Page 32 of State of Ruin

“I think she has a very special look,” Seb says, and I throw him a look of disgust that I don’t need to fake. Just because he succumbed to Mom’s pressure and married a well-bred socialite with a stick up her ass, doesn’t mean he needs to drool all over what’s mine.

“Like you’d know,” I say. “Stick to the numbers, why don’t you?”

“I agree with Vanessa and Seb,” Audra chimes in. “She’s a beautiful young woman with an iconic look. Why you’re quite so opposed to her, I don’t understand.”

“It’s a gut thing,” I insist as my stomach drops. Of course someone had to go and drop the iconic bomb. “She’s fine, but she’s not the best we can do. I’d like you to go back to the drawing board.”

“Sinclair.” Vanessa’s voice is quiet and deadly. I suspect she’s seriously considering giving me a spontaneous tracheotomy with the heel of her very high pump. “This meeting is a courtesy. This is my project, and it’s precisely why you hired me. I make the call on who we cast, not you.”

I’m backed into a corner. I cannot let this happen. I cannot let Elyse slip through my fingers. My only option is to double down here. Sure, I feel vaguely shitty that I’m depriving her of this opportunity, but I’ll make it up to her. I’ll pay her so much money to keep sucking my dick that she won’t miss this win at all.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but that’s not how it works around here. As CEO of the company, I get ultimate sign-off. And I say I’m not authorizing you to spend sixty-five million on a campaign around that girl. Find me someone else. Do you understand?”

She’s visibly trembling with rage. “You promised me full autonomy. Solène is my brand to run. Why the fuck would you bother to poach me when you’re going to overrule me? I swear to you, I know better than you when it comes to positioning this brand. I’ve served you up a once-in-a-generation face, and you’re determined to screw it up—and you haven’t given me a single valid reason as to why. Generic—bullshit. She’s incredible, and you know it.”

I stand and slam my hands so hard on the table that Audra jumps. Apparently, Vanessa doesn’t know whom she’s dealing with. If a member of the Voss family wants something killed, it gets killed. If we want something buried, it gets buried. This is the way it’s been for generations, and that means Ms. Tan is way out of her league here.

“That’s enough. I don’t need to justify myself to you or anyone else. You don’t like the hierarchy, then tough shit. Deal with it or walk. This girl won’t cut it. I want five more faces within a week. We’re done here.”

With that, I stalk out of the meeting room, banging the door so hard behind me that it rattles in its frame. Vanessa isn’t the only one shaking with the intensity of their emotions. Extreme stress calls for extreme measures. I’m going to go back to my office, lock the door behind me, drink as many fingers of scotch as it fucking takes, and bang one out to that image of Elyse sucking on that goddamn Popsicle.

CHAPTER 17

Elyse

Once a week, Sylvie, Jambon, and I hang out at Fleur’s street dance class. There’s an inexpensive one at the community center that runs soon after school gets out for the day, and my niece loves it. She just about has time for a quick juice box and a couple of graham crackers before she gets down to it.

There are actually four girls and two boys from her school that do it, including her new BFF, Marley. I swear watching twenty little kids squat-bouncing to “Juju on That Beat” is better than therapy. They’re so adorable, and they’re so freaking happy. When five-year-olds dance like no one is watching, when they let the music pour through them and find their own—unique—expression of that music, it’s as if hit-and-run drivers and shattered hip bones and medical debt don’t even exist.

“Fleur’s the best,” Sylvie mutters to me out of the corner of her mouth.

“You’re totally biased.” I pop open the lid of my travel mug of tea. “And possibly correct.”

“I’m definitely correct. At least the dance genes didn’t die with me.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “And at least you were too freaking lazy to put the hours in. This would be a lot more disappointing if you were a prima ballerina.” I gesture at this—her bad hip—with my tea.

“Facts. It’s a good thing my genius marketing brain wasn’t impacted.”

“Your once in a generation marketing brain,” I tease.

“Precisely.”

“Though, if you’re holding out for a Hamptons mansion, I’d put my money on her. She can keep you in style.”

“One million percent. I’ll give it all up to become her momager in the blink of an eye.”

We drink our tea and watch Fleur do her thing. There’s always one kid in the dance class who makes it look easy, whom you can’t take your eyes off. In this class, it’s my niece. She has serious swagger, and it feels like street is a better medium than ballet. She’s way too feisty for the conformity that ballet would require. I should know—I ditched it even earlier than my sister, though I do credit it with my good posture.

When the class has drawn to its raucous conclusion, I keep an eye on Fleur, who is holding Jambon’s leash, while helping Sylvie navigate her wheelchair through the various heavy doors. Accessibility—or the lack of it—is a big focus for all of these days. Honestly, it’s pretty shocking how poor it is in general, and it’s equally shocking how little time I spent thinking about this before my sister got run over.

We’re out on the street, and I’m helping Fleur take a Twinkie out of the pack I’ve brought, when my phone rings. I take it out of my bag and glance at it.

“It’s Olivia,” I say. I’ve been waiting on a call from her for the past twenty-four hours while knowing that she might not get an answer from Voss for days and days.

“Take it,” Sylvie says. “I’ve got this.” She’s already fishing out the special gloves she wears so the wheels don’t give her blisters. I’ll push her as soon as I’m off the phone; otherwise, it’ll take an age to get home and cost her all her energy in the process. She’s already wiped from her physical therapy first thing this morning.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the dog off Fleur so she can eat her snack. I swipe to answer. “Hey!” is how I greet Olivia, and I cringe as soon as the word comes out, because that sounds way too overenthusiastic.