When my phone buzzes with a text, I pull it from my purse with shaky hands.
Amara.
Amara: Everything good? You normally check in as soon as you leave.
I press my fingers to my temples with a wince. I’ve been lost in my head for?—
The taxi stops. We’ve reached my apartment building.
Damn. More than twenty minutes.
I slide the driver a hundred and quickly type out a response to Amara as he counts the change.
Scarlett: Fine. Just needed a minute to recoup. I’m home now. Everything’s fine.
By the time I’m in the comfort of my apartment, there’s a string of texts waiting.
Amara: Okay good. I was worried for you, cara.
Amara: I’d like to hear what you thought of him.
Amara: Can you come by the gallery tomorrow?
The headache that started in the car begins to pound. I don’t usually mind my weekly trips to Amara’s art gallery, but it’s been a long week, and I still have an appointment with a client tomorrow night.
And on top of that, I don’t have a shot in hell at hiding what just happened from her. That woman can read me like a book.
Amara: We’ll make it quick, Scarlett. I’ll have The Palm Court cater an afternoon tea for us.
I sigh. In a way, she knows me too well; she knows my favorite cafe in the entire city, and she knows that I prefer it in private.
I type a response, feeling the exhaustion settle into my bones with every letter.
Scarlett: Okay. I’ll be at the gallery at 1.
That night is the first night I don’t complete my fourteen-step nighttime skincare routine. I simply drop onto my bed and fall into a dreamless sleep.
I’m awake far too early the next morning. Too afraid to close my eyes again because Nico appears every time I do.
Throwing the sheets off my sweaty body, I decide I’m going to run my stress and confusion into the ground. Grabbing my sneakers, I don’t even bother dressing out of my sleep shorts andtank before I lace them up and pull my fold-up treadmill out of the living room closet.
An hour later, I’m heading into mile seven, two more than is typical for me, drenched through my clothes.
Maybe if I feel skinnier, I’ll feel more in control.
By the time my legs turn to jelly and I have to pull the emergency break after stumbling for a second time, there’s a dull ringing in my ears that’s loud enough to drown out the majority of my thoughts. I care less about my insane date last night than I did when I started, which I’ll count as a win.
I drag myself into the bathroom to run a warm bath. Sinking into the water with a whimper, it takes me less than a minute to doze off.
Three hours later, I take one last look in the mirror before leaving my apartment. Despite the chaotic start to my morning, I’m still dressed to the nines, same way I always am when I leave my apartment. I’m wearing a pretty summer dress, my hair is blown out, and my makeup is perfectly done. I’m ready to face the world, red lips and all.
It’s a half-hour drive to Amara’s office. The art gallery is real, as is Amara’s love of expensive paintings, but the business was opened specifically with the intent of laundering money for the illegal side of the agency. Since beauty is in the eye of the beholder, no one bats an eye if a painting is bought for what some might deem “too much” money.
Amara’s assistant is on the phone when I walk into the gallery, but I’m assuming she was told of my appointment because she waves me in. I find Amara standing in the center of the art space, staring at one of her most prized paintings.
To this day, she’s the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen. She’s tall, taller than me, wearing a dark-green dress that perfectly complements her olive skin tone. Her brown hair istwisted into a coiffure and her makeup is so perfect, she looks like a real-life filter. No one would ever guess she’s in her forties.
Or that she runs the most successful escort agency in New York.
