by Meg Collett
“Cheated?” A gush of water rushed over Wren’s ears and hair. Her head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, but she laughed. “Who would he cheat on me with? Can’t you imagine how good I am in bed?”
“How do you feel about Viksyn being on the show with you?” Hutton asked. They’d been practicing all the questions the reporters might throw at Wren on the red carpet this evening. Hutton wouldn’t rest until Wren had multiple answers for every possible variation of a question they might pose.
“You should ask her. Last time I checked, Vik had a problem with me, not the other way around,” Wren answered without thinking, without even hearing herself speak.
The hairstylist sat her up and tightly wrapped a towel around her hair. Wren adjusted the cream-colored silk robe she wore to cover her exfoliated, spray-tanned, and moisturized skin. Her body still felt as foreign as it had yesterday and the day before and the day before that. Nothing felt real or normal. She kept reminding herself why she was doing this, why her body felt so strange, why her voice sounded so different. It was easy to convince herself not to panic without mirrors around—likely why Hutton had removed them—but she had to stay the course. This was the only way she would live.
“That’s good,” Hutton said. “But don’t be so nice. Vik doesn’t deserve it.”
“Maybe Sloane had a change of heart.” Wren didn’t worry about the beauty team hearing her; VidaCorp had brought them in. “After her detox, she wants to be nicer and more caring toward the people she wronged.”
Hutton scoffed. “Sloane did nothing wrong to Vik. Besides, a detox would just piss her off.” She dropped a stack of magazines in Wren’s lap. “I found these last night. Keep reading.”
While the hairdresser blow-dried her hair, Wren skimmed the article enough for Hutton to think she was reading it. After meeting with Roman every night for nearly two weeks, Wren didn’t need to read about Sloane. Because of him, she understood Sloane. Beyond just mimicking the way she talked or flipped her hair over her shoulder with a flirtatious grin, Sloane was part of her now.
Wren had adjusted her victim image of Sloane and replaced it with something more complex. Like Wren, Sloane had been a survivor, and to survive, she had sometimes done ugly things. Wren had accepted Sloane’s jagged underbelly and harsh edges. The superstar could cut a person down with a look and a few sharp words. It was her superpower, but her shield too. Sloane Lux needed to be cold to survive.
In every interview, in every picture, Wren saw the glint below Sloane’s smiling surface. She was steel. Titanium. Unbreakable. Roman hadn’t taught Wren that. She’d realized it all on her own, after three weeks of studying Sloane. Some conclusions were inevitable, even if the people closest to Sloane didn’t want to believe them.
Toward the second hour of her preparation, Wren’s legs had gone numb, and she let her mind drift with boredom. Even Hutton had grown tired of her endless questions. One of the younger assistants, looking no older than eighteen, handed Wren glasses of water to drink while time passed.
When the beauty team started styling Wren’s hair and applying makeup, Hutton turned the television channel to a news feed covering the preparations for the opening event that night. A startlingly skinny woman stood in front of VidaCorp’s headquarters, holding a jeweled microphone.
“It’s not just the stars of Glass House getting gussied up for tonight’s mega premiere, but also the buildings! Citizens might have noticed the buildings in the downtown area are undergoing a special makeover today!” The camera panned past all the windows and zoomed in on the domed conservatory. Window cleaners stood on a narrow ledge outside the curved windows, scrubbing the windows with long sweeping poles. “News Feed Six has learned an exclusive piece of information!” The camera panned back down to the reporter, and her face split in an unmoving fake smile. “All the window cleaners are using a special formula to make the glass extra reflective and shiny for tonight’s special show! You heard it first, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight is a night we’ll never forget!”
The channel switched to other news feeds showing more reporters in beautiful dresses, microphones in hand as they gushed into their camera and motioned toward the preparations behind them. They mentioned Sloane’s name over and over again, oscillating between excited speculations about what she would wear, her absence from the press tour, and her recent “detox.” The only name they mentioned almost as much as hers was Roman’s.
A chill crept down Wren’s spine when they showed his picture. His eyes were hooded and dark, his muscles corded tightly beneath a worn shirt and torn jeans. He looked effortless in the shot of him walking down the street. A ball cap held back his wild hair. The beauty assistants murmured their appreciation from behind Wren.
The chill she felt at seeing his picture had nothing to do with the fear she’d experienced when she met him weeks ago. Back then, his feverish presence had overpowered everything else, but after spending so much time with him, Wren had come to other conclusions.
Sloane had wielded her perfect face sharper than a blade, but Roman had cultivated his persona to keep people two steps back from him at all times. Where Sloane had smiled and used her words to cut a person down, Roman just iced them out with an empty stare.
In his way, he was a survivor too, and Wren liked that about him. She liked it a lot.
When her team deemed her hair and face as close to perfect as humanly possible and Hutton slipped out to start on her own less elaborate preparations for the night’s red carpet, Wren put on the skimpy thong and sticky nipple covers. The past few weeks had taught her modesty was a thing of Wren’s past, not Sloane’s present or future. She stood before the team, nearly naked, as numerous sets of hands oiled her body to perfection.
A member of the beauty team brought over a green gown and presented it to her with an elaborate flourish. Wren ran her fingers over the filmy material. The color was the lightest shade of green, so pale it blended with the flesh-colored cutouts in the bodice.
“It’s beautiful,” Wren murmured.
The team didn’t talk much. Wren assumed Hazen had made them all sign binding contracts that likely mentioned keeping their communications with Wren to a minimum. But the head stylist looked pleased as she winked at Wren.
They helped Wren step into the dress and wiggle the tight material into place. There were still no mirrors in the bathroom, so she had to rely on them to adjust all the seams and straps.
The team added diamond earrings and a bracelet to the ensemble. Once finished, they stepped back and marveled at their work.
“We’re finished?” Wren asked, trying not to get her hopes up. She was worn out, and the night hadn’t even started yet. “Please say we’re finished.”
Hutton returned to the bathroom, wearing a simple black dress with a low-cut back. Her hair was swept into her normal chignon, her makeup muted and sophisticated. She would look good standing behind Wren, but she wouldn’t draw attention.
“That’s good,” Hutton said, nodding approvingly. Then, to the beauty team, she added, “You can leave now.”
They smiled and waved at Wren as they left, and Hutton pursed her lips in annoyance.
Once they were gone, Hutton scrutinized every inch of Wren, circling her like a shark and Wren was the chum. Finally, Hutton lifted a thin shoulder. “Congratulations. I guess you’re more than just a sick girl.”
Wren’s mouth fell open in shock. “Are you saying I’m actually ready?”
“I’m saying,” Hutton said, the words chafing her ego on the way out of her mouth, “you probably won’t screw this up completely. You … you’ve done well, Wren.”
Inexplicable tears pricked Wren’s eyes. Hutton hissed and waved her hand in front of Wren’s eyes to dry her tears before they could spill and ruin her makeup. When she had herself under control, Wren took Hutton’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Hutton. I know this must be incredibly hard for you, to train someone to replace your best friend, but I appreciate it. You’ve saved m
y life.”
Hutton tugged her hand from Wren’s grip, her nose wrinkled in distaste. She smoothed a hand over her hair. “Well,” she said briskly, “not anyone could have done this. You were better than any of us could have imagined.”
Wren thought about the conversation she’d overheard between Hutton and Hazen on the first day she arrived at the penthouse. Hutton had said people would do anything to survive. She’d been right. Wren had lost pieces of herself along the way—her voice, her cancer-pocked lungs, a familiar reflection—but she’d come out on the other side with a brand new healthy life within reach.
“Thank you, Hutton,” she said, grinning at her handler.
“You’re welcome. Do you want to see yourself?”
“Wait.” Wren’s heart thumped against her sternum. “Like see my reflection?”
Hutton rolled her eyes. “Yes, like, see your reflection. It’s time.”
Wren’s breath lodged in her throat as Hutton cued up the mirror setting on the televisions above the counter. As the news feeds faded, Wren’s reflection replaced them.
For the first time in weeks, she saw herself.
Sloane Lux stared back at her.
“Oh my God,” Wren murmured.
She brushed her fingers across her full lips and smooth skin. Her makeup was flawless and brought out her startlingly light blue eyes, wide and unblinking, but framed beneath perfectly sculpted brows and dark eyelashes. Her nose was arrow-straight, her chin dimpled, and her jaw line soft. Her hair spilled in golden waves over her shoulder. The green gown hugged her waist and swept around her neck. The sides were open, exposing her skin underneath the flesh-colored, see-through material. The bottom of the dress flowed like water around her legs.
Everything about her face was similar enough that Wren didn’t completely tilt off her axis. If she searched hard enough, she found traces of her old features, but on the surface, Wren Iver was gone. The surface—Wren’s skin—belonged to Sloane.
“Are you ready?”
Wren’s mouth went dry and her stomach bottomed out. “I think so,” she said, but her voice cracked, revealing her nerves.
“You better know so.”
It’s time to be more, Wren thought. I can be more. She lifted her chin, her eyes going back to her reflection. “I can do it,” she said.
“Good. Remember what you’ve learned. Everyone expects you to be Sloane, and they’re not expecting anything to be amiss. If you stay calm and collected, you can handle whatever they throw at you. The red carpet will be yours to command. Those reporters will do whatever you tell them to. You own them. Remember that and you’ll be fine.”
With a final spray of perfume, Hutton led Wren out of the bathroom and down the hall toward the living room and the soft murmur of male voices.
“You own them. All of them. Remember that,” she whispered and stepped aside so Wren could enter the living room first.
Hazen’s words choked off mid-sentence. Bode looked up and cursed. In a loose sports jacket, dark jeans, and white shoes, Roman had his back to her. Perhaps knowing what he would find, he turned slowly to face her.
His eyes started at her feet and rose to the gown’s skirt, still shifting around her legs, to the cutout parts of the bodice, to the dipping neckline, and to her face—Sloane’s face. He dragged his eyes to hers, and she had the sense he was searching their depths, looking for Wren.
He’d seen her every day since the major alterations, but Wren could imagine how surreal it was to see the red carpet version of Sloane—a version separate from the girl he’d gotten to know in the office. He might not have been prepared for the sight, but he had his own mask in place, and it revealed nothing.
Roman Wade was the shadow in the corner of Wren’s vision that she could never quite catch in the light. She’d dreamed he was a wolf stalking her across an ice field, and that vision of him hadn’t changed. She had. The thought of him stalking her, those eyes locked only on her, thrilled her now.
“Well.” Hutton broke the silence. “What do you think?”
Hazen positively beamed. “She’s perfect.”
“Are you ready, Wren?” Bode asked, recovered from his shock. She appreciated the clear, careful way he said her name, like he was reminding everyone in the room—including her—who she really was.
Roman tore his gaze from her, and Wren could breathe again. “I’m ready,” she said.
Hazen clapped his hands. “Then let the circus commence!”
17:
On the ride over to the set, Bode sat tense and quiet in the limousine, scanning his security reports for threats. He checked the time nearly every minute, as if each passing second spent in the car presented a physical threat against Wren. She was wedged between him and Hutton like a priceless jewel.
VidaCorp had predicted the Whitebirds would attempt a small-scale attack during the red carpet opening. Everyone was wound tight for the night, the threat of violence tainting the champagne on everyone’s tongue. But even with the looming possibilities, Hazen had arrived at the red carpet earlier with another member of Bode’s security team. It proved how much VidaCorp needed Sloane Lux to make this show a success: they valued Sloane’s life over Hazen’s.
While Bode worried and Hutton scrutinized the red carpet’s live feed showing the less important cast mates’ arrivals and interviews, Roman sat across from them, his eyes closed and jaw clenched. Wren watched him from the corner of her eye, a technique she’d perfected around her father. Gone was the young man who’d sat on the floor of the exercise room, ankles crossed and back relaxed, his only concern getting under Hutton’s skin. Gone was the brooding boyfriend who’d lost the woman he couldn’t figure out if he loved or hated in the stories he told Wren late at night. This was a version of Roman who appeared to be preparing for battle.
Wren felt wholly unprepared, like Roman knew something she didn’t.
The limo stopped outside of VidaCorp’s headquarters. Across the street, the water treatment facility was abuzz with sweeping lights and water fountain displays. People shouted Sloane’s name over and over, the sound faint from inside the car. Hutton and Bode didn’t seem bothered. Wren glanced at Roman and found him staring at her, his expression blank.
“Wren,” Hutton said, adjusting the top of her dress, “this is it. No turning back.”
“Was there ever any turning back?” Wren’s voice sounded too shrill and nervous.
Hutton paused. Everyone in the car quieted.
“I’m fine.” Wren knew what they were thinking. “Really.”
“You sound it.”
“Lay off, Hutton,” Roman growled, speaking for the first time.
Hutton rolled her eyes at him.
“My team will meet us outside the car,” Bode said. He smiled at Wren, and the rigid ache dissolved in her shoulders. “I’ll be right behind you and Roman at all times.”
After learning about Bode’s role the night Sloane died, Wren wasn’t comforted. If he felt the same way, Roman revealed nothing, peering out the tinted window. The chanting was growing louder. The crowd was tired of waiting.
“Hutton will only allow a few reporters to ask questions,” Bode continued. “You’ll move quickly down the red carpet. The other cast members are already ahead, so by the time you catch up, the red carpet will be over.”
“You make it sound easy,” Wren said. Her palms were sweaty, but she had nothing to wipe them on. She hoped Roman didn’t take her hand outside the car. This was the event she’d been practicing for the past three weeks. Last night, she’d felt ready, but today, she wished she had three more weeks to prepare.
“If you panic, we’re taking you straight down the carpet. I’ll leak to the press that you were too high to answer questions,” Hutton said with a cool efficiency that chilled Wren. She was willing to use Sloane’s demons so casually.
Roman started twisting his silver ring.
Wren gritted her teeth. For Sloane, she wouldn’t panic or freeze or screw this up.
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On the opposite side of the car from Wren, one of Bode’s team members knocked on the glass.
“Time to go,” Bode said.
“Roman, you’re first,” Hutton said. She adjusted the earpiece wrapped around her ear. “Can you hear me?”
Bode winced and his hand went to his earpiece to lower the volume. “Loud and clear. Very loud, actually.”
“Bode goes after Roman. Then me. Then you, Wren. Bode and I will be off to the side. Roman will help you out of the car, but for the love of God, when you get out, keep your knees together. We’ve got enough to deal with.”
“I remember. We’ve gone over this a million times already today.”
“And that was one more,” Hutton snapped. “Roman, you’re a go.”
He slid across the seat to the door. He tapped on the window and someone opened the door from the outside.
First came the heat, staggering in its assault. Locked inside the air-conditioned haven of Sloane’s penthouse, Wren had almost forgotten how awful it was. Chasing the heat, a wave of sound crashed into the car. Cheers. Shouts. Applause. Wren cringed back as a deluge of camera flashes burned her eyes.
“When you get out,” Hutton told her, “turn your eyes down on the carpet. Look up when Roman takes your arm and just smile while your vision adjusts. Do not freeze.”
“I won’t,” Wren promised herself.
Bode climbed out of the car, leaving only Hutton and Wren. Before Hutton moved to follow Bode, she asked, “You’re more than just a dying girl?”
It was the nicest sounding question Hutton had ever asked Wren. She dipped her chin. “I am.”
With a swish of fabric, Hutton exited the car. Through the open door, a hush fell over the crowd. The camera flashes paused.
They were all waiting for her.
For Sloane Lux.
“For me,” Wren whispered.
She stretched a long tanned leg through the open door and clenched her knees together as the cameras resumed their soul-stealing flashes, capturing her figure emerging from the car.