“Photographer, focus!” My boss demands.
I bet she doesn’t know my name despite working for her for three years. My best friend, Lindsey, shakes her head at me once before striking her pose. I love photography and I love seeing my work in fashion magazines, but the working conditions are hell.
My boss pushes me to another area. “God, you don’t get to sit on the job! Move it.”
I move across the room, taking photos quickly, so I catch every bit of movement and provide plenty of options. After four hours of photographing different models in different outfits and poses, I look at the photos over my boss’s shoulder.
She nods once, then looks at me as I stand there. She arches an eyebrow and motions to her empty hand. “Why isn’t there a coffee right here?”
I put her coffee in her hand.
“You’re dismissed,” she says.
I might as well be furniture. I’m just expected to be at the top of my game. If I slip, Miss Fernanda has plenty to say to me, but if I’m doing well, there’s always more work to do. I sigh and adjust my jacket.
“I saw the photos. They look great,” Lindsey says.
“Thanks. That’s because of you. You know just how to pose, plus everything looks great on you,” I say.
Her caramel skin, her perfect, soft, yet elegant features, her height — all of it is flawless. She scratches at her dark, springy hair. “You should make your own agency or freelance.”
“We tried freelancing, and I failed on rent those two months,” I say.
When we get back to our shared apartment, I change into an oversized shirt and pajama shorts. They show off my thick thighs, but I don’t care. I’m comfortable. I raid our fridge for leftovers, but Lindsey pulls me away.
“Nope, I’m ordering food for us,” she insists.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask.
“We don’t need an occasion to eat fresh food, plus you’re the only person I know who can handle the kind of heat I love. That means we’re getting the spicy wings from our favorite place.”
I smile. “Have I told you how much I appreciate you?”
“Daily, Sienna.”
After she orders, she plays with my hair. “You know, you should do something with these curls instead of throwing them up in a bun.”
“They’re not the elegant curls or as fun as yours,” I say with a shrug. “If you want me to be medusa, we could be heading somewhere.”
She laughs and shakes her head. After a bit, when I don’t follow up, she pokes my nose. “You’re cute, Sienna. Why don’t you embrace that?”
“What do you mean?”
“You always wear stuff too big, always hide your hair, never wear makeup or heels. I know you work a ton, but you can look hot while you do it,” she encourages me. “I get so many free outfits. I know they’d fit you.”
“You look great in those clothes, but they’d be too tight on me,” I say. She gives me a look and I roll my eyes. “I’m not saying I’m overweight, okay? I’m fine with my body, but that doesn’t mean I want to show it off, and it doesn’t mean we’re the same size.”
She rolls her eyes. “At least let me do your makeup and hair before that catering event you have to go to tomorrow.”
Another job where I’m only noticed if I mess up. I nod once, not willing to disappoint her multiple times in one day.
We have a great dinner together, but soon enough, Lindsey is having fun with my hair. She puts some braids in and somehow gets my curls to cooperate with each other. Then she starts on my face, giving me elegant eyeliner, light eyeshadow and just a touch of lipstick.
I drag on my white button up and black pencil skirt before sliding into my flats. I look at myself in the mirror. I look professional and prettier than I thought I could. Whatever makeup she chose brings out the green in my eyes, and my dark hair looks elegant. My lips are lush as ever, but stand out.
My freckles still dot my face and over my nose, but I feel like a finished product instead of a work in progress. I hug Lindsey. “Thank you.”
She hugs me back. “I don’t care what commercials or stylists say. Makeup is to make the person wearing it feel good, to feel confident. It has nothing to do with what other people think.”
“I’m lucky I found you,” I say, “but I better go before I have to find another part time job.”
“It’s better to tend bar” she says for the millionth time.
I know that’s true, but I don’t want to deal with drunk come-ons and bar fights. Plus, I hold grudges and I don’t forget faces. I take my platter just like everyone else and start passing out salads.
I never ask what the event is anymore. I don’t ask who it’s for. It almost always comes out during the event and it doesn’t change what I get paid as long as I keep my calm smile and don’t sass anyone.
Which is almost always easy. Until someone speaks as I’m passing out champagne.
“We want to thank everyone for being here tonight to celebrate our daughter. She’s back from her year abroad, has been accepted to Brown University and it’s time to recognize her accomplishments! To Katenka Anastasia Ogievich!”
I nearly drop my tray.
That last name. I force a smile and hand out a few more drinks, clearing my tray before daring to look over at the family. Ana–as I used to know her–smiles. Her long dark hair is pinned, and she’s the picture of grace.
“Ana, I just want to say how proud I am of you. I know you have an amazing future ahead of you, one of joy. You should enjoy yourself tonight and remember how far you’ve come and how much further you’ll go,” a man I can’t forget says.
He looks over the crowd after kissing his sister’s cheek.
V.
“Thank you, Lev,” she answers.
Of course. V was what we called him in high school, before he got that angry scar across his face. Based on the arrogant grin and his effortless perfection, that scar and his chosen name are all that’s changed.
His dark hair is rumpled, his smile practiced, and those intense blue eyes don’t miss a thing. The little bit of scruff on him makes him look dangerous. Even the tailored suit can’t soften him. He’s muscled, large, and knows the effect he has on a room.
What I wouldn’t give to dump some red wine on him and have him reveal his real, horrible self to the entire room. That asshole ruined high school for me and left a darkness in me that’s festered until it’s destroyed every relationship I’ve had.
He’s the one person who’s been unable to unravel a word into meaningless letters. “Trust” is only a fantasy now. “Loyalty” is a fairy tale. And “love”, it’s just a simple word to slap on a relationship when it’s time.
All because of that dick.
I turn and almost crash into someone. He snarls at me, looks me over, then snorts, moving his foot like I’m some mouse he doesn’t want to step on.
Storming back to the kitchen, I take a few breaths before my boss lays into me. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the way, Sienna?”
I don’t answer.
He snaps his fingers. “Hello? Sienna Reid!”
I blink a few times. “Sorry.”
“Can I trust you to go collect the empty glasses? I wouldn’t want you to drop them on anyone.”
“I won’t,” I reply despite the angrier answer teasing my tongue.
“Then what are you waiting for? I don’t pay you to stand there and think.”
I nod once and walk out, collecting glasses. I’ll just keep my head down and focus on my job. V–Lev, whoever he is, doesn’t have any say in my life now. I won’t lose a job over him. I won’t get nervous around him.
It’s been ten years since I saw him and as far as I’m concerned, we can keep up that streak. He just won’t see me. Simple. Since I’m not a favorite here, I won’t be asked to wait on his family.
That thought calms me enough to continue until I’m waved over by a table a little too close to the people I’m trying to avoid. Two of the older guys look me over. I smile. “Is there something I can get you?”
One pushes his wine glass over, so it shatters on the floor. The red spreads along the grout of the tile and threatens to stain the pristine white. “Oops. Can you take care of that for me?”
I head back and grab a small brush and dust pan. I clean up the glass, then work on sopping up the wine. They speak around me in Russian. I avoided the language after everything with V in high school. I threw myself into Spanish. It felt more necessary here.
Still, I don’t need to speak the language to know that they’re commenting on me. Not nicely either. But the man who knocked the glass over lifts my chin.
“You were a six standing up, but you’re a nine on your knees, sweetheart,” he purrs. “Want to know how to become a ten?”
“Please, allow me to finish cleaning and get you a fresh glass of wine,” I mumble.
At the same time, another guy pinches my ass.
I bite my tongue, but my face turns red.
“Aww, you look flushed. You like our attention? Maybe we’d like to have you on the table for our dessert,” the first man says.
I want to bite his hand, to prove this is anger, not flattery. Instead, I stand up, take the stained rags and glass to the back, and put them in the garbage.
I grab a bottle of wine and pour it into the glass. I know I shouldn’t do anything to it. I know that. But I’m so insulted, so beyond annoyed, that I just stare at the wine. My boss is a dick who’s looking for a reason to cut costs and I know I’m first on the chopping block. Rich people I serve will always look down on me, hit on me, criticize me. How can I just stand by and allow all this?
Eyeing some hot sauce, I consider adding just a few drops to his drink, but hesitate. It’s a mistake. It’s just an impulse. It will pass. After two deep breaths, I remind myself not to stoop to their level.
Sure, people like them need a wake-up call, but I will not destroy my security just to get back at them. So I take the perfect glass of wine and set it in front of the man that just offered something terrible.
“This is a more vintage wine, in apology,” I whisper.
“What a sweet thing you are,” he says while staring at my breasts. “What if I wanted to taste this wine on you?”
“Apologies, sir, I’m not on the menu,” I say before turning to walk away.
The other man grabs my wrist and pulls me close. I glance at my boss. He motions for me to smile. That’s it. Biting my tongue so hard it hurts, I try to stand. “Please allow me to get your dessert.”
“You’ve misunderstood,” he says. “You are the dessert.”
Men thirty years older than me at least grin, like starved lions eager to take me down. I shudder and lose the last grip on my temper.