Melanie Carter.
Celebrity vulture. Collector of scandals. Velvet knife with a microphone.
Frankie smiled. Not the accidental, real one the locals kept coaxing out of her. This was her Monday-morning pitch-meeting smile, the kind that saidshe was the gatekeeper and would kill weak ideas before lunch.
Gi Gi’s Crossing didn’t know her yet. If Melanie peeled back the gloss, would they turn on her for the lie? Would she lose the oddball stage-one friends she was considering graduating to stage four, the kind who feel like family?
“Of course,” she drawled, heat banked and steady. Crisis-management muscle memory slid into place. Whoever had leaked her location was about to learn the definition of regret.
The cameras swung wide. “Tell me, Gi Gi’s Crossing, did you know you had a celebrity in your midst?”
The crowd went half awe, half oh-no-she-didn’t.
A producer thrust a mic at Harriet. Harriet narrowed her eyes. “Listen, missy, in Gi Gi’s Crossing we don’t gossip with outsiders.”
“For those just tuning in,” Melanie purred, sugar over steel, “we’re live in Gi Gi’s Crossing, formerly known as Nippleton Falls. Once ranked number three on a listicle ofTenTowns You’d Move to If You Hated Yourself.
Groans rippled through the crowd.
“And standing with me,” she added, leaning in, “is Frankie Peterson, former editor-in-chief ofNaked Runwayand high-heeled icon of controversy. The woman whose social media to that listicle was, ‘Honestly, number three feels generous.’”
Frankie’s jaw ticked. Around her, whispers popped like firecrackers, a phone or two lifted, her real name floating up like a flare.
“There is no former,” she said evenly. “I am the editor-in-chief ofNaked Runway.”
“We’ll circle back to that,” Melanie said, smile tight. “First, the other rumors about why you really threw the stiletto. Which one is true?”
Frankie felt the old pulse of panic trying to climb her throat. She shoved it down and gave the practiced answer. “A model stumbled. I was having a bad day. I threw a shoe. End of story.”
Melanie tipped her head, the picture of sympathy, the scent of blood in her eyes. “Funny. I rewatched every angle. I can’t find even the ghost of a stumble.”
“Then your eye isn’t trained for runway detail,” Frankie said, smooth as glass. “Trust me. She stumbled.”
Say it clean. Don’t blink. Make the livestream believe you.
And still, Melanie smiled, certain the kill was coming.
Whispers rose up all around Frankie.
“She wasn’t wrong. Three was generous.”
“I thought she said her father cut her off.”
“Wait, she’s not an heiress?”
No one said liar. No one sounded angry. Just confused.
“Hmm.” Melanie leaned in, smile thinning. “And you are sure it had nothing to do with the argument you were overheard having backstage, with the designer scheduled right afterNaked Runway’sfinal look?”
“Of course not,” Frankie said, voice press-release smooth.
“Then you admit you argued with her?”
Behind the camera, the crowd tightened. Quiet, sharp.
“I don’t even remember who was up next.”
A lie. She remembered everything. The panic in Lola’s eyes. The promise Frankie had made. The silence after. She’d taken the hit so the other woman would not have to.
