Page 11 of Desperate Measures
“Oh, dear.” She laughed. “You MUST have a business card. You could find twenty clients in one room alone. Stay ready soyou don’t have to get ready. Let’s go.” I smiled on the inside, considering I’d just told Zahara that a couple of weeks ago.
Before I could respond, she looped her arm through mine and steered me gently back into the heart of her glittering home. Genevive wove us through the room like she owned time itself, and if time had a price on it, she would. Heads turned, Shoulders leaned in, and people parted for her without her even asking. The whole room responded to her energy, and now I was attached to her arm.
We paused by a small circle of guests near the piano. Everyone was dressed in a level of luxury that whispered “old money” without trying too hard. Champagne flutes. Subtle watches. Not a label in sight, that’s how youreallyknew they had it.
“Crimson, darling,” Genevive said with a warm smile, “I want to introduce you to someone important. Someone who might take an interest in your work.”
A man in a midnight blue tux turned around, and the second his eyes landed on me, something shifted in his expression just for a moment, like recognition. Genevive smiled knowingly.
“Crimson, this is Lonzo Strattisse. He owns a string of luxury boutiques between here and Dubai. He’s also a collector of rare taste in both art and people.”
Lonzo extended his hand. “Lovely to meet you. You left the canvas to converse with us. To what do we owe this pleasure? And what are you doing with your time now?”
I smiled softly while shaking his hand. This was nearly the third reference that was made tonight about me. While everyone was new to me, I seemed to be familiar to them. “I’m moving into design,” I stated confidently. “I run a boutique back in the States.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Design, hmm? Monaco is full of people who say they’re designers. What makes your workdifferent?” Genevive’s grip on my arm loosened. She stepped just enough to the side for me to answer alone, but gave me an encouraging, confident smile.
“I design for women who’ve had to reinvent themselves,” I said slowly, being intentional about every word I uttered. “Not just for fashion, but to survive. My clothes tell the truth. Even the painful parts.”
“And what truth are you wearing tonight?” he asked as he studied my appearance. “That’s a beautiful piece, the silk, the color; it complements your skin and hair perfectly.”
“I selected this because it stands out. My truth is that I’m not afraid to be seen anymore. Even when I’m still becoming, learning, and growing.”
“Careful, Ms. Crimson. Words like that can get you funded or followed.”
Genevive laughed, slipping back in. “She’s sharp, isn’t she?”
“She’s dangerous,” he replied, eyes still on me. “In the best way. One last question. What designer are you wearing tonight?”
“Lonzo Strattisse,” I winked at him.
“Beautiful. It’s like I designed it for you personally. I will be in touch with you. Enjoy your evening.”
Genevive touched my elbow again. “You just made your first impression, and it was unforgettable. Welcome to Monaco Crimson, you are officially part of the game. Let me get you another drink. It’s time for the big reveal.”
Before I could respond, she was already gliding away, heels silent against the marble, her presence commanding attention from every partygoer she passed.
The lights in the grand salon dimmed. A quiet hush fell over the crowd, champagne flutes paused mid-air, and conversations softened into murmurs. A single spotlight turned toward the far end of the room where a tall easel stood, draped in a heavy black cloth.
A man with a crisp French accent spoke into the mic. “Mesdames et Messieurs... tonight, we unveil the latest masterpiece from our very own Sir Jah. It’s his most intimate work to date. A portrait of motivation, exquisiteness, and transformation. Sir Jah?” He nodded and gestured toward Jahsir.
Jahsir stepped forward from the shadows, looking sexy in black like he belonged to the night itself. He didn’t look at the crowd; instead, his eyes were on me. My chest tightened in love and admiration.
“I’ve painted many women,” he said into the mic. “As they were in front of me, I was able to use them as a reference. But this beauty here, like all the others of hers, I had to paint from memory. She is more than a muse. She’s a force, my love, and I want the world to know her name.”
The curtain fell from the life-sized portrait, and my eyes widened. Gasps echoed through the room, and tears flooded my eyes. Jahsir had created a beautiful portrait of me, and suddenly it all made sense. People recognized me, saying I was his muse, or that I made them money.
Jahsir reached out to hug me, and I melted in his embrace. I buried my face in his shoulder, not caring if I was getting makeup on him. I was overwhelmed with emotion.
“You could’ve warned me,” I mumbled, laughing through my tears.
“I wanted to see your real reaction,” he grinned. “Do you like it?”
“I love it, Jah.”
“And I love you.”
After the big reveal, people kept coming up to me. Some offered congratulations, others asked questions, but all of them looked at me differently now. Like they finally saw what Jahsir had always seen. He stayed close, never letting go of my hand,introducing me proudly every time:“This is Crimson.”Just that. Like my name explained everything.
