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Prologue
One year ago…
“What do you mean you want out?” Oscar, my closest and most trustworthy friend, gapes at me. He snaps up from where he was sprawled on the ottoman in my tiny walk-in, his face a picture of shock. “But you’re killing it. You’re on your A-game!” he exclaims, shaking his dark curls out of his face as I eye him through the mirror. My hand finds my necklace, and I roll the pendant between my fingers. A small wave of calm settles over me—it always does. It’s the only thing connecting me to my old life, and I cherish it.
I shrug, leaning past him to pull a dress down. “I never wanted this,” I remind him, stepping into my dress. Oscar zips me up, chewing his lip.
“I know, but you’re so good at it.” He drops back down on the ottoman and watches me move around, choosing shoes and earrings.“Whynow? What’s changed?” he whines. We met early into my modelling career. I was stumbling around blindly, and we clicked. After bumping into each other at various functions that my new agent had encouraged me to attend, we became solid friends. He has been my only friend, really, making the transition smooth, easy, and less stressful.
I keep my back to him and filter through my jewellery, looking for something cute but casual to compliment my outfit, something that will go with my necklace. “Everything and nothing,” I reply softly. I give him a half-smile when I catch him looking quizzically at me. He may be my friend, but neither he, nor anyone else, will ever be my confidant. I could never tell them about my past.
Small arms wrap around my waist. “But we’re getting so much free stuff,” Oscar pouts, and I grin. I peck his cheek and take the perfume bottle he holds out for me.
“Thanks.” I’m ready to slip off into the night, become faceless and nondescript again. If I wait any longer, I will be too recognisable, too sought after. I never expected it to go this far. Scrap that. I’ve unwillingly rocketed into fame and made myself a prime target. Small modelling gigs enabled me to rent this little apartment, to put food on the table, to feel a small bloom of achievement, but now I’ve gone from being a plain face at the back of a catalogue to being on the front of tabloids and on the catwalk.
“What about money?” He picks up a handful of garments I’m yet to place back. “What about all this?” He lifts the discarded garments and looks longingly around my very crammed and dinky dressing room. It’s absolutely nothing like the grandeur of his home or his parents’ home. After visiting Oscar’s family estate, it very quickly became obvious he comes from old money and lives a very different life to me, and I sometimes wonder why he is friends with me.
“This is just stuff, Oscar.” I lift my head and look around the walk-in wardrobe before I look back at him. “I don’t need or want all of this,” I tell him slowly, but he adores all the flare and drama of my rocketing career.
I don’t. I don't want any of it. I want a simple life, to be a simple woman and live a million miles away, carefree and not dictated by fear. Modelling was never on my radar. Being in the public eye means I’m ontheirradar. My only saving grace is I’m oneveryone’sradar. They can’t get me when everyone is watching, I tell myself, as fear morphs into a physical being and walks around beside me. This job was only supposed to be a small money fix to keep me off the streets and give me some form of stability. Maybe this is exactly what I need. To be so noticed that I’m untouchable. The shadows never felt safe, so maybe the light is what I need to protect myself. Maybe fame is my only form of freedom.
The way to survive them.
Chapter One
Present Day…
Large, olive-green eyes stare back at me. Thick dark lashes and cheekbones higher than the ceiling draw attention to the undeniable beauty reflected back at me in the mirror, but my full cherry-red mouth quickly pulls it away. Or so I’m told, courtesy of Vogue. I stare and stare, trying to see what it is everyone raves about, trying to find some sort of pride in what this face has allowed me to achieve. I don't. I can’t.
My mouth turns down, and I stare harder. My jaw ticks as I think of what is at risk because of this face. I turn, gaining a sharper view and frown once more, disliking what I see, who I see. Nothing. I see nothing, and I feel nothing. If I weren’t such a puppet, I’d possibly feel hatred, but the face I’m looking back at, although it is familiar, does not feel like mine. I’m merely a viewing participant watching from the sidelines as my life is picked and pecked at by so many people: my face, my hair, my clothes and my time, all at the disposal of so many others.
I’m a cheat, a complete fraud. So many women would give their right arm, their soul even, for a mere chance to enjoy my job. They would have worked a damn sight harder than I ever hadto, and here I sit, despising the direction of my life. I don’t falter in my gaze. I’ve looked back at myself so many times in mirrors, lenses, magazines that I almost believe my face belongs to another. How did my face reach so far, amass such attention and fortune?
A face. That’s all it is: skin and bone. I want to hate that face, but the sad green eyes are the only thing I have left to remind me of why I’m lucky enough to be here today. Green eyes like his: my father.
My eyes shutter, and I push away with a sigh, leaving my dresser. This life I have paved for myself is a gift, as much as it is a curse. Being in the limelight has given me a security I could never take for granted, so I won’t. Being so high profile means I’m constantly being monitored, followed, dissected by the world, and in turn, it has made me so inaccessible that I know I’m safe fromthem. My breath leaves me on a quick exhale,and I close my mind down to those thoughts. I can’t live in fear. I refuse to. I want to laugh because not a day goes by when I don't think of them.
I quickly spritz myself with a sample of my own perfume—what better way to sell my product than to wear it myself? I glance back in the mirror, seeing a sleek, elegant woman. My straight black hair hits my slender shoulders and curtains my shuttered face, but below the surface, there is still a little girl lost and alone, and I hate that about myself. I move quickly away from the mirror, away from my thoughts. I just know Georgie will love this fragrance. I check the time and grab my things, heading out for my meeting.
“Here she is, my favourite model!” Georgie Blare stands from the table at Cobo. He’s known in the advertising industry for his diverse vision and is an associate of mine. He chose the location for our breakfast meeting,and I didn't argue because it’s close to Oscar’s, and they do an egg white omelette I like. I lean in for a hug out of politeness, but it feels stiff to even me.
“How are you, Georgie?” I ask. He’s a burly man and fills out a three-piece suit well. His greying hair compliments his false tan and light blue eyes.
“Superb, you smell divine,” he replies as we take our seats. “Is that it?” He’s referring to my perfume. I nod with a smile. “I can really pick out the jasmine. It’s light, but the undertones are very decadent. It’s definitely a nighttime fragrance.”
I agree with him. It’s heavy but fresh. Seductive. I’m really pleased with it, and messing around with the different scents has kept me busy and my mind occupied. With every project that ends, every job I complete, I desperately search for a new vice; another way to keep me busy, keep moving.
“Thought I would sample it for you—let us get a whiff in the cold light of day.” I quip my brow and smirk when he gives a low laugh.
Georgie and I get stuck in looking through marketing ideas and possible male models for me to shoot with; his idea, not mine. We’re planning to film in Paris, but I argue that London is my home and where the perfume originated from.
“I want to keep everything true to who I am.” God, that sounds ridiculous out loud—I have no idea who I am.
I hold his keen stare before picking up my tea and taking a sip. I can see he wants to argue, but when I lift my brow and check my watch, feigning boredom, I know he will cave. Georgie begged me to give him this opportunity. I’ve worked with him before, and he knows as well as I do, my name will make his shine. It’s an ugly truth.
“No male model, it mocks my image. Maybe we should shoot with other women and make it about female empowerment. Women can be seductive without having to prove themselves to a man, yes?” I say to myself, seeing the video play out in my mind. I’m renowned for being unobtainable, and I don't want to losethat flare. It works now, so it will work with my fragrance. I say as much to him.
“You’re a hardball, Zara. When are you going to settle? Put these men out of their misery?” Georgie shakes his head with a grin. “Surely there is one man out there who has caught your attention?”
