Page 1 of The Faking Game

CHAPTER1

NORA

The best part about going to a nightclub is when you finally get to leave.

I’ve been inside the heart-pounding place for less than an hour, and it’s still been thirty minutes too long. Pulsing neon lights slice through the darkness, painting the writhing bodies in rainbows of color. I can barely hear Poppy talk beside me.

I texted her yesterday after I finished unpacking in my New York rental and asked if she wanted to meet up. We met through modeling, and maybe we could be friends. I’ve wanted some here in my new city.

This is where she wanted to go. The VIP booth in an upscale club with seven other model friends.

“…right? Wouldn’t that be so much fun?” she screams into my ear.

I nod and smile, like I understood what she said. I hoped for dinner tonight, maybe drinks. A place where we could actually talk. Another woman, blonde and the tallest of the group, leans across the table. “Another round?” she shouts, holding up an empty champagne bottle.

The others cheer, and a friendly androgynous model I’ve worked with a few times holds an empty glass up high. Also in the booth are two men who seem to be paying for all of it. They’re probably in their thirties or forties, with flashy credit cards and arrogant smiles.

I don’t really know their names. Chad and… Dean, I think. Or something. The short one with the spiky haircut screamed it into my ear earlier, his hand on my low back.

I smiled and wriggled away.

Poppy grabs my arm, pulling me close. “Isn’t this amazing?” she gushes. “I’m so glad you’re back in the city!”

“Yeah, I’m glad to be back!” I tell her.

She smiles and turns back to listen to something Dean says. Or Chad.

Poppy is nice. Or so I always thought when we were shot together for campaigns or walked the same fashion shows. That’s why I reached out again. It felt like we’d had fun together; real fun. Not the fake kind of fun when people want to get close to me for my last name.

I glance at my watch. It’s only been eight minutes since I last checked. Way too soon to suggest an after-party somewhere quieter. I have hours of this left if I choose to stay. I should stay, really. See if I can make friends here.

Poppy leans in closer and looks down at my wrist. “Is that an Artemis?” she half-screams.

“Yeah,” I say with a nod.

Her fingers brush the platinum watch. It’s the brand my family has produced for almost a century. It even has a tiny Swiss flag inlaid on the back to show that production remains in the valley my grandfather was born in.

“Wow. You must have, like, your pick of all of them.” Her fingers drift off my wrist, and she grins again. “Will you be modeling any of your family’s brands this season?”

I shrug. “Some of them, yeah, but I’m not really here to model.”

“What?”

I lean in closer. “I’m not back in the city for modeling!”

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up. “Then why are you here?”

“I’m designing my own fashion line,” I say. I’ll take part in the Fashion Showcase a few months from now, competing alongside twelve other anonymous designers.

Her expression shifts, a mix of surprise and something else I can’t quite read. “Oh, wow. That’s… different. Why don’t you wanna model anymore?” She leans in closer. “You could be a top model, you know. With your connections.”

I reach for my near-empty glass. “I like modeling, I do, but I want to try something else.”

Poppy nods, but I can tell she’s not really listening anymore. She turns back to the others and shifts her shoulders in tune with the music. Damn it. Modeling is still her job, even if I hate it. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.

Next time I’ll try harder.

I drain the last of my drink. The table is stuffed far back in the corner of the VIP section, under a dark ceiling and in full view of everyone on the dance floor. I need to move for a bit.

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