Page 61 of Cruel Fate

She pauses. “Good. Last week was so busy, and I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. Ash is teaching me so much.”

“I saw you on TV. You looked gorgeous last night.”

Turning toward me, she finally smiles. “Thank you. We had a lot of fun. We went to a club after that and hung out with Viola Young. She’s performing tonight and attended the same play we did.”

There is so much of what she says that can’t penetrate my brain. Zarah Maddox, a girl I’m walking next to down the sidewalk, partied with Viola Young, the hottest pop star in the world. The closest I’ve ever gotten to Viola Young is listening to her on YouTube while I do my homework.

“That’s crazy.”

Zarah giggles, and she sounds more like herself. “It really is.”

“Where’re we going?” It’s a beautiful fall day. The breeze is cool, the sky a brilliant blue, and the sun plays peekaboo behind fluffy white clouds.

“Everywhere, but let’s hit Ralph Lauren first. I made an appointment, and a personal shopper is expecting us.”

Zarah explains—and apologizes—that today we’ll be shopping off the rack. Zane’s party is too close to have something designed.

I don’t know why she’s apologizing to me. Buying off the rack is what I’ve always done, and probably what I will always do, for the rest of my life. When she invited me out, I didn’t expect anything less.

We step into the huge store, and a saleswoman descends on us immediately and won’t leave us alone for five seconds. I’m hesitant to look around. The soft fabrics call to me, and my fingers itch to touch blouse sleeves and pencil skirts, but I don’t dare. I don’t know whose money I’m spending and I can’t allow myself to like anything. If I buy work outfits, is that going on my expense account? I didn’t think to bring my ID badge.

Is Zane buying me a dress to wear to the party? Or is Zarah?

No matter how I look at it, the Maddoxes will be paying for anything I want to wear because I can’t afford to even use the bathroom in this store.

Zarah shows me lace ballgown hanging off a stick-thin mannequin. “Do you want to try it on?” she asks. “The cream matches your coloring. You’d look beautiful in it.”

I didn’t understand this party was black tie. I helped plan it, and I didn’t know the dress code. I’m hopeless, and so terribly in over my head. Suddenly, I want to be at a thrift store, on my own turf, where I’m comfortable, where I know my place. Uncertainty takes over, and stupidly, I almost start crying, humiliation closing my throat until I can’t breathe.

“Stella, aren’t you going to look around?” She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and peers at me, concerned. “Don’t you like Ralph Lauren?”

“It’s not that. I don’t belong here.”

Zarah steps back and stares at me, her gaze traveling from my head down to my feet. “Of course you don’t. How stupid of me.”

The words cut. She agreed so quickly.

Stella Mayfair, foster child and payroll clerk, standing in the middle of Ralph Lauren, blouses on hangers that cost as much as one of my online classes.

Zarah gestures at the dress and asks the hovering saleswoman, “Will you hold this? We’ll be back in a little while.” She grips my hand. “Come on. I know just the place.”

She leads me outside, and a tall, muscular man wearing a suit, earpiece, and mirrored sunglasses follows us.

He gives us space, discreetly tailing us. I didn’t notice him before.

“Do you have a bodyguard?” I ask, staring behind me and stumbling. That’s about as surreal as partying with Viola Young.

“Ash wants to keep me safe,” she says, flicking a glance over her shoulder. “Hector’s been on his staff for a long time.”

“He’s having you followed?” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and people swerve around us, giving me a dirty look. “What does he think you’re going to do? Run away?”

Her face smooths into a mask—I offended her. “No. He’s concerned about me.”

I don’t believe it, but I don’t want her mad and I feign ignorance. Maybe I know less than I think. “I’m sorry. Your lifestyle is still so new to me. I don’t understand a lot.” That’s the truth. I may love Zane, but I’m going to need time to get used to his way of life. So far, he’s been great, easing me in slowly, and it helps he’s willing to share in the way I live, too.

Zarah nods, and some warmth seeps back into her face. “Sometimes I wish we were just regular people. That someone wasn’t shoving a camera into my face every second.” She tilts her head in the direction across the street where a man hidingbehind the back fender of a parked car is focusing his expensive-looking camera on us. She links our arms, and we start walking again. “But then I think, where would I be if I wasn’t Zarah Maddox? Who would I be? What would I do without my family’s money behind my name?”

I struggle with that, too. Who am I if I don’t have a family? Who am I if I can’t fill out my family tree? Who am I if I don’t know if Mayfair is my real name? I say, “It comes from inside. Who you are as a person. Who you want to be.”

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