Isabelle hesitated for just a moment before giving him her phone, ignoring a small twisting feeling in her stomach.
“The other models are already here,” Spyros said, leading Isabelle deeper into the house. “You’ll work with them initially. Team shots—professional, artistic. OK?”
Isabelle nodded. Maybe it was OK. Yearning to be seen and a small bit of fear made her chest hot. Her breath was short.Just nerves,she told herself.
In the dining room, a long walnut table was set with crystal and silver. White roses and olive branches served as a centerpiece. About a dozen young women were already seated—all beautiful, all trying hard to look older than they were. Isabelle didn’t recognize anyone.
The girls looked glassy-eyed. And the men around the table—older men with expensive clothes and predatory smiles—did not look like photographers or crew. They were holding wineglasses. They were watching. Something felt off. Isabelle could barely get a breath in. Her lungs were tight.
“Yet another model,” said a brunette who looked about fifteen—but she couldn’t be fifteen! There was no way. “Sit down, new girl.”
Spyros stood behind a chair at the head of the table. Isabellesat, and he placed his large, cold hands on her shoulders as someone took a photo with a phone.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured near her ear, his breath warm and smelling of cigarettes. “The camera loves you already.”
Could Isabelle’s wine be making her dizzy? Spyros offered her a cigarette, and she accepted it and a light from his match.
“Tell me about your family,” Spyros said, refilling her glass. “Your mother, your father, they are Greek?”
“No,” Isabelle paused, her mind feeling fuzzy. “My mom is American. She’s going through some things right now. Midlife crisis stuff.”
“Ah, yes. Women of a certain age.” His smile was sympathetic, understanding. “It must be difficult, being mature while surrounded by…instability.”
Isabelle smiled. “Yes,” she murmured. “Itisdifficult.” Spyros didn’t know the half of it, although Isabelle’s mom really was trying to be normal. Isabelle forgave her mom—of course she did—but a hot fury remained in Isabelle’s body. There was nowhere for the anger to go…Isabelle hoped it would somehow vanish.
Around the table, the other girls laughed nervously and fidgeted while the men—men in their thirties and forties and fifties—watched them creepily.
“You should try this,” the brunette said, sliding a small silver tray toward Isabelle. White powder arranged in neat lines. “It helps with nerves. For the shoot.”
Isabelle hesitated for just a moment. She’d taken drugs with Anastasia, but this was different. She was alone here, and she didn’t know what was in the powder.
“I don’t want to pressure you,” Spyros said smoothly. “Only if you’re comfortable. Though I think you’ll find it enhances your performance.”
Isabelle leaned forward, following the brunette’s example,feeling a burn, an immediate rush. The room became brighter, sharper. Her tongue felt loose, her body electric. She belonged in rooms like this.
Ah,thought Isabelle, tagging Atelier Nyx and its impressive address,so this is what power feels like.
“Much better,” Spyros said, his hand finding her thigh under the table. “Now we can begin.”
81
Flora
Flora stared at her sister’sInstagram story: Isabelle in a red dress at some fancy house. Isabelle looked beautiful. Sophisticated. But something in her sister’s eyes looked fake, as if Isabelle were an actress who was too scared to play her starring part.
Flora analyzed the outfit she had worn to meet her friends for an early coffee. Round glasses, hair in a boring ponytail, wearing a T-shirt and jeans that screamedLoser!No wonder no one noticed her other than the White Hat Hackers. There was nothing to see. Flora frowned. She went to change into her pajamas, then changed her mind.
Flora decided to track the address from where Isabelle had posted the photo of herself with her hand on her hip, like she belonged in a world of wealth and privilege. Well, if one Willingham sister belonged, the other could, too.
Flora threw open Isabelle’s closet and found a tight black miniskirt and a sequined tube top. She yanked them on, took off her glasses, squinted at her reflection. Better.
She found Isabelle’s makeup bag and started experimenting—foundation to even out her skin, mascara to make her eyes look bigger, lipstick in a shade called Midnight Rose that made her mouth look huge. Flora had watched Isabelle use her curling ironhundreds of times, but doing it herself was different. She burned her finger twice before getting the hang of it, but eventually her straight hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders.
The girl looking back at her was a stranger—someone who might actually belong at a party in Psychiko. She grabbed Isabelle’s leather jacket and exited the apartment, feeling both terror and excitement.
Isabelle had posted from a mansion with iron gates and manicured gardens. This wasn’t a bunch of kids—this was a serious adult gathering.
Flora almost turned around. Almost got back on the metro and went home to her homework and the empty apartment and her invisible, safe existence. But the thought of spending another night without anyone to talk to, the good girl who never got chosen—it made her walk all the way to the mansion’s front door and ring the bell.
