“You can’t go on like this, Emma! This guy is a misogynist who makes you cry in the toilet. He’s a bully. Two people on your team have already quit. You need to stand your ground. You’re too kind for this garbage!”
Emma’s eyes bulged out from their sockets, and it was only then that I realized I was screaming in the middle of the candy palace shop located halfway between the swan rides on the magic river and the giant’s lair.
I mouthed, “Sorry,” and ignored the stares of the judgmental people buying cotton candy and ice cream. I was done with my shift, plucking the crimson flowers out of my hair. I covered my purple pixie dress with a black sweater with some voodoo dolls on it and threw my wings on the table, getting out of character.
“It’s okay, I can take it. He’s just a coworker. I can ignore him,” she convinced herself.
This was why I could never be part of a team like she had—they were organizing all kinds of events, each one more dazzling than the others, and battling for the spotlight, especially that now they’d landed a yearly event planning with Ever After.
“If you want, I could wait for him in the dragon alley with a shovel if he’s crossing his way to the enchanted forest. I bet Pegasus’ statue would even help me ship him to Zeus’ trial, and we both know he’s not as lénient with men as he is with pretty women,” I came up with a three-act revenge plot in the space of two seconds, and still no happily ever after in sight.
“This is a little villainous for Ever After.” She chuckled. “And that’s the reason why you should be writing. Where are you at with your manuscript?”
I lingered on the scenery of the fairy-tale fairground with its colors and the promise of happiness on the smiles of hopeful families. I wanted all of that, but now, I was jealous and envious of them. “I’m at a place where I’ll make the rise of the villains and kill the prince. I doubt they’ll want that. I’m not exactly selling fantasy.”
I had nothing left to lose, so trying to come face-to-face with Ever After’s publisher seemed infinitely simple in my mission-impossible plan. But writing the manuscript, that was the tricky part. Especially since I had been rejected once during my online applications years ago; and because I wasn’t the kind to take no for an answer, I decided to work here to force destiny—little did I know destiny was stronger than my will.
“Speaking of fantasy.” Emma clasped her hands on the table. “Tell me about Ajax. Did something else happen?”
“No, it was only one evening.” My palms soaked up the warmth of my cup of tea. “Sometimes it’s better to end the story before it begins. This way, the memory is sublimated.”
Lesson number one I’d learned from my side characters’ mates: people always leave, and stories don’t always end on a happy note—so by rejecting the possibility of more, you’re not the one who’s abandoned and hurt.
“What if you missed out on something beautiful?” My best friend didn’t share my opinion.
“I’m not naive, Emma.” I lifted my chin. “There is a difference between a moment and a story. Sometimes it’s not meant to be. Plus, I did look him up online afterwards.”
And, might I add, I was pretty good at looking people up online. I could have been hired as Cupid in disguise. When Léo and Emma started dating, he had to pass all of my tests to be worthy of her. Looking him up online, I had found his whole astrological theme, analyzed all of his identified Instagram pictures—and do not get me started on his followers list. As I always said, better be prepared and not lose your time. I didn’t have trust issues; I used my skills to be aware of scammers, liars, playboys, and Don Juans who would suck everything out of you like leeches.
I inhaled a deep breath, loosening my grip around the cup.
Point was, dating was a battlefield, and true love was rarer than getting struck by lightning.
“And?” Emma waited, ready for me to spill the dirt.
“And I didn’t find much on Ajax Clemonte, but he was promised an impressive soccer career during his teen years with the whole scholarship package, which stopped abruptly for no reason. After that, nil, apart from the fact he owns some art galleries. His name is alongside one of his friends, Isaac, who I briefly saw at the art exhibit. So maybe he’s some kind of art collector, but—” I paused for dramatic effect, wondering if I shouldn’t have confided to Emma that I was on the verge of building a report on him alongside a complete slideshow. An attitude that was either control freak or crazy—or both. “I did find a lot of things on Léon Clemonte. One of the best and wealthiest surgeons, actively involved in charity giving with his prodigy soon-to-be surgeon son, Archibald. And would you believe me if I told you he was the Sagittarius version of cold Aquarius Ajax? Plus, they have a fucking castle in the middle of France.”
“Was ein Plottwist!” sweet and shy Emma screamed in the middle of that dreamy pink place—which was my plot twist of the evening. She leaned forward, trying to mince herself like a mouse. “So he’s from this kind of family?”
“Yep, French royalty.” I raised my cup and in my haste burned my tongue while taking a sip. “And he had the audacity to tell me he struggled to be who he is now. How pretentious is that? Thank god, I didn’t get mixed up in all of that.”
“You know you’re judgmental?” Emma, of course, didn’t burn herself drinking her tea. “He’s not in the big family internet picture. That means something. You should be the one to know that sometimes your family can be a weight to carry.”
“It can be a weight to carry when your absent, lying, piece-of-a-father has a double life and is still surfing on big occasions to ask for tickets to Ever After so he and his other children can have fun. Not when your father is richer than the president in an eighteenth-century castle,” I deadpanned, a bit louder than expected under the impatient stare of my fairy coworkers, who were wondering what I was still doing here since my shift ended an hour ago. I have no life—get on with it.
“I know you didn’t deserve what happened to you, Aurore, but you can’t condemn everyone. Léo’s family didn’t accept me at first, and they are strongly against us getting married, and I think that’s the reason he doesn’t want to propose to me.” She managed a smile. “And you were the one who told me this would make our love stronger and that one day I’d show those fools they were wrong. You promised you’d be here as my maid of honor, annoying them about how happy we look together.”
“Well, back then, I had more faith in people.”
“You mean more faith in you?” Emma hinted. “You accomplished a lot.”
“You mean all the sex scenes I’ve written? At least I’ve brightened up the evenings of women dissatisfied by their selfish and unfaithful men.” I raised my cup, which made Emma laugh. “Anyway, I have to go if I don’t want to be late for my appointment with Spectre’s agent right now. I need to ace my game.”
“Good luck. I have no doubts you’ll be the killer that you are.”
I handed her that killer smile in question.
If being the villain of my story taught me anything, it was that chaos could be my middle name.
Spectre’s agent and I had an appointment in the lobby of a fancy hotel—the supreme place for business meetings, and I was in the middle of an awkward moment. The one where you’re waiting in the middle of the room for your date to arrive—one you don’t even know what he looks like—trying to appear busy and confident, not lost and frightened.
I ended up sitting on the green velvet sofa, straightening my back and crossing my legs on the side because I had the exquisite idea to change out of my pixie work dress and into a long black one with a split, thinking I would look classy after I ditched my creepy doll sweater, while I looked like a permanent member of the Addams family. A notification popped on my phone.
Spectre: I’ll be reachable at any time during the meeting.
I furrowed my brows. Why would he do that? Was he scared, or did he want to throw me off my game?
Me: Yet, you’re still playing hide and seek.
Spectre: Maybe I’m looking at you right now.
I lifted my head, glancing at the crowd around me. After smiling at two wrong men, one old enough to be my grandfather and one who was married, I decided to stop trying to guess. Both of them thought I was flirting, and one of them offered me a mimosa. I won’t tell you which one. And I won’t tell you which finger I childishly raised.
Me: You’re not here.
Spectre: How would you know?
Me: Your eyes will tell the truth about who you truly are. I’ll unmask you.
Spectre: You’re bold and honest.
Me: Virtues you’re certainly lacking.
Spectre: Maybe I don’t seek to be virtuous but simply human.
Me: You’re bad at it.
Spectre: I agree.
I found myself laughing. What on earth? I immediately dropped my smile and started tapping again when a man with a gray suit went through the stairs, almost running, eyes stuck on his phone. He was dynamic. Definitely in a rush. Probably in his forties. He had an East Asian look in him, with short, silky silver hair and deep-set eyes. He looked like the badass hero in an action movie, carrying a briefcase. And he was coming toward me with heavy, determined strides yet was still elegant.
I didn’t lose my composure, remembering the man was on Spectre’s team. I shouldn’t be impressed. I locked my phone, not letting Spectre’s distraction get to me.
“I’m Eric Wén, Spectre’s agent. It’s an honor to meet the woman who inspired The Sad Girl, Miss Bardot.” He gave me his hand to shake and sat in front of me, readjusting his suit in one swift move.
“Likewise,” I replied with the same politeness, my voice managing not to break at the mention of that wretched painting. This was the moment I’d been waiting for.
“I’m gonna cut to the chase and be honest with you.” He crossed his legs, posing his palms on his knee in a position of power. “Spectre has a generous offer for you. One I’d strongly advise, considering, and one I strongly didn’t advise him on making. I’m sure you’re aware your case isn’t strong enough to make it into court, and it’s best for both parties if The Sad Girl remains a myth.”
He was good. Confident good. Arrogant good. But I wouldn’t let myself get swallowed up. “I have no desire for the world to know me as The Sad Girl, but trust me when I say that if Spectre’s offer isn’t appealing to me, I will go to court. A scandal would be enough to ruin his reputation, and even if I don’t win, the damage would be done.”
My nerves were racking. I was bluffing, my legs ready to flee and my heart about to combust.
Eric dropped his rigid business mask and laughed. “You’re good, but we don’t have to go to those extreme lengths, like I said. I’m here to make an agreement with you, not to start a war.”
“And why would I believe your word? You’re on Spectre’s side, and you’re just here to buy my silence.” I was no one to them, just a means to an end.
“It’s true.” He leaned forward. “But I’m human too, and I witnessed your hatred.”
Right, when I screamed at him on the phone. Not my best moment.
“I’m sorry for that, but you have to know this painting belongs to the past. It’ll never go away. You’ll never be able to make it go away.”
I knew, and I could live with it if I had my revenge on him, on life, on something. I wanted to stop feeling like a failure.
“That said, Spectre is offering you an extremely large sum of fifty thousand euros.” Eric flashed a smile. “For your image. But that’s not it.”
Holy shit.
Fifty thousand euros.
With this money, I could change my life. Luna could visit me. I could give her the life she deserved and—
“But there is one condition. He wants you to be his muse. He’s open to negotiating and—”
“No fucking way!” I jumped abruptly from my seat. “I’ll never pose for him.”
He gestured to me to calm down. “Please, Miss Bardot, hear me out.”
“I’m sorry, but if Spectre thinks he can play with me once more with—”
“He’s ready to offer you another fifty thousand euros for you to be his muse, which gives you a total of one hundred thousand,” Eric said.
I dropped—no, slumped—on the couch, not knowing what to say, as if the weight of the money was pulling me to the ground.
Looked like I had no principle left whatsoever.
“All he’s asking for is for you to be his muse for one project. He’s open to working with your rules.” Eric’s dark eyes plunged into mine. “It’s a way to scratch the past, and frankly, he’s quite generous to the point he won’t make any profit on this project, for a reason I completely ignore.”
My mouth thinned, hatred consuming me. I needed money, so of course, I was considering it. Who wouldn’t? I was proud, but I was also realistic and materialistic, my bank account barely staying above ten euros at the end of each month. But making a deal with the man I hated—who probably was an old pervert—would be a nightmare.
But as the proverb says, keep your enemies close. I would discover what the monster looked like and unravel that coward Spectre to get the closure I needed. He thought he was buying me, but if I was smart, I’d use him to get what I wanted. Revenge on life, and perhaps get inspired—the heroine does need a retreat in a sweet little cottage house, and, well, I needed a nemesis to battle.
“I have conditions,” I affirmed with determination, refinding my devastating fire. “If I were to accept, I need to know more about the nature of the project, no more stuff behind my back. I have the power of decision. Plus, I want to meet him before I make a final decision. And don’t come up with a smart way like him wearing a phantom mask or something. No more hiding.”
I needed to know who he was, to put a face on the man who stole my pain to create a masterpiece. This vile psychopath.
“Spectre reveals his identity on rare occasions within the framework of a professional partnership. You cannot hope for—” Eric’s phone rang, and he stopped talking, his eyes set on it. He snapped his lips shut, reading whatever he had just received. “After all, that could be arranged. But you’ll have to sign a confidentiality agreement to protect his identity. And this is not negotiable.”
He raised an eyebrow, pointing out that last aspect, and I wondered why Eric had suddenly changed his behavior about meeting Spectre.
“Fine.” I rose. “And also, no nude painting or any weird, sexual, non-classy thing.”
“Of course. I’ll email you the location and other information regarding our matter once you’ve signed the NDA. This is it, alongside the contract that you’re in no obligation to sign now.” He handed it to me after searching through his briefcase. “You can take a couple of days to think this through. I’m open to rediscussing the terms of the contract beforehand if necessary.”
“I will. I’ll be in touch.” We shook hands strongly. “Goodbye, Eric. You have a lot of courage to work for him and defend his interest.”
Eric gave me a real smile this time. “I hope you’ll accept our offer.”
I slipped away from the hotel and collapsed on the wall outside, letting go of all the breath I didn’t know I was holding. My hand was shaking. My heart was sinking. My eyes were closing.
I was going to find out who Spectre was. My fingers flew over my phone, tapping out a message that would change everything.
Me: I accept your conditions. Prepare yourself to meet me.
His response was instantaneous.
Spectre: I’ll see you soon, Miss Bardot.
And that terrified me.
