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Then the smaller figure pulls back an arm, and I hear a sharp cracking sound.
I don’t register what just happened until I see the taller figure’s head snap to one side, and a hand raise slowly to cup its cheek.
She just slapped him.
My stomach sinks all the way through the ground. Oh, God. She does know there’s another woman—but from the sounds of it, she doesn’t know it’s me yet. Hitting him, though?
I’m still standing there, frozen with shock, when she does it again. Backhand this time. Another sharp crack that makes me wince reflexively.
I know he hurt her, but…
All too late, I realize Sheryl’s shadow is now storming toward the door. Reflexively, I leap for the nearest large object—a stage curtain hanging nearby—and wrap it around myself. Just in time, too. The click clack of a familiar pair of heels storms out of Marcel’s office, as Sheryl strides back through the studio.
I hold my breath until a distant slam far off in the distance—followed by Marcel’s curse, probably as her opening the exit door ruined his lighting. Only then do I dare to exhale, to start to breathe again, my chest aching from the held breath.
I realize I haven’t heard Lark walk past. Being careful not to move too quickly or draw attention to myself, I fold a narrow slit in the stage curtains to peer through.
Sure enough, there’s Lark, standing only five feet away from me, his brow furrowed as he glares out in the direction Sheryl just left. His fists are balled, and there’s a hand-shaped angry red mark on his cheek. My first instinct is to go to him. Offer him ice, tell him it will be okay, offer to cover up the mark with some foundation before anyone else in the studio sees, in case he doesn’t want to answer any awkward questions.
But I don’t move. Because I’m aware that I was just eavesdropping on a very private fight—a fight I most likely caused. My heart drops into my gut. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.
I pull the curtain closed again and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting until Lark leaves too. Like Sheryl, he beelines straight across the main studio floor. When I peer out again, he’s paused beside the stage, glancing around, like he’s looking for somebody. Failing that, he shakes his head, murmurs something to Marcel, and then heads out of the studio.
A minute later, just as I’ve summoned the courage to come out from behind the curtain and approach the stage again, my phone buzzes. It’s a new text, from Lark.
Sorry I missed you. Had to run. Urgent business matter. You’re doing amazing today, though. Just wanted to tell you that. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come.
He signs it with a simple x. I have to close my eyes, pressing my phone against my chest, in order to keep from breaking down.
All I want to do is chase after him, out into the parking lot. To pull him into my arms and kiss his bruise better.
Instead, I square my shoulders and return to the stage. There, I find Marcel, no longer ogling his model beau, but gazing past me out the studio doors, in the direction of the parking lot.
One look at my face, and he guesses. “You saw the state Lark was in?”
I nod, careful.
His mouth flattens in disapproval. But he doesn’t offer anything else. He just goes back to watching the photoshoot, this time with his arms folded across his chest.
After a moment, I clear my throat, and venture, “Um… Is that… usual?”
Marcel lets out a long, slow sigh, his mouth pursed in a way that tells me exactly what he’s thinking. “No, Cassidy. I don’t care who you are, or what your relationship, former or otherwise, is to someone else. That’s not usual, girl.”
Staring out across the stage at all the pretty models posing and beaming for the cameras… I can’t help but agree.
18
Cassidy
My first check comes in the mail two days later. I call Becky to scream with her about it, because frankly, it’s more digits than I’ve ever seen written on a single slip of paper in my entire life.
Yes, a huge chunk of my profits go to Sheryl and Lark’s investment firm off the top first, since they bought such a big investment share in my company. But still. This is so much more money than I ever would have been able to make myself, in a lifetime.
“Spa day,” I tell Becky, once we’re both done screaming at the top of our lungs at the universal celebrating girls pitch. “My treat.”
“Cass, you don’t have to do that,” she protests, but I speak right over her.
“Please. I want to. Besides, I haven’t seen you in ages, between work and…” I trail off, biting my lower lip. I’m curled on my couch right now—my extremely expensive, beautiful couch, which Lark bought me after ruining my old ratty one. And across the room, I eye my purse, and my cheeks burn thinking about the tie still sitting inside.
