Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Thank God the door opens. If I have to hear any more about how much Trevor wants me, how he’s fighting for me, I won’t be able to hold out. I’ll walk all the way to Brooklyn in these damn shoes and bang on his door until he takes me back.
“You are ready, oui?” François asks from the door. In his mid-sixties, François is still a handsome man, distinguished and always perfectly attired in a suit of his own design. His salt-and-pepper ponytail, a nod to his flamboyant younger days, is tamed into line down his neck.
“Oui.” I walk over to him, placing a kiss on his cheek. “How do I look?”
“Magnifique, toujours, ma petite.” He dangles my hand over my head and turns me to get a full look. “Just as I envisioned you. My Goddess. And the scent, so beautiful, yes?”
“Beautiful.” I lean toward him so he can smell it on my neck. “I’m wearing it now.”
“Parfait. Parfait.” He hooks my elbow through his and starts toward the door. “As we discussed, the curtain will drop to reveal the ad.”
Just what I need today. Fifteen feet of my nearly naked body. It’s all shoulders, knees, and face. No lady bits or tits, but still. Why couldn’t I have posed in say…a habit? Sister Sofie has a nice ring to it. Maybe I should consider a convent once I’m done with modeling. This ridiculous banter running in my head is further evidence that I’m barely holding on, as if I needed proof. I may present a placid surface, may seem to be held together by steel bands and wooden bones, but it’s all as fragile as porcelain. I know, only I know, that one more thing could shatter me. And I can’t have that with half of New York waiting to see the Goddess.
As soon as we take the stage, the buzz in the room escalates to a fervent hum of speculation that has nothing to do with the perfume I’m wearing. I can’t summon a smile, hard as I try, so I freeze my face into Ice Princess mode, hoping they’ll take it for arrogance instead of numb terror that I’ll fall apart in front of them all.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” François begins, leaning into the mic to elevate his voice over the others in the room. “Esteemed members of the press, thank you for coming today. When I considered my new fragrance, I knew I wanted it to embody all that is beautiful about womanhood. I met Sofie Baston fifteen years ago when she was fresh out of high school, new to the runway. I was the first to call her the Goddess, you know.”
He chuckles, offering me an affectionate smile I try my best to return.
“She was a goddess then, and she is a goddess now. Even more so.”
The audience dutifully applauds. I look out for the first time. There are actually a lot of friendly, familiar faces. Mostly people from the industry I’ve worked with for years, mixed in with the story-seekers.
“Without further ado, I present to you my new scent, Goddess!”
François gestures to the wall behind us, and I hear the curtain drop. The crowd gasps, varying degrees of horror on their faces. Is it that bad? I’m afraid to look. Maybe something was Photoshopped badly, or is it a shadow of a nipple? What could it be?
I thought I was prepared for anything. Thought I could withstand whatever they threw at me, sure that I could duck before the next blow fell. But there was no ducking this. The word WHORE is spray-painted in bright red letters over François’s perfume ad. They may as well have sliced open my veins and bled me out to scrawl it in my blood.
I’ve barely had time to absorb the initial shock, when my publicist, Geena, is right beside me, pulling my elbow to get me off the stage. I’m submitting, letting her drag me away, when Halima’s words whisper to me again, as clearly as if she stands right beside me.
I tell my story every chance I get. Every time I do, I raise a fist against my oppressors.
“Stop.” I jerk my arm from Geena’s grip, digging my costly heels into the carpeted stage. “No, stop.”
“Sof,” Geena whispers urgently. “We need to get you out of here. This is not good.”
I shake her free and walk back to the podium. François’s sorrowful eyes meet mine, and I don’t know if he feels worse for me or for his beautiful defaced ad. I press a quick kiss to his cheek and step to the mic.
“First, I want to apologize to my dear friend François,” I say, my voice barely shaking. “This is such a special day for a very special man.”
I look back at François, who blows me a kiss, eyes sad.