tried to console myself by remembering how, after that ordeal, I’d gone home in April and eaten nothing but white rice for an entire week out of pure spite. What would I spite-eat when I got home this time? Maybe boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch?

When I returned to the party, I caught sight of a familiar comb over hairstyle in the sea of faces. This time, it was dyed charcoal ombré with hidden copper panels that flashed under the lights, but the constantly changing hair color didn’t throw me off—I’d recognize him anywhere.

“Morty!” I called, pushing through the crowd to get to Pepito.

“For God’s sake, don’t call me that in public,” he hissed, eyes darting around. “Are you trying to ruin me?” But he was smiling as he said it, and immediately pulled me in for a hug and exaggerated air kisses on both my cheeks.

“You didn’t tell me you’d be here!” I said.

“I coordinated Giordano’s show for Fashion Week. We are very close friends. Of course I’d be here. Besides, I’m practically your godfather.” He kept his hands on my shoulders and leaned back to look me over. “Ahhh. My little protégé, all grown up. And to think—this entire experience is all thanks to me.”

“I might’ve had a little something to do with it, too. It’s my face, after all.”

“Your parents created your face, and I’m the one who made something of it,” he countered. “If I hadn’t spotted you at Lebouc, I never would’ve asked you to pose for me. If I hadn’t scouted you, Giordano never would’ve known you existed, you never would’ve been invited to Fashion Week, and you never would’ve filled in for the model who got norovirus.”

“All right, all right, I get it,” I said. “Let it go.”

He gave me a fond smile. “How are you holding up?”

“Well, it’s not easy being the Untouchable, Unknowable Man of Shadows. I think Lexie would be better at it than I am.”

Now that fond smile turned sympathetic. “I figured you’d feel that way. You’re far too warm to be cast as such a mysterious character, but you’re pulling it off better than most veterans. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Giordano has, too. He’s just too much of a perfectionist to admit it.”

I also let a smile slip through, even though it wasn’t very enigmatic of me. “Thanks, Pepito.”

“Congratulations on your upcoming wedding, by the way. I know I already texted you, but something like that only counts when it’s said face to face. I may have only met Alexis a couple of times, but I could always tell you two were built to last.”

I really wasn’t supposed to be smiling at him so much, but I couldn’t help it. Pepito could be a pain in the ass, but having him there that night meant more to me than I could explain. Aside from Alexis and Jim, there was no one I’d rather have by my side at something like this.

“I appreciate that, Pepito.”

“I’d still love to do that photoshoot with the two of you someday,” he said. “I believe I suggested ‘good and evil’ as the concept last time? With your new image, maybe I’ll tweak that to ‘light and shadow.’”

“No more shadow, please. I’m begging you. I don’t want to get typecast.” I paused, realizing that since Alexis was no longer hiding who he was, we didn’t have to worry about taking pictures together anymore. “But maybe that photoshoot doesn’t have to stay hypothetical. If you really wanted to, you could even be our wedding photographer. You’d be volunteering your services, of course.”

“Aha, oh, you little jokester.” He hurried to change the subject and waved a hand at the crowd surrounding us. “So. What do you think of all this? The press, the celebrities, the gilded cage Giordano put you in?”

“Considering I don’t have to come up with complex answers when I talk to any of them, it’s not as intimidating as I was led to believe it would be. If I come across as a dumbass, I can blame it on Giordano.”

“Good answer,” he said approvingly. “Besides, they’re just a bunch of average Joes in designer clothes who got full of themselves. No reason to get flustered.”

“You make it sound like I fit right in.”

He smirked. “Well, keep your guard up anyway.” He gestured subtly toward a man across the room, dressed in a plum-colored suit and with a mop of curly brown hair styled into a quiff. “See that guy? His name’s Warner Hanson. He writes for that trashy celebrity gossip site, TMI. Don’t get caught alone with him and his wandering hands. He comes on to anything with a pulse and a pretty face—the prettier the better. I’m shocked he hasn’t been canceled by now.”

“Ah.” If there was one thing I attracted like a magnet, it was sleazebags who thought my ass was public property. “Thanks for the warning.”

Pepito gave me a final pat on the back. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I’m sure I’ll see you again before this launch is over, so this isn’t goodbye, just see you later.”

We parted ways, and I got sucked back into another round of making up bullshit answers to the bullshit questions every journalist threw at me, trying harder to stay in character so I wouldn’t get pinged by Giordano again.

As the night wore on, the crowd got drunker and looser. Everyone except me, I mean. I only got hangier. And aside from Pepito, the only other relieving oasis I encountered in a desert of dry conversation was when I ended up chatting with Auggie Ramirez, who remembered me as the stylist who handed her a bottle of water during Fashion Week.

“Wow, that was only eight months ago, and look at you now!” Auggie said, stunning in a form-fitting black one-sleeve dress. We stood together in one of the arched alcoves, the golden light shimmering around us like ripples on water and making the chain belt cinched at her waist gleam. If Giordano ever released an Ombra d’Oro Femme, she’d be the face of it without question. “Plenty of models get scouted, but I can’t think of anyone who’s been fast-tracked like you. It must feel surreal.”

“A little,” I admitted. “But it also feels like I belong here. Kinda like home.” I side-eyed Giordano, who was across the room talking to investors but still keeping tabs on me. “Home with a strict helicopter parent.”

Auggie laughed. “You were born for this. Sooner or later, Giordano’s bound to realize it’s not just your face, but also your charm that completes the package. Maybe then he’ll finally ease up on that leash of his.”

A few moments later she drifted off to schmooze with other celebrities, but I never found myself alone. Almost immediately after Auggie left, I heard a voice speak right behind my ear.

“Auggie’s right, you know. Giordano struck gold with you.”

I turned to find Warner Hanson standing uncomfortably close.

“To find someone fresh-faced and inexperienced, yet composed enough to front a fragrance campaign?” he continued, his voice dripping with syrup. “That’s not just rare, it’s unheard of. Giordano’s lucky he found you. You’ve got a one-in-eight-billion face. But I have to say…you’re even more striking in person.”

“Pepito von Kreng’s the one who found me, actually,” I said, ignoring his last line and taking a step back so his wandering hands wouldn’t get any ideas. “And I wasn’t exactly inexperienced. I worked with Pepito and Gibson Laine before Giordano scouted me at Fashion Week…after he saw me wearing one of his designs on the runway.”

Not that I was bragging. I was just correcting his misinformation.

“Ah, so ‘amateur’ rather than ‘inexperienced’, then. My point still stands. You didn’t have to fight your way to get where you are now, like most people here did. Did you?”

“Hmph.” I narrowed my eyes at him because I wasn’t allowed to roll them. “I didn’t ask to look this good or to get noticed by people with connections, but I still worked my ass off for this campaign.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping as if we were sharing a secret. “I did my homework on you before tonight. You’re quite the industrious guy. I’ve seen your work with Pepito, along with your Instagram for your haircare shop and that French podcast you’re on…”

His hand brushed the small of my back. I wriggled away from his touch and moved to slip away back to Giordano’s side where I would be safe, but Warner caught my sleeve.

“Hey,” he said, “don’t rush off. Someone like you, who’s so ambitiously trying to build a name for himself, could use a little extra positive press. A friendly feature could do wonders.”

“I’m doing fine on my own,” I said. “If I need more press, Pepito already does more for me than I can keep up with.”

Warner chuckled low in his throat. “Come on. There’s no such thing as too much good press. I’m sure Giordano would agree. Imagine how pleased he’d be if you landed him a few glowing write-ups after tonight.”

“You mean besides what I’ve already done for him with my gorgeous face?”

The flickering candlelight and shifting gold projections deepened the shadows of Warner’s face as he smirked. “You could do even more.” He slipped a folded piece of paper toward me, the creepy-crawly fingers of his other hand lingering far too long on my lower back again. “If you ever want to…collaborate, call this number.”

Bah. I didn’t need a dictionary to figure out what “collaborate” meant in his vocabulary.

“Excuse you,” I said, jerking away from his touch. “First of all, I’m practically married. And even if I weren’t, I’m about seventy percent sure I wouldn’t sell my soul or my body for a headline.”

He glanced down at my bare hand. “I don’t see a ring.”

I pulled it from my pocket and held it up. “Well, here it is.”

He snorted a short, derisive laugh. “Either way, practically married isn’t married. And honestly, most people are willing to overlook that kind of technicality when there’s something better on the table. Don’t pretend people don’t bend the rules for less.”

“What the fuck?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. Everything bubbled up at once—hunger-induced irritability, exhaustion, the nightmares where I kept turning into my dad, the chokehold of Giordano’s leash. My voice rose despite myself. “What the hell is wrong with you? Like I’d ever do that to my fiancé. I’m a one-man Erik. Fuck off.”

I tore up his number and dropped the shreds into a nearby votive. The paper instantly curled and caught flame.

Warner’s eyes flashed in the dim light. “You think you’re too good for me?” he hissed.

“Yeah, I do! Who the hell isn’t?!”

His expression hardened. “Careful. The promise of good press can turn into the threat of bad press just as fast.”

The low hum of conversation around us shifted. Soft laughter was replaced by shocked whispers. I didn’t need to look up to know people were staring, but I did anyway. Half the room was watching us…including Giordano.

Moments later, Giordano’s PR specialists swooped in and whisked me away from the scene of the crime, and the event altogether.

I was never heard from again.

.:.

(Not really.)

The next morning, I woke up bright and early to two back-to-back calls.

The first was from Giordano’s assistant, informing me that the maestro himself wanted to see me in his office at eight on the dot. He’d stayed behind at Cipriani to smooth things over with the press and finish the event, so after my handlers dumped me back at my hotel, I hadn’t heard a word from him. I assumed this summons was to officially end my contract…and honestly, the idea didn’t exactly fill me with sorrow.

The second call was from Alexis.

I hadn’t had the chance to talk to him the night before. After I’d been rescued—um, I mean escorted—from the event, Giordano’s team had stuck around with me at the hotel for a while, congratulating me behind Giordano’s back for standing up to Warner, who, apparently, had been preying on models and influencers for years. Unfortunately, as they explained, I wasn’t the first to turn him down…and everyone who did usually found themselves “coincidentally” embroiled in some kind of scandal soon after, meaning they were the ones who fell from grace instead of Warner.

Still, Giordano’s team insisted on celebrating with me. I, in turn, insisted they do so with something fatty and high carb. Since the hotel restaurants were about to close, we ended up at the bar, sharing a pile of herbed pommes frites and toasting with non-alcoholic champagne mocktails.

When I finally went back to my suite, I took a long shower to scrub off the gold glitter and the memory of Warner’s clammy hands. Then, still damp-haired and exhausted, I sat down to call Alexis…and promptly fell asleep.

Now his voice came through the phone: “You’re all over the news. Well…the entertainment news. Social media’s going crazy.”

“Oh, shit!” I blurted, sitting up straight. Warner’s parting threat flashed through my mind, along with Giordano’s team’s warning about people who turned him down ending up in scandals. “Alexis, I swear, whatever you read, it’s not what it looks like.”

“What?”

“Wait—what did you read?”

“I saw a bunch of posts saying you were propositioned by a notoriously sleazy journalist who promised good press in exchange for ‘special favors’, and that you lost your temper at him in front of everyone.”

“Oh. Then yeah, what you read is exactly what happened.”

“Wow!” The stunned, genuine admiration in his voice made my heart skip. “I saw pictures from the event. You didn’t exactly have a small audience.”

“Yeah,” I said, rolling out of bed and wandering over to the giant window to watch the sun rise over Manhattan. “I think Giordano’s pissed off that I caused a scene in front of half the fashion industry. Honestly, I was expecting that guy to start trashing me online by now. He kind of hinted he would before they hauled me off. How’d you hear my side so fast?”

“Apparently the other journalists who were there can’t stand him either. They’re making sure your side of the story gets out first before he can twist it. Sounds like it’s the first time he’s ever tried something like that in front of that many witnesses, and they’re all jumping on it.”

“Jeez.” Relief flooded through me, but I didn’t only have my own interests to think about. “Guess it’s a good thing we’re not in the closet anymore, huh?”

“No kidding. Rachel said your Instagram is being flooded with comments. Apparently everyone just found out about your engagement, and it’s probably only a matter of time before they figure out who you’re engaged to. Those Elixir shippers are probably feeling pretty smug right about now.”

“Oh shit. So much for our plan to keep it to ourselves for a while. Does it bother you that it’s all coming out like this?”

“Nah…it’s fine. I doubt anyone in my family will see the news. Besides, I’m too happy about how you handled that journalist to care.”

I smiled out at Manhattan. “Did you expect anything less of me?”

“No,” he said softly. “But it’s still nice to see it.”

By the time we hung up, my mood was lifted enough to stop me from catastrophizing when it was time to face Giordano. If I got fired, so be it. At least it meant getting to go home sooner. And honestly, one less career weighing me down didn’t sound so bad.

When Tyler finally ushered me into Giordano’s office an hour later, he was already waiting behind his desk, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his rings catching the morning light as he steepled his fingers in front of his face. He didn’t bother to stand when I entered. He stayed half-turned toward the massive window overlooking the city. It was a clear day. Out there, one and a half million people were living their lives, blissfully unaware of my supposed disgrace. But the thundercloud brewing on Giordano’s face made it seem like he thought every last one of them was vowing never to buy his perfume again.

Tyler slipped out and shut the door behind him. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft fizz of an Alka-Seltzer tablet dissolving in a crystal glass on Giordano’s desk.

Finally, he spoke. “Erik,” he said quietly. “You caused a scene.”

“I did?” I said, incredulous. “Not the trash bag who propositioned me in exchange for good press?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice calm. “You did, by the way you reacted.”

“I reacted reasonably. I’m a person, not a cardboard cutout or a conquest. Did you want me to just stand there and take it? Or better yet, prostitute my way into better coverage for you?”

Giordano finally swiveled his chair to face me. “Of course not. I don’t need that man’s, shall we say, bribed reviews. My product can stand on its own. But you could have handled the situation with more decorum.”

“If you knew how I usually handle situations like that, you’d realize I showed remarkable decorum. No one left the ballroom bleeding.”

He looked like he was about to argue when a loud knock interrupted him. The door opened before he could respond. Pepito waltzed in, Tyler on his heels looking flustered.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Tyler said quickly. “He insisted, even after I told him you were in a meeting.”

Giordano pinched the bridge of his nose, waving him off. “It’s fine, Tyler. I assume this is relevant, von Kreng?”

“Oh, very relevant,” Pepito said, wielding an iPad. “Pardon the intrusion, but I knew you’d be having a heart-to-heart chat with Erik about last night, and I just had to stop by to make sure you’d seen this.”

He handed the screen over to Giordano, displaying the social media feeds and headlines Alexis had already told me about.

Giordano scrolled through them silently for a moment, then looked back up at us. “Yes, I’ve seen the coverage, and the ‘positive spin’ people are putting on it. It doesn’t change the fact that he disregarded my instructions. Discretion was key. I can’t have the very face of my campaign disrupting events by shouting profanities at members of the press in the middle of the room.”

“Oh, Giordy, Giordy,” Pepito sighed, settling onto the edge of the desk. Giordano sneered at Pepito’s butt touching the polished wood. “Don’t hire someone with Erik’s personality and then get mad when he uses it. Instead of forcing him to play the brooding, untouchable mystery man, why not let him lean into what people already love about him? The extroversion, the passion, the charm. The media ate it up! And the comments are gushing over how bold, romantic, and faithful he looked. Plus Warner Hanson is a creep, and people love a good public callout. It’s great PR for both of you. The fragrance is already selling out.”

Giordano’s expression shifted to something less “controlled fury” and more “reluctant thought.” He downed the Alka-Seltzer like a shot of whisky and sighed.

“You are infuriating, Palme,” he said at last. But it was in a tone of begrudging admiration. “Do you know why?”

“I can think of several reasons,” I said. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Because somehow, everything always ends up working out in your favor. I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s the face,” Pepito said, coming over to throw an arm around my shoulders and squeeze my cheeks with his free hand.

I managed a wry smile despite Pepito’s fingers. “It’s also because the ‘Untouchable’ part of the image isn’t just an act. I may not be a mysterious shadow, but I am untouchable.” I shrugged Pepito’s arm off my shoulder. “As Horny Wankman, or whatever his name is, found out last night.”

Giordano let out a quiet harumph that might have been a laugh. “Fine,” he said, looking between me and Pepito. “I’ll work on slightly adjusting your image for this campaign. If the public wants passion, and if that’s what you’re good at delivering, then that’s what you’ll both get. …Just try not to start another war in front of a live audience, hmm?”

“Yes, maestro,” I said.

“Good. Now get out of here. You’re scheduled for a press junket later today, and tomorrow’s the meet-and-greet at Bergdorf Goodman. By the way, since you’re going viral, I think we need to make some alternate cuts of the Ombra d’Oro ads to lean into your new ‘bold’ image…”

I guess that was as close to forgiveness as he ever gave. But I had survived the fallout, and I’d even come out ahead! Untouchable, just like I said.

At least, that’s what I still believed. But with my brief trip home for my mom’s birthday coming up, I was about to be reminded that while I might have been untouchable in some ways, emotionally wasn’t one of them. After all, untouchable didn’t mean unbreakable.