Silence. I twist the knob.
The bed is still fresh. So Slayer spent the night elsewhere. I feel a surge of emotion welling up within me. Not quite rage. Not anger. More like a stomach-dropping pain.
Like something I once believed in has been torn away.
The trust I built with him after our misunderstandings is gone just as quickly as it was forged.
I walk back to my room and think about how the day is scheduled. There’s an interview with an international fashionmagazine this morning, and then a limo will come at 2 p.m. to take me to Nîmes in time for Slayer’s concert.
There I’ll play the role of the adoring girlfriend one last time. Interviews for the two of us may follow. And after that, I’ll be free.
Well, I remember Milo saying something about a party to celebrate Slayer’s new album. Then I’ll need to pack for our flight tomorrow afternoon.
That can’t come soon enough. I’m done here.
Back in New York, I’ll collect my check, pay off some student loans, and say goodbye to Slayer forever.
I try not to think about the way he looked at me during our Shibari session—like I was the only woman in the world who could see past his Dark Prince persona.
After I take a shower, I’m surprised to find Toto watching me as I towel off.
“Hey, little guy. I’m not used to being watched as I dress. Mind if I have some privacy?” He yips and wags his tail, but remains for the show. “Okay. Have it your way.”
I check my phone and see a message from Milo. I can’t click on it fast enough, hoping it might contain some news about Slayer.
But it’s simply a reminder of the interview, along with a directive to wear the suit Antoine selected for me.
Efficient as ever, Milo has again attached a photo to show which one he means.
Time to get down to business.
I apply my makeup with extra care. Slayer’s girlfriend must be perfect. After dressing in the obligatory suit, I look at the strands of my faux pearls lying on the nightstand.
Though I’m never without them, today I leave them where they are. I don’t want to be accused of wearing unapproved accessories.
And anyway, those pearls represent the core of the real Bix. Not her fake socialite twin.
“Want to join the interview, Toto?”
He yips something I take to be a yes.
“Good. I need some moral support. It’s showtime.”
When I step from the elevator out into the lobby, Milo’s alreadythere. He looks especially dapper in a fitted beige suit and crisp white shirt, with a trendy David Yurman amulet around his neck.
“You’re stunning,” he says, inspecting me from top to bottom. “When I first met you, I didn’t think you could rock this Upper-East-Side vibe so well.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” I quip, falling into our usual pattern.
“A bit of both.” He smirks. “Did you read the dossier on the journalist, Madame Mecure, I sent you? She writes the ‘Behind the Scenes’ column forLuxury Lifestylemagazine. Did you even open the issue I emailed you?”
“Of course, Milo.”
“Good. Remember to play nice.”
“I always play nice.”
“True enough, Miss Sunshine. But today it’s a solo interview. You won’t have Slayer to play off of. You’ll have to charm Madame Mecure all on your own.”
