Page 55 of State of Ruin

“Worked,” Vanessa interjects.

I jerk my gaze to her. Shit. Is she a lawyer or something? She doesn’t look like a lawyer. She looks like a catwalk model for some edgy, downtown brand like Alexander Wang, but I shouldn’t judge other women by their appearance. Maybe she’s a fixer? Maybe Sinclair is pissed that we got outed so soon, and he’s sent this woman to deal with me?

“Am I in trouble?” I blurt out.

“No, no,” Olivia says. “But, much as I want to sit here and force you to spill all the tea”—she waves her head around to show much tea she’d like me to spill—“I need to talk to you about something important.”

“Okay.” I take a panicked sip of my coffee, ruining the pretty leaf.

They exchange a look. “The big campaign you were called for a few weeks back,” Olivia says. “For Voss? That was Vanessa’s campaign.”

Oh, shit. I place my cup back in its saucer. “Oh.”

Vanessa leans forward and lays her forearms on the table in an intense way. With the two of them sitting opposite me, it feels a little like a job interview. “I need you to know before we go any further,” she says, “that you were my only choice. I knew you were perfect for it, and yours was the only name I carried forward to the final pitch.”

I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, but it’s nice to hear. I recall Olivia telling me that her contact at Voss had liked me a lot, that I got rejected above her pay grade. I guess that must have been Vanessa she was talking about.

“Thank you,” I say. “That’s so kind.”

She shakes her head. “Not kind. True. And, seeing you today, I stand behind my decision even more firmly. But Elyse, I have to ask you—were you dating Sinclair when we called you in?”

I look between the two of them. I’m starting to sweat. Forget job interview—this feels like an interrogation. I rack my brains, trying to recall the timeline of events, before I remember the most important thing.

“I’m not allowed to talk about this,” I say.

Vanessa’s jaw drops in an Are you fucking kidding me? way. “He papered you.”

“Papered?”

“NDA. Jesus, these guys are the fucking worst.”

“Ah.” I press my lips together before I can say more, although I am now remembering that the casting call was the same day as my second Alchemy session with Sinclair. Nothing about that rendezvous could be called dating, but we were definitely “acquainted” with each other.

“Don’t worry,” Vanessa says. “I don’t want to get you into trouble, so I won’t ask you any more questions, but I’d like to tell you a couple things, if that’s okay? I feel like you should know them.” She taps her long red nails on the tabletop. “On September 29th, I presented my final pitch for our new skincare line to top management. I can’t tell you anything about the line, because that’s embargoed. But I can tell you that your boyfriend was in the room.” She sounds angry when she says the last sentence, and I sit up straighter.

This feels ominous.

Worse than ominous.

“I presented some footage of your High Line shoot with Olivia,” she continues. “And as soon as Sinclair saw your face, he lost his shit.” She raises her eyebrows to underscore this point, and I start to feel sick. I shove my hands under the table and squeeze them between my knees for something to do.

“Why would he lose his shit?” I whisper.

“My question exactly. Now, I’m going to tell you what he said, but I want you to know that I don’t believe for a single second that he meant any of it. In fact, I know for a fact he didn’t.” She takes a deep breath. “At first, he tried to dismiss you as a candidate out of hand. He said you were”—she holds up a hand and checks her words off on her fingers—“unmemorable. Meh. Nothing special. He said you weren’t worth the money we’d be paying and that we could do better.”

I swear I flinch at each of those horrible things. They sound so cold. So dismissive. There’s no way Sinclair would say those things about me. A memory hits me: being in Katrin’s office with him after he’d been at the Fall Fashion Gala.

No one I’ve ever met can hold a candle to you.

He called me exquisite.

I think I might cry.

“Like I said, I’m not here to persuade you that he believes that, Elyse. Quite the opposite. My point is that, from the second he saw your photo, he systematically argued against you. And when I stood my ground—because you were far and away the perfect face for this campaign—that’s when he got nasty. He stood up, and he, like, slammed his hand down on the table, and he told me that his opinion trumped mine and demanded I stand down. He full-on overruled me on a campaign he’d hired me specifically to launch. He went fucking nuclear, basically.”

I’m staring at her in disbelief and horror. This doesn’t sound like the Sinclair I know, the Sinclair who’s gentle and adoring and worshipful, who tells me how tormented he is when he can’t recall my face. Still, Vanessa is mad. Steaming mad. And I don’t doubt for a second that she’s telling the truth.

“I don’t understand why he would do that,” I say, looking at Olivia for guidance. She cocks her head and makes a face like I have no clue, but I’m here for you. Under the table, my legs are shaking, and I use my inner thigh muscles to squeeze my hands harder.