Page 51 of Make The Cut

I stare at her for a solid minute before blinking. “You wantmeto help you? But I’m…. I’m not exactly the most popular person in fashion right now. Or the best. I mean, atLa Mode, I was just a fashion assistant for, like, five years—“

My automatic excuses come easily to mind. What I said to Ryder—that he wasn’t good enough, that he caused problems he never solved—wasn’t true of him. It was true ofme. I’m the one who makes messes, who sabotages our relationship, who ruins everything.

Because deep down, I don’t feel good enough to have any of it.

“Poppy,” Colette says as she grabs my hands in hers. “Come on. Don’t you want to start something that isn’t owned by someone else? I mean, sure you used to work atLa Mode, and now you’re Naoya Sugawa’s stylist. But wouldn’t you rather have something of your own? Something you can point to and say, ‘I did that’?”

Her words spark something in me. I know I’ve felt that way. But I’ve also never felt confident enough in my abilities to be able to do that. That’s whyMuse Unmaskedwas anonymous for so long. It’s why I’ve never asked for higher or better positions atLa Mode. Because I’ve never believed that if I put something out there with my name on it, it won’t be torn to shreds by critics.

“Think about it,” she says gently. “In the meantime, why don’t I show you what I’ve been working on?”

Chapter Twenty-Six: Naoya Sugawa

Naoya Sugawa mouths something at MTV Awards, but no one can tell what it is. Lip-readers everywhere are going nuts.

“Why is this news?” I say out loud to Gustav as I pick at my lunch, throwing my phone down on the marble countertops. The headline glares back at me in bright pink from some trashy tabloid site or another. “I mean, why does it matter what I said on the red carpet?”

Of course it matters. I was dumb enough to answer the question,who designed your scarf, withthe love of my life. I should’ve just said Poppy’s name. Or maybe mentioned that she’s an up and coming designer. Anything but the stupidity of the words that flowed from my mouth. I spoon more congee into my mouth, the rice porridge all I can manage to eat. My appetite always goes away when I’m angry or stressed, and right now, I’m both.

Rose is being a nightmare on set. An absolute nightmare. I knew working with my ex on a TV show would be bad.

I didn’t know it would be as bad as her talking to the press about me, subtweeting me, and badmouthing me in podcasts.

“Youarefamous,” Gustav points out, eating a Reuben sandwich the size of my head. I have never seen him eat anything that was smaller than that sandwich—but then again, the man is three hundred pounds of muscle. “Comes with the job.”

“I mean, why isRoseeven being invited onto podcasts?” I rub at my temples.

“Sheisa successful businesswoman,” Gustav says.

“You’re annoyingly right about everything.”

That cracks a smile in his stony façade, one I’ve seen about three times in the six years he’s been working for me. “It’s part ofmyjob. In order to keep you safe.”

“Well, then why can’t anyone identify my stalker?” I snap. “Canyoutell me who this crazy person is who keeps showing up to my fan events, Q&As, and somehow even made it to the watch party for the pilot episode ofMake The Cut?”

He sighs. “I’m sorry, Naoya. But we still don’t know who she is.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Just what I need. A stalker to come into my house and stab me in my sleep before taking a lock of my hair as a memento.”

“You’ve been watching too many true crime shows,” Gustav says, shoving something across the table to me. “Have some coffee.”

“Because that will make melessjittery and paranoid.”

“Maybe it’ll wake you up from your nightmare.” Gustav gives me a look that saysI’mthe insane one. “Listen, I’m with you twenty-four seven basically. When I’m not here, my replacement is just as qualified. You don’t have to worry about a stalker killing you. I mean, maybe they’ll take a lock of your hair and clone you, but—“

“So not death, I’m just being replaced. That’s even worse.” I finish the last of the congee, chewing on a piece of pork floss, and stare out the window at my perfectly manicured garden, which consists of potted palm fronds and leafy fiddle figs. I haven’t been out there once since it was first designed. It looks peaceful. Zen. Completely unlike my mood.

I can’t get Poppy’s expression out of my head. I know it was wrong of me to be cold to her, for, from her perspective, no reason. I know I’ve been a jerk to her since Thanksgiving, when my dad and I had that phone call. But I can’t help but stay away, can’t help but keep my distance.

My father is getting remarried. Moving on so easily from me and my mother, like we were nothing to him.

He’s never going to get back together with my mom.

Some part of me had always harbored a secret wish that as long as they both remained single, they might find their way to each other again. That the volatile divorce had given way to a quiet co-parenting, and that it might eventually become a loving, tender thing, something that could make the past look like a blip.

But he’s getting remarried. To a woman half his age. The woman whose presence in my life shattered my illusions of having a complete family. I didn’t even realize he was still in touch with her or that he hadn’t moved onto someone younger and hotter and more pliable.

It’s this sick loyalty that he’s showing. Marrying the woman he cheated on Mom with? And doing itnow,almost twenty years later? If he could be loyal to her, why can’t he be loyal to us? If he could treat her with some modicum of respect, why couldn’t he do that for us?

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