Page 2 of Famous for a Living

My penthouse, the one I got the keys to just four weeks ago after two years of anticipation and waiting during the Montana’s construction, is ready, is perfect.

A projector screen covers the two-storied wall above the glowing white crystal coals in the gas fireplace. On the screen the digits blink as the clock counts down to showtime.

Even the twinkling skyline seems somehow twice as bright tonight—all evidence that in just a few minutes, my life will change forever.

My fingers tingle. As they do a hundred times per day. I rise and slip the phone out of my jumpsuit pocket.

How will I do it now?

With one glossy nail my finger slides and taps so quickly across various screens the phone struggles to keep up. I capture two still-frame photos of the banquet spread covering the long table splattered with brilliant hesperidium-orange roses and golden cutlery. One close-up of my fingers—polish a gentle gold matching perfectly with my glass of bubbling prosecco—the backdrop of the skyline blurred behind.

Brighten the exposure just a touch.

Duplicate the prosecco shot and flip to black-and-white. A simple caption, and yet it does the trick:

To thirty, still a little flirty, and fun. Big news coming in 10 minutes!

Tap.

Tag.

Post.

I take in a small breath as I watch the replies immediately flood in. The hearts. The likes. The overflow of comments—people particularly zealous to compliment me on such a special occasion.

Feel my heart filling up as I see it. Feel my energy rise.

Drinking in the words, the love, as it feeds my soul.

Even if just for a few blissful moments.

Then I’m aware of a sharp jab, and I pull away from my phone to scratch the spot on my wrist where the hem of my jumpsuit is gaily stabbing with a thousand tiny daggers. As it has all evening.

The thread of this suit must be made of razor wire. It must.

“I told you not to partner with Hemms,” Serena says, her eyes on the cake as she plucks off a candle.

I slip my phone in my pocket and sniff. “I don’t recall.”

“I said every time you work with them you end up with some hideous outfit made of something ridiculous like duct tape or entirely of zippers. But do you ever listen?”

“This is a delightful jumpsuit.” I lift my chin. “It’s positively”—I hunt mentally for the phrases in the campaign brief—“luxurious. The pure silk shantung is not only timeless but downright snuggly.”

I say the last word just as the hem drags simultaneously along collarbone, ankle, and the length of my left leg, and my entire body shudders.

“Cozy as a bug in a rug . . . one might say.” Serena rolls her eyes.

I don’t respond.

Serena’s eyes shoot to mine, and for about thirty seconds we’re locked in her challenge. I dare not move. I dare not breathe.

Just as I’m about to give up and inhale, accepting whatever viper bites the suit lashes out with as my rib cage expands and dares touch it, she relents and returns her attention to the cake. “Fine. For your birthday I’ll pretend I don’t see you rubbing your skin raw for the sake of a crap company that makes crap clothes.” She raises her hand, stopping me before I can protest. “And no, I don’t care if they fitted half the people at the Met Gala. Just”—she waves a shooing hand at me—“get it all out now, before you’re covered up in cameras.”

And as I move beyond the railing into the shadows and begin scratching to my heart’s content, icing-covered candles fall like bombs onto the terra-cotta tile all around me. After a near hit, I step to the left.

My new heels are a golden suede, shimmering from toe to heel in Swarovski crystals, topped with the most beautiful bouquet of iridescent gemstones on both toes that make each heavy step worth it.

A gift from Jacquie—my new manager, and one who’s been nothing short of amazing the past six months. On birthdays my old manager sent me a celebratory text. When, of course, he remembered at all.