Jesus Christ. I rub my hand down my face, wondering how it is that I ended up on this planet. Among all higher life-forms that exist across the galaxies, humans must surely be the dumbest. “And she wasn’t just telling you that to get you to go away?”
“Well, I ... have kind of been following her since. On socials. I mean ... not in a creepy way. I just really like her photography ...”
For the love of god—a.k.a.me.
“And no, she’s not, um ... seeing anybody.”
“Good. Then get the other meetings set up. I have a plan.”
Because a contract is always nice, but the real way to ensure a woman’s cooperation is to approach her as a man—not that I am one of those. Human women are fickle and easy to manipulate, and it will be more effective to ensnare her through charm than through contracts. A little smile I’ve perfected over the years, and she’ll be mine.
The COE will be mine.
Humanity will be mine.
As for the Marduk and the villains?
We’ll either cement our alliance, or I’ll move to plan B and kill him.
And this all begins by taking control of the news cycle, and Monika Neumann.
Chapter Two
Monika
“Hey, Monika, can you come in here for a second?”
I glance up from where I’m standing at Margerie’s shoulder, poring over the images on her computer—pictures and videos I sent her over the past week. Tons of photos of behind-the-scenes wedding-planning blah. Even though it’s not at all what I like documenting, I can’t deny that these pictures are good, and that Vanessa’s ecstaticoohs andahhs over every damn picture fill me with a simple kind of satisfaction.
She’s notoohing andahhing now. Called away half an hour ago, she left her VP Margerie’s office in good spirits. Now she’s back and looking stressed.
“Uh, sure,” I answer, confused by the strain on Vanessa’s face. Her cheeks are pink, making her look younger than she is, her pretty brown curls full and windswept around her shoulders. She’s wearing a demure dark-gray button-up and black slacks with just a touch of color on her nails, which are bright pink. She watches me from the doorway of Margerie’s office like somebody’s standing just out of sight with a gun to her head.
My short black hair tickles my jaw as I tilt my head, trying to make sense of what might have her so on edge—and more importantly, what it has to do with me.
Margerie hasn’t looked up from her computer. “Go, go. You’re no help anyway. You took all these superromantic pictures, but you don’t even like any of them.” She scoffs like it’s criminal of me to not want to spend my days following Vanessa and Roland around from dress fitting to cake tasting, taking nauseatingly cute pictures of them smearing frosting on each other’s cheeks. Cue shudder.Cue jealousy.
“I’m not a romantic,” I grumble. “I don’t like the hearts-and-flowers kinda stuff.”
“I got that.”
If she knew what Ididlike, she’d probably have even choicer words for me. Or take me straight to her church and drown me in a bucket of holy water. I don’t know why it surprised me when I found out that Margerie goes to church. As she’s a trans woman, I sort of assumed she wouldn’t, and that got me realizing she was the first trans person I’d ever met, and that got me wondering if, despite being the daughter of a South Korean diplomat and a German with Malian roots, born in Seoul and raised in Berlin before immigrating to the United States for university, maybe I was a lousy citizen of the world? And then I realized I was being too hard on myself—I didn’t haveanyfriends. I’m a workaholic. And that got me depressed.
As a sexually active—my mother would saypromiscuous—person, I didn’t even have time to slot in the regular sexcapade these days. A hot, successful, single thirty-six-year-old who wasn’t even getting laid? I wanted to weep. It’s been six months since I last had sex, and even that was regrettable and forgettable. The woman did not eat the coochie—at least, not mine—and her strap-on game left a lot to be desired.
Now I’m following around a hot, happy couple getting ready to celebrate their love, trying to tell myself it isn’t the worst thing in the world. I’m one of only thirty guests of honor invited by the South Korean ambassador to celebrate a major Korean cultural festival, and I don’t even have a date. Womp, womp. Cue the world’s tiniest violin.
“Monika?” Margerie glances over her shoulder at me, her red hair electric in the soft natural light streaming in through the picturewindow behind me. “Vanessa’s been calling your name. You having an aneurysm? Because I can give Emily a ring. She’s the COE doc.”
I swat her on the back of the head and scowl, turning toward Vanessa and snapping out of my pity slump. “What’s up?”
Vanessa’s wearing a similar scowl to mine as she stares down at her phone. She tucks it into her back pocket and waves me toward her. “So ...” Her voice falters as she escorts me out of Margerie’s office through the bullpen. The Riot Creative offices currently occupy one floor, though they’re expanding to take over the one beneath this one in the coming months. As part of that expansion, Vanessa’s asked me about taking on another photographer to apprentice—an idea I abhor. I work alone.
And have no friends . . .
Or a date to the ambassador’s party—an ambassador who is friends with my mom and won’t hesitate to report back to Berlin that I showed up to the party of the century alone ...
Scheiße.
