It was another photo of Petronille, one I couldn’t recognize. It was old; she looked just barely eighteen. She was only wearing combinations, a helpful illustration beside it detailing the exact design and where to get it.
While I would expect the design to be outdated, it seemed Petre’s allure was enough to bring it straight back into fashion.
Interestingly—there were even quotes.
The secret to alluring a man is your sense of fashion. Every detail, a tell-all. Invest in yourself, and a quality man will follow. That is why I recommend L’Atelier de Rhode for the finest catalogs, custom in cut and dye, the finest feel for the most exceptional value.
There isn’t a single chance on earth that those words came from Petronille’s mouth. A branded impersonation of my wife, at best.
This would surely affect her, though the article wasn’t scathing. Which was odd, as the free press didn’t hold back often.
I knew I hadn’t been invited to Mr. De Villier’s office the other day out of charity. No, he’d planned for this—paid in full. A trade-off was expected; he didn’t seem the type to do anything without a motive. I just couldn’t have guessed he would dothis.
The slam of the door made a sharp cracking sound, a few officers rising from their desk from the commotion.
“Where is he?” I grabbed one who approached. Another man attempted to pull me back. “Where is he!” I shouted.
“Just the man I wanted to see.” Mr. Hunt stood in the doorway of his office, laughing smugly as he waved me inside. “It’s all right, he’s harmless. Let him go.”
Cautious stares as they hesitated to release me, their eyes telling me all I needed to know. Young, jumpy men all too willing to beat someone at the slightest inconvenience. They turned their noses up at those in the streets, as if they were somehow above the working man. Blue collars who believed they were white. Little did they know they were closer to being us than they were to being the lobbyists they protected with their badges.
They said you couldn’t be an intelligent cop, or else you’d be promoted to politician—only the stupid believed the law served the people, and the men who served made fools of us all.
“Come have a seat, Arkady,” Hunt said, stepping aside to hold the office door open.
I shoved the paper at the commissioner’s chest. “I want to press charges.”
“Is that so?” A new voice as the door closed. “What for?”
Adrien De Villier sat behind the commissioner’s desk, reading this morning’s paper.
“You used my wife’s image and disgusting insinuations to sell overpriced scraps of clothing.”
“Insinuations?” He seemed disinterested. “I believe you have me confused with the lingerie company. They paid for their placement in the papers.”
I shoved the paper down from his face. “You gave them the photo.”
Mr. De Villier glanced at it, a smirk rising on his face. “The photo looks better than expected when it’s printed so large.”
My arm snapped out at his tie, yanking it forward. “You did this.”
“There is no foul play here, Arkady,” he said, calmly placing the paper down on the desk. “We have permission from the photographer.”
“We?” I pulled tighter. “This is defamation.”
“It’s just good business.”
“What is your game, old man?”
Mr. Hunt approached us at the desk and reached for his pocket, slowly producing a photograph.
It was of Petre, her pale silhouette stark against the background. An older photograph than the one in the papers ... but completely nude. I slapped my palm over it quickly as if it would protect the image’s dignity.
“Rumor has it that this will be in the papers in two days,” Mr. Hunt informed me. “It’ll get pulled very quickly for being obscene, but it only takes one spark to set the tabloids ablaze with opinion pieces.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Who will you call to complain?Myprecinct?” Mr. Hunt laughed.
