by Nicole Deese
“Babe, stop.” He set his hand on my bare shoulder. “Listen to yourself for a minute. Whatever this fear—about, I don’t know, about being seen as immodest or something equally as irrational—it’s ridiculous. You’re not some prudish virgin with a religious platform. You’re a gorgeous woman with a popular fashion platform who has a killer body and a paycheck to match. There’s a level of compromise in every deal we make. And this is the compromise for a six-figure check.” He wiped at his forehead. “Now, let’s get out of this hot box. You’re gonna ruin your makeup, and I’m gonna ruin this Italian shirt.” He slipped a finger under the wooden door latch, but I gripped his arm, pulling him back as my nails dug in a bit deeper than necessary. He couldn’t actually be serious right now.
“Do not open that door. You got me into this, Ethan. And now you need to get me out of it. I won’t put that on. I can’t.”
He turned, this time looking far more irritated than he did when I’d first hauled him in here.
“You will do it. You already signed the contract.” His eyes flicked south to my chest before he lowered his voice and touched his fingers under my chin. “Your body is nothing to be ashamed of, but if it’s a little lift you want, I’m sure their editors will take care of it for you. It’s standard practice now for swimwear shoots everywhere.”
I wanted to scream, yell, push him into the eco-friendly coals sweltering behind us both. “Swimwear is not in my brand. I told you that from the very beginning. And even if it was, that thing isn’t even swimwear! It’s more like something from the Emperor’s New Clothes—invisible wear.”
I braced for the pushback that was coming, because Ethan’s hardening, reddening face told me I’d just crossed an uncrossable line. I’d seen this expression before while he vented about former clients, but it had never been directed at me. “Your brand is whatever product pays out the most. Do you remember the Molly who filmed her videos in a snack pantry?” His voice held an edge I’d only heard him use on his problematic clients . . . not the favored ones. “Because I do. When I signed that girl, she was grateful for every fifty-dollar check that cleared her account.”
“Yes, I do remember, but that girl only made videos of the products she believed in—sponsored or not. I have the followers I have because I’ve worked hard to earn their trust.”
He stepped close, his voice so quiet, so chilled I could barely hear it over the roaring heater. “You have the followers you have because I’ve bent over backward making deals and partnerships for you while you kept your pretty face on camera. Cobalt made your brand what it is today, not you.” Though he’d never said it quite like that before, I realized with sudden clarity that the assumption had been there for quite some time, hanging over my head whenever I felt the least bit antsy or uncomfortable representing something that didn’t feel fully me. I wasn’t free to be Molly McKenzie. I had to be Makeup Matters with Molly . . . which, I was finding out, was not always the same woman.
Hand on the door, he twisted around, sweat beading off his scalp and running down the sides of his face. “Do you even know the real reason we’re here today? Why of all celebrities I partnered you with the Sophia Richards? Because she just happens to be married to the man overseeing the auditions for Project New You—Al Richards. I wanted to surprise you, but this diva tantrum has been the real surprise today.” Disdain fueled his gaze. “Pull yourself together, Molly, and act like an adult. I’ll see you outside at the pool.”
A whoosh of cool air found me as he pushed out the door, and I could hear him making up an excuse as to what we were doing in there together. The feeling I’d had before, the one that knotted my insides and warned me of something I didn’t quite understand until this moment, wrapped around me now like a suffocating blanket.
I hit the wall timer on the sauna coals, turning them off, and wished I could think and breathe fresh air at the same time. Because I wasn’t ready to go out there yet. I wasn’t ready to face that dreaded article of clothing that held my future between its sheer fabric.
I pressed my palm to the wall and focused on breathing, on talking myself down, or was it talking myself up? Was he right? Was I the one making too big a deal of all this? I was twenty-seven years old. And I certainly wasn’t a virgin anymore. But did that mean I should willingly expose my body to the world? Without considering my own personal values? My own personal . . . convictions. I realized my life hadn’t always stuck to the straight and narrow path, but that didn’t mean I was willing to jump onto a superhighway traveling in the opposite direction.
The faces of six impressionable young women surfaced again in my mind. Six young women who needed strong female guidance in their lives. Six young women Silas had worked tirelessly to steer away from the jaws of all things fake and toward something real. Something honorable and life-giving. Something true and purposeful.
This shoot was not that.
I’d made a lot of compromises to get to this point in my career . . . but this wouldn’t be one of them, not when I’d sat with, talked with, even prayed with several of my recent followers in the flesh. Not when they looked up to me as if I was someone who could help them. Someone who could maybe even . . . lead them one day.
It was one thing to sell myself out, but not for the price it might cost these girls. I wouldn’t hurt The Bridge. Not even if it meant losing a large paycheck and a potential Hollywood connection. Or a boyfriend who’d just treated me like an ex-client.
I exited the sauna and shook my head in disgust as a single phrase assaulted me like the crisp air against my sweat-slicked skin: diva tantrum.
Truella gasped. “Molly . . . what . . . ?”
Aghast, she took in my sweaty face, neck, arms, and then finally my legs. “What happened to you?”
Without needing to see my reflection in a mirror, I knew her horrified expression couldn’t only be due to my overheated body. No, what she and the crew and even Ethan were all staring at were the tiny pinpricks of speckled brownish orange oozing from my every pore. Because like some kind of self-tanner novice, I’d just violated my fourth commandment: “Thou Shalt Not Use a Sauna for the First 48 Hours After Application.”
Only this perfectly timed violation had just given me what I needed most: a way out.
I locked gazes with Truella. “I’m so, so sorry to do this, but I’m not going to be able to finish the shoot today. There’s been a big misunderstanding that I’ll leave my agent to explain. But please give my sincerest apologies to Sophia.”
Without stopping to look back, I snatched up my purse, flung it over my shoulder, and fled the pool area. With shaky hands I fumbled in the depths of my handbag, searching for my phone. The instant I found it, I scrolled to the only app I knew that could send a getaway car in a matter of minutes. I typed in the airport as my desired destination, and the app quickly provided my rescue—a Maria in a tan four-door sedan, who was only six minutes away.
It would likely be the longest six minutes of my life.
“What do you think you’re doing?” It was a hiss more than a question, but I refused to face Ethan. I refused to look into his lying eyes.
“Leaving,” I said with a calm I did not feel.
His hand gripped my bicep and spun my flip-flop feet on the slick concrete to face him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Molly. You aren’t leaving. Your tan can be fixed—”
“My tan? I don’t care about my tan! I care about my reputation, my value as a woman, and as a—”
He laughed as if I’d gone completely bonkers. “Your value as a woman? Are you hearing yourself right now? Molly, you promote beauty products. Nobody is asking you to dance on a pole or become a lady of the night.”
“Let go of me,” I said, raising my volume higher.
He didn’t let go. “You are embarrassing yourself—and me.”
“Oh?” Fury shot from my glare. “Is my diva tantrum too much for you, Ethan?”
For a minute, he had the audacity to look confused, as if he’d completely forgot
ten the dozens of times he’d spoken that phrase to me in regards to his problematic ex-client. Or perhaps, I realized with shame-induced clarity, his problematic ex-girlfriend. “You dated her, didn’t you? You dated Felicity Fashion Fix, and then you cut her as a client when I came along.”
“Are you serious right now?” He fisted his hair and lowered his voice even more. “You’re about to walk out on a six-figure paycheck because of a past girlfriend who doesn’t even matter? Who never mattered?”
The confirmation made me want to retch. How many other lies had he told me this year? How many other compromises had he made on my behalf? How many other times had I been an oblivious accomplice to . . . no.
“Did you . . .” But the words logjammed in my throat. “Did you steal Felicity’s vlog series idea and then pass it along to me after I signed with you?” Worse, had I participated in a witch hunt based on a false accusation?
“Those products were sponsored by a company I found for her—a company she lost when I signed you. She had no right to post that vlog series.”
I closed my eyes, dizzy from the mountain of deception I’d just been pushed from.
“She was the one in the wrong, Molly,” he continued, stepping closer to me, his breath hot on my cheek. “I gave her a more than fair Plan B option, and she refused it. But you’re too smart to follow in her footsteps. You and I—we’re the same, baby. The reason we work so well together is because we know how to put all the other stuff aside and focus on what needs to be done in the moment. And right now, what needs to be done is for you to go back inside Sophia’s mansion, put on that million-dollar smile of yours, and finish up this shoot. I’ll smooth it all over and then we can go somewhere private and—”
Maria pulled up at the gate, waving at me from inside a beige sedan I could have purchased ten times over with the paycheck I was about to give up.
I broke Ethan’s hold on my arm as tears tiptoed up my throat. “You’re wrong. We’re not the same.” Not anymore.
“Molly.” The warning in his voice was clear. “If you step foot off this property, Sophia Richards will sue you for breach of contract, and given the assets inside her home, you will stand to lose every cent you’ve ever made.”
And yet, as I looked into the back seat of Maria’s car, and as I slipped my shaking fingers under the door handle, I knew which option I’d advise my girls at The Bridge to take given the same compromising scenario.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m signed to an agency that shares my paychecks and my liability.”
17
Molly
I hadn’t spoken to Ethan in nearly thirty-two hours.
I hadn’t returned his calls, his texts, his emails, or posted a single picture of the giant bouquet of orchids he’d sent to my house this morning. Because not even a three-hundred-dollar flower arrangement was enough for me to contact him.
This wasn’t fixable. Not our personal relationship, and likely not our professional one, either, though that would be harder to terminate, seeing as I was still bound to him by a contract. Or at least Makeup Matters with Molly was.
Whatever issues Truella or her boss had with me departing from the set so quickly after my self-tanning blunder and escape, she and her team could take those issues up with Cobalt Group. Or, more specifically, with Ethan. After all, he’d been the one to misrepresent his fancy new sponsor and his client whose net worth was far too great for him to cut. Hence the apology flowers and phone calls.
I dropped my head into my hands. My eyes were glazed over after trying to review two legal contracts that may as well have been written in hieroglyphics: my contract with The Fit Glam Kit and my agency contract with Cobalt Group. If I did find a way out of this mess, what would that even mean for me? And . . . oh gosh. What would it mean for Mr. Greggorio’s Dream Big Scholarship offer? My gut twisted to the point I could be sick. I was currently living out the plot of a bad TV drama titled Why You Never Date Your Talent Manager.
Only a lawyer could understand the vocabulary in either of these contracts.
I threw myself back against my desk chair and rolled to the far side of the empty studio space, careful not to bump the expensive camera set up behind me. And then I had what could be my worst idea ever. I breathed out a shaky breath and scrolled through my contacts to find The Duke of Fir Crest Manor.
Molly
Does passing the bar exam mean you might be able to offer me some legal advice?
I sent it off, then immediately regretted it. What was I doing? I couldn’t involve Silas. First of all, he had enough responsibilities to attend to for The Bridge. Second of all, it’s not like I could ever tell him about the whole Girls Gone Tubee incident at Sophia Richards’s house. And third of all, he was Silas. S-i-l-a-s!
Just as I contemplated sending him a just kidding with a laughing face emoji, he responded.
The Duke of Fir Crest Manor
You need help?
Why did his response make my throat burn? I hadn’t even told him the issue yet, and his first thought was to ask if I needed help? It was difficult not to do a mental compare and contrast of Ethan and Silas. I wouldn’t even need to create a social media poll for that one. The answer to Who’s the better man? was shockingly clear.
Molly
What if I told you I’d just robbed a supermarket?
The Duke of Fir Crest Manor
I’d ask if you used your hair accessories as weapons.
I pressed my lips into a flat smile, returning to my laptop again and sobering quickly at the reality staring me in the face.
Molly
I’m concerned I might be in breach of contract, and I’m not sure what all that entails. I know you’re busy, so there’s no obligation to help me. But if you had a minute, I would gladly pay you for your time.
This time his answer came slower.
The Duke of Fir Crest Manor
Can I call you in ten minutes? Do you have the contract with you?
Molly
Yes and yes.
The Duke of Fir Crest Manor
Do you feel comfortable sending it to me?
Heat flushed my cheeks. The real answer? No. I wasn’t comfortable sending anything I didn’t understand. Especially when it involved my brand and my body.
The Duke of Fir Crest Manor
Would you rather meet in person?
Oh gosh. I stood up, paced several steps away from my desk, and then sat back down. Why did an in-person meeting with Silas seem a lot more serious? Because this is serious. Potentially, this could be very, very serious. Truth was, I didn’t know how much trouble I was in or how much liability I could pin on Ethan and Cobalt. My final words to him had been spoken out of sheer desperation and a teensy bit of hope.
Molly
I could meet you, but I don’t live close to Fir Crest.
The Duke of Fir Crest Manor
I’m just leaving my parents’ house, actually. I’m in Harper.
Harper was only ten minutes from my house.
Molly
Do you know the old Western Burger House on 7th and Applewood? I could meet you there in fifteen minutes?
The Duke of Fir Crest Manor
I’ll be there.
Molly
Thank you.
His back was to me as he walked through the old ranch style restaurant, but even if it wasn’t, I could have pointed Silas out of a crowd anywhere and anytime. And that had little to do with the striking shade of his skin or his midnight-black hair.
Though he was dressed in the most casual outfit I’d seen him in yet—army green cargo shorts and a black cotton tee—he could just as easily have been wearing an Armani suit. Silas carried himself the way royalty did: with a posture of unmistakable authority and confidence.
I gave a small wave as he turned toward the back of the dining area, and something flipped in my abdomen the instant he registered me. Self-consciousness heated my body from the inside out. Though I’d zipped up my navy Adidas jogging
jacket to my chin and tugged the sleeves down to cover my entire speckled hand, I was under no false illusions about my hideous appearance.
I looked like I had a bad case of freckled jaundice.
The two swipes of mascara I’d added to my top lashes, along with a squeeze of lip gloss on my lips, weren’t nearly enough to distract from my radioactive glow. But when faced with a time frame of only a few minutes to get legal advice for a possible breach of contract or apply a full face of makeup . . . my contour compact did not have a chance at winning. Well, maybe a small chance. But still. This meeting took priority.
Silas pulled out his wooden chair, sat, and looked me over. I prepared for his first words to be one of the following: Did you contract a tropical skin disease since last we spoke? Or If you create videos about makeup, then why aren’t you wearing any?
I didn’t expect his quiet yet contemplative, “Are you okay?”
Again, something in my stomach flipped. This time, for a very different reason.
“I had a self-tanning faux pas.”
He said nothing as he kept his questioning gaze steady on mine.
“It’s why my skin looks like this,” I continued nervously. “You see, the solution reacts to intense heat and sweating, and I did both within the first twenty-four hours. The heat and the sweating part, I mean. At the same time. It was a rookie mistake. Anyway, that’s why I’m orange in case you’re wondering.”
The slowest of nods, followed by, “And is that what you need legal advice for? Your . . . skin color?”
I chuckled nervously. “No, no, I was just trying to clear the air. Make it all a bit less awkward.”
“And do you feel less awkward now?”
Not even slightly. “Yes.”
He closed his eyes briefly, his lips curving. “Good, well I’m glad we settled that.”
“So . . .” I began, grappling for something I could create a natural conversational transition with. “You just came from your parents’ house? Do you go there often? Were Jake and Clara there, too? I’m sure there is a lot of wedding talk to discuss, seeing as—”