Page 209 of The Sweetest Return

That last question was ridiculous.

Obviously.

I was the specimen.

What amused me most were the people determined to establish that I had somehow earned the right to be with him. Someone had put together an entire thread about my career, complete with Tiffany, YSL, Saint Aurelia, and photographs from campaigns I had worked on. Another woman posted a carousel of me with the caption OH, SHE HAS HER OWN MONEY, as though Andre’s net worth required any woman approaching him to arrive with audited financial statements.

Which, considering that man probably had enough money to put a respectable dent in Pittsburgh hunger, maybe people thought due diligence was appropriate.

The old me would have hated all of it.

Or, if I was being more truthful, she would have hated needing the flattering parts of it. I would have told myself the attention did not matter while quietly feeling relieved every time somebody mentioned my career, my education, my success, my face, my body, my clothes. Every comment that said she’s accomplished too or he didn’t just pick anybody would have soothed the part of me still afraid the world could look at us and see Andre Jones first and somebody’s pretty girlfriend second.

I understood that woman.

I just wasn’t her anymore.

People could think I was gorgeous. They were correct. They could admire my career, investigate my résumé, debate my wardrobe, or decide I had somehow accomplished the impossible by “snagging” THEE Andre Jones, as one post insisted on spelling it.

None of it changed what I knew.

I loved myself. I loved the life I had built.

“It was a lot,” I admitted.

“The plane?”

“The ease.”

Camille’s expression softened. That was why I loved her. She could clown me for ten minutes straight and still find the tender place without needing directions.

“But he didn’t make you feel small,” she said.

“No.” I looked down at my hands. “That’s the thing. He didn’t. He made sure everybody knew I was the point. He got me there, then stepped back and let me do my job.”

“Good.”

“It was.”

“And now?”

I exhaled and looked toward the window. Outside, a woman crossed the street carrying flowers wrapped in brown paper, laughing into her phone like her day had never considered turning complicated.

“Now Cleo wants me to travel more.”

“For Saint Aurelia?”

“Yes. After Malibu, the feedback got back to her and the board. Laila’s placement was supposed to be next month, then it turned into a last-minute press-preview situation with more eyes on it, more pressure, and no room for us to stumble. I didn’t just get the jewelry there. I sold the experience. The house. The story. Why those diamonds needed to be on that woman at that exact moment.”

Camille picked up her fork. “So you did exactly what they hired you to do.”

“I did.”

“And did it well.”

“Yes.”

“And this is bad because…?”