“I’m not entitled to say more, but all I can guarantee is that Spectre is the manipulative, frigid, egocentric jerk I always thought he’d be,” I said firmly, closing my luggage and slumping on my bed with a deep breath.
I’m the artist selected to collaborate with Ever After for their hundred-year anniversary.
Spectre’s words were inked into my brain, the memory of what happened next so vivid. The way I craved to snatch the contract from his hand, to tear it and Spectre into pieces, but I didn’t do any of that. I had given him a sly leer, concocting a new plan at top speed, because it was too late to regret divulging to Ajax that night that I was indeed working at Ever After. My ego had taken another stab. This was the true reason he needed me: not because I was a fairy tale or muse material but because I was working there. But my feelings didn’t matter; they’d pass and die, just like the ones before.
“Aurore?” Emma called out.
Spectre wanted to use my knowledge. Well, I’d use him, too, to get my happy ending.
So a deal had been made.
I accepted his contract and swallowed my pride in exchange for him delivering my unwritten novel to the director of publication of Ever After by the end of our collab. He accepted without complaints, and I was on the verge of making my impossible mission barely possible.
I had the opportunity, a way in to my fucked plan, and all I needed to do was to write that stupid novel.
“I don’t like when you remain silent. It means you’re up to no good.” Emma joined me on the bed, her eyes brimming with curiosity. “I wish you could tell me what he’s like. Is he actually old? Creepy? Tell me just a clue, please!”
“He’s—” Annoyingly handsome at every angle for such an evil soul. “Okay.”
“Willst du mich verarschen!” She was offended. “I’m your best friend, and all you can say to me is that he’s okay? And is that a blush on your cheeks?”
“No, it’s not!” It wasn’t a blush. It was rage.
“At least you’re forgetting about Ajax.”
“You’d be surprised to know how hard he is to be forgotten with his ironed shirts and ‘I’m a decent guy’ bullshit attitude, with his superior stare that us common mortals should be so blessed to receive.” She couldn’t understand my sarcasm alongside my high-pitched tone.
My phone rang with a notification from Spectre. Emma knitted her brows in response, probably lost in the midst of my tantrum.
The Devil incarnate (skull emoji): The car is waiting for you.
I decided to ignore his message and threw my phone on the bed.
She was now facing me with her arms folded over her chest in something that would have looked authoritative on everyone else but not on her. “Do I want to ask who the Devil incarnate is, and what was all that with Ajax?”
I gave her a smile that meant you don’t want to go there right now. “So, anyway, what are you guys doing here in my way-too-small apartment to have three people in?”
Léo came back to us, stopping pretending to be busy on his phone to give us privacy to talk. He hugged Emma from behind, who giggled, which made me instantly roll my eyes at the display of affection. Great, they were contaminating my apartment with their love germs.
“I—I want to ask you for a favor. And I came up with a full plan last night.” I didn’t like the sound of that nor the look of Emma’s glittering eyes. “You remember that my event planning society organizes a charity ball each year?”
“Of course, I do.” I snorted. “Like the one you did last year with the bidding auction when the depressive man who was divorced twice couldn’t stop speaking to me, and you made me bid for him because you thought he’d cry onstage if no one wanted him. He even tried to kiss me and accused me of slutty temptation because I refused him. What are you—”
Seeing her face twitch and Léo grinning, the realization hit me. “No fucking way!”
“Yes, please!” She gave me puppy eyes. I was a master of that game. She couldn’t fool my purple heart. “It will be different this time, I promise. And you did punch him and—”
“He was trying to touch my breast to see if I was the same bra size as his ex!” I inhaled deeply. “I’m not going through this nightmare twice. Singles are at the mercy of psychopaths during this type of event, and I don’t have money to bid on yachts and romantic trips for two!”
“But I thought of everything!” she screamed in that little voice of hers. “We’re gonna auction five guys and five girls, all respectable people who either work with the association we’re raising money for or our department.”
“Great, so this year you want me to be auctioned like some kind of object?”
“Kinda.” She grimaced, seizing both of my hands. “Someone pulled out, and I need a replacement, or else my career is ruined. My colleague, the rude one you wanted to hit with a shovel, would gloat at my failure and complain to our boss. Everything has to be perfect because last year it was a nightmare, and you know how much speaking in public already stresses me out.” That was a low blow. Emma was vicious. “As my fairy godmother, you need to protect me. Plus, it’s for a good cause for children in hospitals. This year, we’ll have elite guests. It’s so important I don’t mess things up.”
“Why do you think I’d care about a good cause?” It was my turn to cross my arms across my chest with a deadly stare.
“Because the Aurore I know would.”
“Perhaps she’s dead, and this Aurore doesn’t like the idea.”
“It’s for children.” Emma batted her eyelashes.
I pursed my lips.
“And the person who bets the highest price on you will only win an opportunity to help the cause at your side for one afternoon. It’ll all be supervised and secured. Plus, I have a plan to save you.” That was her argument. “Please, please, please.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” This was going to be a nightmare. “Don’t count on me to smile and wave like Miss World. I’ll come as Dracula, and I won’t smile unless I truly mean it. And there better be food.”
“You’ll help children who don’t have a fairy godmother like I do.” She played on my heartstrings.
“You’ll end up having a wicked witch if you continue down this road.” I fired my eyes at her, knowing I would sell my soul to that good cause because the little angel on my shoulder couldn’t say no and leave me in peace. “What’s that plan of yours?”
Emma exchanged an accomplice look with her boyfriend. “Léo will bet on you no matter what. This way, you’ll not end up with someone weird like the past year. You’ll be condemned to absolutely nothing. See, genius, right?”
“Allow me to express doubts about this wobbly rescue.” When a prince rescued someone else other than his soulmate, it most of the time ended up badly for the person.
“I promised Emma I would vote for you,” Léo said. “We’ll not let you down.”
How could I say no? All I had to do was to put on a smile and a dress—that wasn’t from my collection because I was definitely not ready. “Fine, I’ll do it. When is it?”
“In two days. Nine p.m.”
“You’re kidding me? You’re telling me this only now!”
“Thank you so much, Aurore. You’re the absolute best.” She went in to hug me, and I swallowed the fact I’d be going to a ball.
After this whole apocalyptic mess, I was on my way to meet with Spectre with hatred in my gut to begin our collaboration. During the ride, I went through my unread messages from my family.
Luna: You’re going to a ball??? I’m so jealous! You better be dancing with someone.
Me: I’d prefer to dance with you.
Luna: That wouldn’t be so fairy-taleish, right? Wait, Duchess just stepped on my watercolor painting, arghhhh!
Luna was painting now?
I received a text from my mom at the same moment.
Mom: Hello, honey! I hope you’re still doing awesome, my bestselling prodigy! Don’t forget about your old mom. Ps: Thank you for the payment for Luna’s psychologist sessions, but you sent me more than expected? What would I do without your help…
My father never bothered to check in with his daughter, who seven years ago was in the hospital, between life and death. He never took responsibility and let us down—the first time when my mother was pregnant with Luna, and the second when his double life was exposed.
My mom, on the contrary, was living in her own world, one with butterflies and mystical creatures. She occupied herself with activities crazier than the others. It was her own way of coping with the real world. So I had to reply to her as I usually did: pretending that everything was great because she was counting on me.
Me: I am! I’m so busy working that I made more money than usual.
Mom: The creative visualizations I did for you finally worked!! Honey… Could you lend me two hundred euros to make a safe haven for bees? It’s for the planet. It’d be nice if you gave back the extra money you made. The karma will thank you.
That was my mom in all her splendor. After all, with the fifty thousand Spectre had already sent me, I would be able to change my life and the lives of the bees apparently too. A win-win for nature and me.
Me: Sure, anything for nature.
Mom: They’ll thank you!! I’ll send you pictures. Did Luna tell you about the party I planned for her?
She sent me a selfie of her doing a thumbs-up, wearing the new cosmonaut costume she’d bought, I guess to extract the bees’ honey. Another notification popped on my phone at the same time.
Luna: So Duchess has rainbow paws now. I need to clean her up. I’ll talk to you tonight. xo.
Me: Mom, cancel Luna’s birthday party. I’m sending her tickets for Ever After. I’m taking care of everything.
It tore me up to admit it, but Spectre and I had two things in common. One, we were both on a deadline, and two, lacking inspiration. But for Luna, I’d succeed in writing that novel because, in contradiction to him, I had someone to love.
Mom: Really?? She’s gonna be so happy!
The car stopped in front of Spectre’s mansion. I hurried outside, my suitcase wheels getting stuck in the cobblestones. I lowered the handle and crossed the front door, swinging the suitcase inside to see Spectre staring at me. He was already waiting behind it like a freak. His ironed dress shirt let me peer at his muscles underneath, exposing his Greek warrior body that was contracting in the most destabilizing and annoying way.
“Only one suitcase?” he said, not letting himself be put off by my loud arrival.
“I’m not moving in for eternity.” Not that I would mind if he wasn’t here. “Plus, in two days, I need to head back to Paris, and that’s not negotiable.”
“I’ll be busy too. Do you need any help?” he offered, glancing at the luggage and to one of the wheels that was squashed on the ground, filled with pebbles.
I immediately tightened my grip on the handle with determination. “So, what do we start with?”
His dark eyes assessed me. “I don’t suppose you have in that luggage of yours some clothing that could fit with something rather artistic.”
“Only things you’d strongly disapprove of.”
“Fine, we’re going shopping, then.”
“Shopping?” my voice echoed, and I let go of my grip on the handle, my luggage dropping to the ground.
“Yes. For the sketches.” He paused. “I won’t draw you in just anything. I want a visual. Unless you want to be naked?”
“No.” I sucked in a sharp breath, almost coughing on it. “Clothes. I need clothes. What do you have in mind?”
“I’ll know when I find it.”
“That’s quite pretentious,” I mumbled. “You just have to tell me who you want me to be and act upon. After all, when I was posing as a muse, I was just a statue.”
“I don’t want a statue. I want you to be you. Do not hold back.”
Why would he want someone like me for Ever After? “But I—”
He prowled toward me. “You can’t see yourself like I see you, so please don’t argue with me on this.”
“I doubt you see me in any positive light though.”
I was a means to an end, one he certainly didn’t want to need. Just like he was my only way to get me out of the mess I was in—soon without an apartment, currently without a novel, and let’s not forget, without contacts in high places and without money. At least I could scoff at those last two items on my list and not worry about the first since I’d be heading back to the middle of nowhere after being graciously expelled from the big city. All I had to focus on was inspiration.
“You’ll just have to find out.” He passed in front of me, his car keys in one hand. “Let’s go. I’m driving.”
“And you’re also paying for everything.” I squinted. “And everything can be a lot.”
“If you think that should bother me, you’re wrong.” He strode to the Aston Martin parked in front of the gate and opened the passenger door for me. “Aurore, you can waste my money all you want. I don’t care as long as I obtain what I want. In that case, you, as my muse.”
“You’re unbearable,” I cursed him.
“And you’re delicate, an example of rare amiability.”
“I’m only a reflection of your warmhearted and welcoming amiability,” I attacked, entering his car.
“You and your arsonist personality are about to light up a fire every time you’re around me.” It was his turn to step inside, warming up the engine. “Your seat belt.”
“It may be to thwart you from icing the world.” I crossed my arms. “I’m usually a sunny and very nice person.” Or, more accurately, I used to be.
“You’re atypical.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Where did you learn to have that personality?”
“Well, I was raised by my hermit of a mom in the middle of nowhere in the countryside, making up imaginary characters for friends, so I guess that helps.”
“I understand better. Can you please put your seat belt on?”
I snapped my eyes to him menacingly. “You understand what better? That I’m a peasant to you?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “It makes sense why you’re so free and you. You do come out from a fairyland, after all. I envy you.”
“Yeah, right.” I shook my head. “Anyway, are we gonna leave this parking spot someday soon or wait for the car to magically transport us to the destination?”
“I’m waiting for you to put your seat belt on. Safety first.”
The seat belt. Right. I did as he asked. “Better?”
“Yes.” He thinned his lips. “My fairy.”
He revved up the engine, that smug, thin line still plastered on his face. Was it Spectre’s attempt at making a joke?
“I’m not a fairy and certainly not yours,” I deadpanned.
“There are different types of fairies, right? From the pixies to the banshees. I’ll let you guess which one I was referring to you about.”
He sped up across the road, and I smiled. Well played.
“There is no way I’m wearing this!” I called out through the changing room, watching my reflection in the mirror.
This was my sixth try-on. To the first four, Spectre had remained like marble, sitting on the girly visitors’ couch. As I showed him the outfits like a brooding catwalk model, he had addressed me with just one head nod. One head nod that meant no way in hell. He didn’t like, or most likely tolerate, anything. Was that surprising? Coming from a man with impossible standards and a control freak attitude, not so much. At the fifth one, he had given me just one dismissive sign of his hand. Even the saleswomen were terrified of him, not daring to offer him any kind of help.
And right now, I was the one chickening out.
I was wearing a long dress in a rainbow of colors from crimson red to dark purple, passing by a shimmering red and a soft pink at the bottom. It was enchanting. The neckline was plunging. The lace fell on my shoulders with golden ornaments, giving it a romantic and somehow dark vibe with the austere shoulder pads. Tight at the waist, the fabric slipped over my rather wide hips, with an open split on my leg—my tan line was visible from it, and I had to pull my panties up so they wouldn’t be seen. These were the kind of dresses I could add to my collection. But this one was even worse. It was exactly me, and that’s why I feared the meaning behind the dress.
“Are you coming out?” Spectre called out from behind the curtain.
“No.”
I heard him rise up from his seat and felt his imposing shadow looming behind the curtain. “Aurore, let me see.”
Why did I have a silly passion for ball gowns? Because they made me hope for a life I couldn’t have. One that was only meant to be fiction and not reality. Wearing them, I allowed myself to feel like the main character, and the idea that Spectre could read me terrified me. It’d mean he was part of my tale, and a fragment of my heart feared rejection. Perhaps I had impostor syndrome. Why do I suddenly care? I snapped my fists the length of my body, inhaling deeply. I wouldn’t care about what Spectre thought.
“No, let’s try a new one.” Something that didn’t make my heart beat across my chest like a cloaking bomb.
“If you don’t open the curtain, I will,” the bastard insisted.
“Don’t you dare! I said we—”
He did it anyway, and through the mirrored glass, the heavy weight of his stare fell on me. Panic took possession of my conflicted heart in the shape of hair hissing on my skin. I didn’t like the way he was stealing my oxygen. Why on earth was I feeling this way? Spectre didn’t impact me. I loathed him. And this was just a dress. Nothing else. No fairy-tale bullshit. Nothing.
His eyes dipped down and lingered on every part of me for seconds that felt like painful hours. Only his pupils were moving, and in that moment, I’d have preferred to be naked. I wouldn’t have felt so vulnerable and exposed.
“This is the one. We’re taking it.” His dry tone didn’t display any emotions.
I used to tie symbolic moments to some dresses. With this one, I imagined dreams coming true, castles in ruins, and a second-chance trope. It created a spark of inspiration and hope, and I had no idea if that was actually a good thing.
“It’s too see-through and plunging. It’s not the one,” I made excuses. “I look like a villain.”
“Aurore, look at me.” The rasp of his voice prickled at my senses, and I braved meeting his eyes through the reflection in the mirror. “If you don’t believe you’re the main character, I will make you one. You can’t hide from me. This dress, it’s—”
“Me,” I finished in a whisper.
“Perfection,” he dropped at the same time.
A mere flash of surprise etched its way across his features. It didn’t last long as he concealed it with his throat bobbing and usual aloofness when he said, “I’m going to pay for the dress. Get changed.”
He closed the curtain, and I leaned against the mirror wall to take a shaky breath.
I’ll make you one.
My heart hadn’t beat that much in forever.
Spectre and I had one common point.
His lack of emotions bled through every action he did to the way he dressed and spoke—the precision of his words, the coldness of his gaze, the sharp lines of his black dress shirts. It was as if he was dead inside, but appearances can be deceitful.
I, on the contrary, felt too much, and I didn’t know what to do with the surge of emotions that dragged me into the abyss.
And in the end, we were both hiding who we were through our art.
Nonexistent and haunted.
