Page 18 of The Artist and the Muse

“From Montréal…” she repeated, musing over the words. “Isn’t that where Katerina is from?”

I nodded, hoping my emotions wouldn’t show on my face.

“He’s her brother. George.” The words tumbled out of me in a rush of breath. “George and I met in Italy and we thought we would never see each other again.”

“Oh, Georgia.” My mother’s expression changed from curiosity to perplexed concern. “You didn’t do anything… unwise with him, did you?”

Though ours had never been a particularly religious household, I guessed some topics still made her revert to her Anglican upbringing. My mom and her older brother, Aaron, had both been raised Christian, but Aaron had fallen away from his faith after the kidnapping of my cousin, Allison Steele. According to Alexander, his father was coming back around to the whole religion thing slowly. As for mymother, she had brought me to church a few times on Christmas and Easter, and she herself went every now and then.

Heat flushed my cheeks. “No! I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that while we were there, I fell in love with him. And then I saw him again a while after that, and he… he broke my heart. And now, he’s teaching my Art History class.”

My mother was silent for several moments, her brown eyes tracing my face. I wondered what she saw there. The woman I wanted to be, ambitious and strong and poised? Or the woman she’d raised me to be—pristine and flawless for magazines and cameras, but confused and lonely on the inside?

“Never mind,” I said, not wanting the answer to my mental question. I wasn’t sure what I had been hoping for. Advice? Comfort? “Why don’t you tell me about your trip?”

She brushed a hand over my arm instead, drawing me into her side. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this conversation so easily.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Still, I rested my head on my mom’s shoulder.

“If there werenothing, you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

My mother had always known me better than anyone else. We were closer than most mothers and daughters—almost like sisters. She’d had me in her junior year of college after eloping with my father, who was an arts major. She’d disappointed my now-deceased grandparents and refused to accept financial help from her wealthy family. It was an independent streak she’d bred into me—along with a rebellious one, it seemed.

“He’s the first man who’s ever meant something to me.” It was the truth. Not the whole truth, but still honest. “And I’m scared that he doesn’t feel the same about me.”

“Oh, Georgia.” She squeezed my hand. “Any man would be crazy not to take one look at you and fall in love with you. And if George doesn’t feel that way about you, then he’s not the man you deserve.”

It was so easy for her to say that; to reduce my dating life to appearances and surmise that it must be impossible for a woman who met every conventional beauty standard to struggle with her love life.

And what could I say to my mother? I knew she hadn’t put me in pageants and modelling gigs growing up because she was a typical ‘pageant mom’. Sure, we were wealthier now, but in my childhood, she had been too stubborn to accept help from the Steeles. So, she’d bartered and scraped our whole lives together when I was a child. That had meant night shifts at minimum wage jobs, surviving on mac and cheese or ramen, and living in the same small studio apartment for most of our lives.

My mom had made it seem like an adventure, but whenever I’d go to play with my cousins—my wealthy Uncle Aaron’s children—I saw the difference between how we lived and how they lived. Alexander and Abigail’s toys fancier and their home bigger. They had servants at their beck and call and as much food as they wanted. My cousins would send me home with bags loaded with snacks and treats and new toys.

I’d wanted some way to help her. To find some way of contributing so she wouldn’t have to work so hard. The modelling gigs had been fun at first, like playing an elaborate game of dress-up. Then they became a way of proving myself—of proving my worth, that I could be valuable. Useful. Worthy. Being beautiful was all I had, all that mattered.

Chapter Nine: Georgia Philips

As she sorted through the racks of clothing at theLa Modeoffice, Rachelle Stevens gave me a piercing once-over. I had the urge to hide that never quite went away. Still, I didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t even tuck a stray strand of hair back into place until she was finished. I knew what she was doing. As the creative designer for the magazine’s fall shoot, she couldn’t have her models be anything but perfect.

I must have passed her test, because she gave a quick, jerky nod and ushered me into the dressing rooms behind her with a wave of her hand.

When I entered, I saw a few familiar faces, models I’d worked with before. Then my gaze landed on a face I didn’t ever want to see again: Sergio Cavalli.

“What ishedoing here?“ said Leana Lim, a model I’d known for a few years and a Singaporean shipping heiress known for her party girl ways. “I didn’t even realize he was back in New York.”

“I have no idea. I thought he was still in Italy,” I replied.

Why would Sergio be here of all places? It wasn’t as if New York was some Podunkville where you ran into your ex-fake-boyfriend at the grocery store. In a city of eight million, avoiding him should’ve been easy.

Just like avoiding George should have been easy. But it seemed like fate was determined to push all my painful mistakes in my face lately, because Sergio was here. The man who I’d signed an agreement to date for publicity years ago, right before I’d met George.

Sergio Cavalli had ended our arrangement halfway through our contract and left me for a fresh-faced, up and coming eighteen-year-old model who would be of more use to him. They’d gotten engaged—George and I had even attended their engagement party to spite him—and last I heard, they’d moved to Italy to kickstart his acting career.

My throat tightened. It wasn’t like I’d had any true feelings for him. It wasn’t even like I cared about him as anything more than a means to an end. And he’d clearly seen me the same way—not as a person to be cared for but an object to be used, a stepping stone for his career. When I became less useful than a prettier, younger model, he’d easily discarded me. Anger and indignation still burned in my chest at the sight of him.

I would have been tempted to stick a stiletto heel in his eye socket if we weren’t at work.

Please, don’t let him be on the set of the photoshoot, I prayed to whoever was listening. Pleasedon’t let him be working with me.

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