Page 52 of To Hell

I have been styled by a god, accompanied by another, and the effect will be heads turning in my direction.

Ettore leads me down the red plush carpeted aisle, with flashes of cameras swinging about and people calling from different directions to ask who I’m wearing.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art is in a frenzy with a spritz of elegance and artistry. The museum is vibrating with competitive muses out to show off through the art of fabric fashioning.

Ettore leads me to the platform where we stand and take pictures. He is a natural, and I’m a mess, but the dress cloaks me well.

We answer a few questions, because that is inevitable. People want to know who I am and what I am wearing. I stick to the half-truth I was asked to go with and hope none of those men are alive and fancy entertainment gossip.

“You are easily the most beautiful woman here, Zoe,” Ettore leans, his mouth brushing my ear as he mewls his velvety words into me.

I smile, blushing hard, and he does something so surprising I’m stunned for a quick second. He leans forward and presses a kiss on my forehead before stepping back to lead me into the hall.

The butterflies in my stomach buzz frantically like they are intoxicated. It’s a crippling feeling.

I’m at the Met Gala.

Dreams do come true.

But will this go as I’m hoping or will the universe pull the rug from under my feet?

A few minutes have gone by, or maybe even an hour, but I still cannot stop gaping at the hall and the people in there. It’s easy to handpick me as the odd one out. I feel like I don’t fit. But then again, I feel like I’m fifteen years late to this event.

The hall is a sprawl of glitter. The color palette is gold, black, and red—simple but not at all basic. The music is from an orchestra playing a string quartet of famous songs. High ceilings and enchanting chandeliers.

“Is that Valerie Moore?” The one person I have been avoiding, and for good reasons, is Sabine Johnson, Valerie’s protege. She sways to us in her tropical-evoking floral motif on dusty cream canvas, hair in a twirling updo, and heavily studded jewelry.

She knows damn well that this is Valerie Moore.

“Sabine, right?” I clear my throat, my body picking up the signals in the viciousness of her brown eyes. “Yes, it is,” I answer politely. Ettore’s arm around my waist clips tighter, and I use it as an anchor.

“You must be the legendary Zoe,” she feigns a fawning expression, “showing up after fifteen years with such an entree, I must say that is one media stunt.”

I gulp, the air around my lungs feeling clipped at the fact that she would think I disappeared for fifteen years just for a media stunt. “I’m happy you are back, and we will be seeing more of you,” she lifts her wine glass in the air, making a toast with the wind. “I was your understudy when you vanished, and not a minute went by without the constant reminder that I was just that and would only ever be more than that—an understudy.”

“It must have been worth the things you eventually learned from the whole experience,” I indicate, pointing my chin at her outfit, “I’m sure Valerie said those things to get the best out of you.”

She clips a smile on her face. “Yeah, sure,” she glances at Ettore. “Enjoy the night, and I hope we can see each other after this so I can pick your brain on a few things.” She throws her arms open for an embrace, and when I don’t make a go for it, she scoffs.

She leans forward to embrace me regardless and spins too dramatically. She misses a step, sending the wine in her wineglass spilling on my dress, precisely on the white canvas.

“I am so sorry,” she places a hand on her chest, her mouth ajar in pretentious shock, “I need to stop drinking and put this away…” She bats her lashes. “I’m so sorry,” she spins, grunts at herself, and swings away and onto the next person without a care in the world that she has ruined my dress.

My whole world quiets and whatever confidence I had from earlier evaporates like sweat out of me.

My hand folds into a fist, and if I were courageous enough, I would have loved landing it on her face. I sneer at her as she swings from person to person, and it is the gasps and pairs of eyes turning in my direction that make me fold.

I don’t belong here.

I should have known this would end up being another trick by some cosmic force. To get me out and fill my head with dreams only to leave me drowning in shame.

Tears sting my eyes as more pairs of eyes tilt in my direction and the whispers grow louder.

I have seen gossip spread like wildfire.

It takes me back to high school and how quickly speculations made the rounds.

“Hey,” Ettore comes to stand in front of me, and for a minute, I let the iciness of his eyes roll over my clattering nerves. “Let’s get you a drink,” he comes back to circle my waist.

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