Page 62 of Cruel Fate

She stops and meets my eyes. “What if I don’t know?”

This is a heavy subject for two young women in the middle of a city sidewalk. Ash’s bodyguard behind us, paparazzi in front of us, and the future looming above us, out of reach, but smacking us in our faces at the same time.

I tell her the truth. “For me, all I can do is make my way the best I can, be kind, and try not to hurt anyone along the way.”

“Then I’ve already failed.” Zarah starts down the sidewalk at a clipped pace, and I don’t have a chance to ask her what she means. How has she failed? Has she not been kind? Has she hurt someone? I wish she would talk to me, but the mask is in place. Shoulders back, sunglasses hiding her eyes...and her feelings.

We’re silent as we wind through the city streets.

I love King’s Crossing. The good and the bad. The city is the only place I’ve ever lived, though the poor and underbelly sections are more familiar than the streets we’re on. Zarah knows them like the back of her hand, her steps never faltering.

I wonder why she doesn’t hail a cab, or we ride the train, or we use her driver. I’m glad I wore flats—we must have walked at least two miles since we met at her building. She still hasn’t given me a clue as to where we’re going, and I’m about to suggest we go for coffee and regroup when she stops on the quiet tree-lined street. I’ve never heard of this store before.

Boutique 1961.

It sounds more to my liking, and I gasp when Zarah holds the door open and pushes me inside. This is like Goodwill only leveled up about a million times. Rack after rack of dresses, skirts, blouses, even vintage lingerie, fill the store. An escalator leads up to another floor full of more clothes. They sell shoes, too—kitten heels, Mary Janes, and sexy mules.

I know you can’t buy new vintage...that’s what vintage means, after all. Used. But this stuff looks like no one has worn anything. Ever.

“This is for you, Stella,” Zarah says. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize.”

I almost start crying again. “Oh my God, Zarah. Thank you. How do you know about this place?”

“This boutique was my mom’s favorite store. It’s no wonder Zane fell so hard. You have our mother inside you.”

It might be one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

“Come on. Don’t worry about the cost. It’s my treat, so choose whatever you want.”

I nod. If I want a pretty dress, if I want clothes I can wear to work and feel proud in, clothing that will help me fit in with the other assistants, I’m going to have to let Zarah pay. I can’t get around it, and the only thing I can do is accept it. “Thank you.”

We spend hours going through the store, my arms full of skirts, blouses, and dresses, reminiscent of the Mad Men era. I can dress like the characters inValley of the Dolls, and I love everything I try on.

Zarah insists on shoes, too, and I fall in love with heels that are already broken in, but in a good way. Nothing discarded because they were too worn out or damaged, but passed on to people who would love them as much as their previous owners had. The boutique doesn’t have many in my size, but I scoop up all the pairs that are.

After I’m done choosing clothing for work, Zarah and I start browsing gowns.

The dresses are glamorous, and they have a sampling from every decade. I fawn over flapper dresses and ballgowns that have been worn by actresses accepting awards.

Boutique 1961 carries every label, and I try on LBDs that look like they came off the set ofBreakfast at Tiffany’s. They even have the same black hat that has the cream ribbon floating down from the band and over the wide brim.

Zarah’s amused by how enamored I am, but she says, “You need a ballgown, Stella. To the floor.”

She and I don’t have the stature to carry a dress like that. Ballgowns are made for tall women who can pull off all that material, but we look through the racks, an eager saleswoman helping us, tossing out suggestions and showing us potential dresses. She knew Zarah’s mother, and she and Zarah spend a few minutes talking about how much they miss her.

Hector loiters nearby, and it creeps me out. Even though he wears his sunglasses inside and I can’t see his eyes, I know he follows Zarah’s every move. When she has to use the restroom, he escorts her to the back. I think it’s disgusting, but Zarah doesn’t seem to mind, even asking him to hold her purse.

I try not to let it bother me, and I focus on finding a dress that won’t swallow me whole.

After a lot of browsing, I find a gorgeous black dress that’s accented with cream strips of silk. The design is similar to what Julia Roberts wore the year she accepted her Academy Award, but the skirt is different. The front hits the top of my knees, then the hem gradually lengthens until the back is so long it drags on the floor in a short train.

It’s beautiful, and it fits like it was made for me. There’s even enough room for my boobs—it won’t need any alterations beforeI can wear it. I want it, and I step out of my stall to show Zarah. I knock once on her fitting room door and let myself in.

My intrusion surprises her, and she freezes, alarm shooting through her eyes. Quickly, she grapples with a dress to cover herself, but she’s not modest. I know that from the evening I spent the night. No, she doesn’t care if I see her boobs. Zarah cares I see the huge purple and pink bruise along her ribs.

Her stiffness hasn’t been my imagination. She’s hurting.

I cover my mouth to stifle a whimper.

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