Page 66 of These Thin Lines

“No, she didn’t make me do anything. And while I can’t say I’m eager to jump into the celebrity aspect of the business, it’s past time to be seen. I hid behind Frankie for years. I hid behind the mystery of Chiaroscuro for the last few. Perhaps I should stop hiding from things.”

Binoche’s meow was quiet, almost pensive, and Chiara smiled.

“See? Even the cat agrees.”

“That cat is the devil’s spawn.” Renate’s face showed all the earlier distaste for the cat, who simply rolled into a fuzzball with her back to the room and went back to sleep.

Aoife picked the scissors from the workstation and twirled them in her fingers, eyes excited. “And seen you shall be, babe! An entire special issue of Poise and all, with your face all over it! Like old times. Goddess, it’s been twenty years since your last cover. In fact, wasn’t Poise the last one you did before becoming a recluse?” Aoife dropped the scissors and cracked her knuckles as Renate glared at her.

Chiara rolled her eyes, amused by her friend’s theatrics. “A bit heavy on the drama, Aoife. I was never a recluse. And while being somebody’s wife was not a career ambition, it is what it is. Arabella didn’t twist my arm, and a Poise cover is beyond prestigious. God knows, Frankie would have killed to have her face on it years ago and would probably die for it now.” Chiara ran her fingers over the silky ear of the sleeping cat, who twitched, but otherwise remained unperturbed.

Renate’s phone pinged, and she stood up scrolling through it.

“And speaking of being seen… Well, it looks like the photographer will be here in an hour or so. I guess once Arabella is in, she’s all in…”

“I mean, you’d know!” Aoife giggled at her own joke, and Chiara groaned.

Renate raised her eyebrows, her countenance tense. “Is this how it’s going to be now?”

“It’s what the two of you get since I missed the fireworks. But sure, I’ll tone it down for a bit.” Aoife danced away from Renate’s swiping hand.

“You should do just that, Sully. With only two weeks to fill an entire issue, there really is no time to waste.” Renate did manage to pinch Aoife’s side before both of them mercifully settled.

Chiara shivered. In the cacophony of her friends teasing and laughing, she felt chilled and even hugging herself didn’t help. Surely it was the cold from the open window creeping in. And premonitions be damned, it was time to get this show on the road.

* * *

She’d never consideredherself remotely superstitious despite all the fashion industry’s canons. And any and all senses she may have had, clearly left her absolutely unprepared for the major events of her life. Frankie cheating, Vi selling her out to the gossip rags… She’d had no inkling.

Was it a wonder that, when her psyche actually did throw her a bone, she missed it entirely? Because that splinter from earlier in the day, that foreboding chill should have alerted her to something. Although how was she to know that, out of all the photographers in the world—so many of them available to Poise at the snap of fingers—the one Arabella had hired for Chiara’s special edition would be… her?

Vi Courtenay did not stumble at the steps of Chiara’s townhouse this time around, despite once again not watching her own feet. As déjà vus went, this one was quite momentous. Because just like last time, Cinderella crossed the threshold without taking those gray eyes off Chiara’s.

The parallels stopped there, however. This was an older version of Vi, somehow even lankier than she’d been five years ago, the youthful fullness of the face transformed by chiseled cheekbones that were surely able to cut glass.

She didn’t walk in as much as she swaggered, taking space and seemingly sucking all the oxygen out of what had been a large and airy room just seconds before.

Chiara steeled herself for those first words, her mind playing tricks on her again and reminding her so clearly of those tremulous, innocent, slightly breathy ones uttered by a twenty-five-year-old girl, shy and embarrassed and maybe a bit awed.

This girl was neither shy, nor embarrassed, nor awed. The glasses Chiara adored so much, were gone. And along with chiseling her face, time had done something to Vi that Chiara thought she’d never get to witness. It had taken away the girl.

In what looked like bespoke Oxford shoes stood a woman. One of means and style, if the rolled-up sleeves of a linen shirt tucked carelessly yet artfully into slightly loose trousers that sat tantalizingly low on sharp hip bones were any indication. Chiara’s mouth went dry. Sleeves of tattoos covered both sinewy forearms, and she tried very hard not to stare.

She must have failed, because an eyebrow rose, and the full mouth curved into a knowing smirk. Both of these gestures were so new, Chiara couldn’t help but keep cataloging the differences, even as Vi took the last few steps towards her. She licked her parched lips and watched Vi’s eyes narrow as they followed the movement with something lurking in those depths.

Chiara was never more thankful for the carefully applied concealer, sure to be hiding her cheeks she could feel paling by the second, when fate in the form of Aoife intervened and saved her from the impending need to speak and to do so now, before Vi had the chance to take her by surprise with anything she might say first.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Vi Courtenay sneaking in after all these years. You’re wearing better shoes this time around, Cinderella.”

The smirk turned lethal on a dime, so much so, Chiara could hear Aoife inhaling loudly next to her.

“I did not sneak in, Sully, someone buzzed me in.”

Oh, the voice. The voice was the same. The gentle cadence of it, the high and low notes, the caress of the vowels in that slightly British accent. Years. It had been years, and those Paris months came flooding back. Slowly at first, blooming in front of her eyes, then faster, all at once, shaking her to the core.

“Lean on me… I have you, Chiara… I love you.”

The same voice. The same eyes. All these words. Poignant, beautiful words. All those lies.The same voice. The same eyes.

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