by Staci Hart
My lips—deep crimson, thick and full—were all I could see for a second. The color called all attention to them in a way that felt even more extreme than it had in the makeup store, probably because I didn’t have a single stitch of makeup on otherwise. I cataloged every insecurity—my eyes, too dark and angled, my lids heavy and lashes straight. My skin was too pale, my brows not arched enough, not dark enough. I wasn’t enough, not in my frumpy sweater with the big hole in the front. I hadn’t even brushed my hair.
I might have bought that lipstick, but it wasn’t mine.
I was an imposter.
A stinging rush of tears nipped at the corners of my eyes as I reached for a paper towel and swiped carelessly at my lips.
Which was a monumental mistake.
The pigment smeared like a bloody stain on my fair skin, and my eyes widened in panic.
“Oh no. No, no, no, no, no,” I muttered in abject horror as I scrubbed at my face with the coarse paper towel.
Wetting it didn’t help. I pumped hand soap into my palm and washed the bottom half of my face, ignoring the smell of lemon or the stringent feel of the foamy soap, begging the universe to please let me be wrong, to let it magically lift that cursed lipstick off my skin. But, in true form, the universe did nothing to help me.
I scrubbed until the skin around my mouth was raw and razed, pink from agitation and lipstick from hell. And I stood there in the museum bathroom and stared in the mirror, assessing my reflection with rising hysteria.
And I started to laugh.
It was a laugh from deep in my belly, one accompanied by warm, embarrassed tears that raced down my cheeks in salty trails, a laugh edging on delirium, equally ashamed and amused.
Only me.
I swiped at my tears once they ebbed and blew out a breath, my chin quivering in a show of true emotion before I pushed the feeling away and packed my mortification alongside that stupid tube in the depths of my backpack where they belonged. And then I took a picture in the mirror with my phone and sent it to my friends.
I’d be damned if I was going to be the only one who had to endure the moment alone.
And, with their laughter and encouragement lighting up my screen, I found the will to leave the bathroom, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone on my way to the library. But, like I said, the universe and I were not friends.
Dr. Lyons was kneeling at a bookshelf right in front of me. He turned his severe gaze on me, his eyes hanging on my lips, his brows flicking in the slightest of quirks. He was amused again. Laughing at me.
I flushed so hard, I thought I might pass out before hurrying away, counting the seconds until I’d be in the solitude of the library and out from under his scrutiny, which had resurrected my desire to disappear.
Served me right for wanting more in the first place.
By four thirty when the library closed, I had succeeded in hiding all day and working on my proposal for my dissertation, which was due at the end of the summer. Too ashamed to go to Bianca’s office, I emailed her half an hour before I left and asked if she needed anything, which she didn’t. And I snuck out of the offices without seeing either doctor of doom.
As I hurried down the steps of The Met, I caught sight of three backs I recognized, and relief touched me like a balm, soothing the burn of the day.
Amelia turned, hopping to her feet when she saw me. “Rin!” She met me with a gripping hug, assessing my face when she pulled away. “It doesn’t look so bad now.”
“Well, it’s had all day to calm down,” I said on a laugh. “What are you guys doing here?”
Val grinned from behind Amelia. “We’re taking you shopping.”
I groaned, my joy at seeing my friends gone in a whoosh.
“No groaning,” Val said as she took my side, hooking her arm in mine. “It’s going to be fun.”
“Shopping is never fun,” I lamented.
Val gave me a look. “You act like I don’t get it. I have never once found a pair of jeans that fits this.” She gestured to her pepper-grinder hips.
“We found a store for tall girls,” Katherine said. “A fashionable one. There wasn’t a muumuu or single pair of capri pants on their website.”
I frowned, unconvinced.
“Really,” Amelia added. “It’s called Long Cool Woman, and their clothes are gorgeous. You’ll see.” She tugged me toward the street.
“I don’t know,” I started, but then Val started pulling, and before Katherine could get behind me and push, I relented. The last thing I needed was to fall down the stairs and take all three of them with me. “I can’t really afford a shopping spree on my allowance,” I argued feebly.
But Amelia smiled. “Well, thanks to the ShamWow, I can.”
By the time we reached Long Cool Woman—a name that had the song by The Hollies stuck in my head for the full train ride—my stomach had twisted to the point that no amount of Pepto Bismol could straighten it out. The bell on the door rang as we stepped into the store, which was small but open with tall ceilings and beautiful lighting, the walls packed with clothes and the tables in the center of the shop stacked with sweaters and tanks and rectangular pillars of folded jeans.
Theoretically, my size was somewhere in there.
“Hello,” someone called from the back, followed by the sound of heels on hardwood. And then an honest toGod supermodel walked into view.
Our collective eyes widened in wonder at the woman, who looked like a cross between Heidi Klum and Claudia Schiffer, in a tailored blazer that was such a light pink, it was almost white, and a silky white tank half-tucked into perfectly fitting jeans. On her feet were four-inch pumps the color of midnight, which made her tall enough that I had to look up at her when she reached us.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her smile off a freaking billboard.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I didn’t bother with more than a glance at Amelia’s face, which was boarded up like a hurricane was coming. Val’s eyes scanned the shop girl, dumbstruck. So it fell to Katherine, her stubborn jaw lifted all the way up, to speak for all of us.
“My friend Rin is looking for some work clothes.”
She met my eyes, still smiling. “I’m Marnie. Let’s see what we’ve got for you, shall we?”
I nodded stupidly, following her as she walked away.
“So, what do you do?” she asked.
“I…I work at The Met.”
“She’s an intern in the European Paintings department,” Katherine added.
I shot her a look, my cheeks warming.
Marnie offered me an impressed look over her shoulder. “Congrats on landing that. Couldn’t have been easy.” She stopped in front of a rack about halfway into the store. “So, something professional, something classic. I’m thinking you’re into simple lines, something easy to manage and match. Right?”
I nodded again.
“Are you looking to rebuild your wardrobe?”
“Yes,” Val answered for me.
I took a breath, separating myself from my friends to take a step closer. “I…I’m not really sure what I’m doing.”
Marnie smiled. “That’s what I’m here for. And you’re exactly the type of girl I opened this store for.”
“Really?”
“Mmhmm,” she hummed as she sorted through the rack. “I was a model in the nineties. While I was working, it wasn’t so hard to find clothes to fit a thirty-seven-inch inseam,” she joked.
“That’s my inseam,” I breathed.
“Thought so,” she said with a smirk. “Aha!”
In her hands were a pair of pants so long, they were comical. I eyed them skeptically.
She must have noted my expression because she said, “I know they look like they should be worn with stilts, but they’re high-waisted and meant to be worn with heels.”
I shook my head, taking an unwilling step back. “Oh, I could never wear heels.”
One of her brows rose. “Why not?”
“I’ll look
ridiculous.”
But she smiled. “I have a feeling you don’t think I look ridiculous.”
“Well, no, but you’re…”
“The same height and build as you.”
“But you look…”
“Like I have my hair and makeup done. That’s all it is—hair and makeup.”
I looked her over, panicking. “I…”
Marnie paused before resting her palm on my shoulder. “Trust me. Just try a few things on and see how they feel. And if they don’t feel good, if they don’t make you feel incredible, don’t you dare buy them. Okay?”
I exhaled. “Okay.”
Marnie made her way around the store with me on her heels as she pulled outfit after outfit, even three pairs of jeans and a pair of heels, which I eyed like they were twin cobras instead. And then I stepped into a dressing room with my friends sitting on the couches in the center, waiting to score every outfit, one by one.
I stripped off my mangled sweater and tank, then my shoes and khakis. And I stared at those pretty clothes hanging in the dressing room with me, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
The jeans were first—they were the closest to anything I owned, and I figured would be the quickest to break the ice—and when I stepped into them, it was with absolute certainty that they would never fit. But then I pulled them over my ass and hips, and I stared in the mirror, stunned.
They were black and sleek, tight without being constricting, the denim somehow stretchy, just a little, just enough to hug without bunching or being stiff. And the length was perfect. In my and Amelia’s research the night before, we’d learned that cigarette length was very in and flattering for tall girls and that showing a sliver of ankle was super fashionable. Per the internet at least.
Confidence struck—I reached for a silky blouse in a shade of Army green, the sleeves cuffed to three-quarters by little straps. And then I slipped my feet into a pair of black flats with pointy toes that I thought would make my size elevens look like boats. But when I looked in the mirror, I looked perfectly proportioned. Nothing stood out—not my height, my feet, my long legs. Nothing. I could have been five feet or six. The clothes fit so well, they gave the illusion that I was normal.
My throat tightened with emotion as I pushed the curtain away and stepped out.
Four faces lit up—three with surprise and one with knowing.
Val gaped. “Rin, they’re perfect.”
I ran my hand over my thighs, inspecting my reflection in a triptych of mirrors. “I can’t even believe it. Are you sure they won’t shrink though?” I asked, uncertain.
“They won’t,” Marnie assured me. “They have enough lycra in them not to shrink, but if you’re worried about it or the wash fading, just wash them in cold and hang them to dry. Super easy. How do you like the shoes?”
I looked them over, shaking my head in disbelief. “They make my legs look longer, but I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad one.”
“Oh, it’s definitely good,” Val noted.
Marnie laughed. “It’s the illusion of the pointed toe and the fit of the jeans. It’s meant to showcase your best feature—your legs.”
“It’s magic is what it is,” I said.
“Oh, just you wait,” she said with a laugh.
For the next hour, I tried on dozens of outfits, each of them shocking me one by one. Blazers and tailored shirts, pencil skirts and slacks, blouses and even dresses. The last outfit I tried on included those navy high-waisted pants she’d picked out first and a pair of heels she’d insisted I try. They were nude suede, the heel wide enough to keep my gait steady and sure. In fact, I found them far easier to walk in than I’d anticipated.
When I stepped out of the dressing room and four jaws hit the ground, I felt like I could climb Everest. And when I looked in the mirror at the girl who I knew to be me but amplified, more, I felt too good to be scared.
All I felt was the blessed feeling of something that had eluded me for far too long—possibility.
6
The Conqueror
Court
The museum was quiet and empty but for the security guards and some staff, and I found myself alone in the silence of one of the sketch galleries, hands in my pockets, eyes on the gallery wall.
The piece was one I found myself visiting often—a study drawing of the head of Caesar by Andrea del Sarto. It had been sketched as practice for a fresco, the red chalk lines strong and certain, from Caesar’s long, aquiline nose to the curve of his determined brow and intensity of his eyes, even in profile. He was pictured younger than the vast majority of his renderings, an age before he became Caesar, and his youth lent something wild and commanding to the piece, the resolve and strength of will that would make him emperor.
It had always spoken to me, the embodiment of such power in all its simplicity, the complexity of emotion on Caesar’s face and the ease of which it was drawn. He was the picture of the man I saw in myself—a man of dogged determination and ambition, of ideals and aspirations.
He was a man who would stop at nothing to achieve, to gain what he sought. And so was I.
One piece—that was all I had left to secure. One piece, and I would have my dream in hand.
I’d fallen in love with David when I studied in Florence. I could still remember the moment I’d first seen the monumental statue standing under the dome in the Accademia—it had sung in silence, drawing me to it, my awe striking me senseless for a long, long while. The magnitude, the beauty in every line, every curve, the skill and vision and sheer impossibility of it had held me still, rooted me to the spot with my face turned up and my lungs tight.
It was the most perfect thing I’d ever seen, even in its imperfections, because even those had been intentional. Michelangelo had produced every piece of art, big or small, with the detail of a man obsessed.
I found I could relate.
Dusk had settled over the city as I trotted down the steps of the museum and walked up Fifth toward my apartment, my mind turning over the Medici publication I’d had brewing since receiving the intern’s research. The piece would be the perfect addition to the museum’s magazine and the catalog for the exhibition, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The intern had been on my mind too.
I’d read over her notes a dozen times in twenty-four hours, surprised and stimulated and unable to shake the notion that I’d been wrong about her. Here was her confidence, in her intellect. It just wasn’t apparent anywhere else.
Our encounter in the hallway flashed into my thoughts again, the feeling of her in my arms as I’d righted her, the look on her face and her dark eyes—they were brown, I thought—blinking back tears. She had come from Bianca’s office—fleeing Bianca, I was sure. And a baffling shot of anger whistled through me at the thought. I couldn’t tell you why exactly. Recognition that there was more to the intern than I’d given her credit for, maybe. Or annoyance at Bianca’s disobedience when it came to the girl’s purpose and usefulness.
Either way, I wanted to talk to the intern, if for nothing else than to settle on how to address her. I had questions for her, thoughts I wanted to not only share, but hear her opinion on. Because I had the feeling she would have an opinion, which would trigger a discussion and would subsequently inspire more material for the article.
But today, she’d been too upset to approach.
When I’d asked Bianca what happened, she’d played dumb, but when the girl had burst out of the bathroom with her face red and puffy from crying, it had been obvious. I’d almost gone after her, but the last thing I’d wanted was to deal with a crying female, and the last thing she would have wanted was my comfort. Mostly because I had none to offer.
I nodded to the doorman to my building, stepped into the elevator, and hit the button for my apartment. It was dark inside but for the distant city lights that shone in from the wall of windows overlooking Central Park, and I clicked on the kitchen light, stepping to the fridge. I sm
iled to myself when I saw my dinner on a plate with a note from my housekeeper.
I leaned against the counter while the microwave whirred, slipping off my tie and unfastening the top couple buttons of my shirt, relishing in the quiet and simplicity of being alone.
It was a state I existed in always, even in the company of others. The preference was personal, easier. I’d spent my life keeping everyone out. As an heir to the Lyons name and fortune, I had been subjected to manipulation enough from friends to colleagues to women. We were old money, the product of generations of industry and investment, a name synonymous with Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, Carnegie, a fact my father never failed to remind me of.
I know. Poor little rich boy. But my environment had hardened me with distrust born from the burn of betrayal. And not even the bonds of my family had protected me.
Everyone wanted something.
My mother had wanted to be happy, but my father had made that impossible, and she’d overdosed on quaaludes and scotch when I was too young to remember, in a combination that could have been accidental or purposeful—no one would ever know. My first stepmother, the woman who had raised me, had only wanted my father’s heart, but he’d cheated on her with the third Mrs. Lyons. My second stepmother had only wanted her tennis coach. And my current stepmother was another story altogether.
Because she’d been mine before she was his.
She was the mistake that had been haunting me for two years, the one I’d let in. The one I’d trusted.
Lydia had been my assistant before Bianca, brilliant and beautiful, easy and equal. We had been well matched, well suited, our lives clicking together with simplicity. And I had done my best to protect her from the scrutiny of my father, the president of the museum and lord of so much of my life. We’d kept our relationship secret; it was the only way I would agree—not only because I didn’t want my father to know my business, which he believed he was entitled to, but I didn’t want her to have to deal with the toxicity of my family. I’d wanted to protect her.