Page 47 of Wicked Duty
The other critics in my vicinity comment that it captures the gala’s elite atmosphere but feels staged. Not that I’m an expert, but I have to agree.
It’s a gorgeous picture of three gorgeous women, but nothing about the scene seems real.
Listen to me, evaluating the winners like I’d even be here tonight if it weren’t for this enormous migraine of an assignment.
My gaze flicks to Lucy with her fingers double-crossed, eyes glued to the screen above the podium on the stage.
The woman at the microphone gestures to the screen once more. “In third place, with a score of 8.1, is Anastasia Enamoré, photographed by Jean-Paul Neoné.”
In the contestant section, a shocked redhead slaps her hand over her mouth in overjoyed surprise, her eyes huge like they just promised her a billion dollars. She glides onto the stage, arms open wide as she crosses to the photographer who took the shot, all to raucous applause.
Above them, an artistic black-and-white photo faces the room. The image captures Anastasia mid-laugh with Dax Winfield, a prominent gazillionaire philanthropist who’s constantly popping up on the net for his good deeds all over the globe.
“She’s showing genuine emotion,” a nearby fashionista muses.
She’s cut off by her more caustic friend, who cocks a hip. “But the broader appeal is limited.”
My neck starts to sweat. They haven’t announced Lucy yet. They may not call her up at all, but either way, I’ll face the consequences as best I can.
More modeling chaos or a dejected drama queen under my protection. I don’t find either option all that appealing.
“In second place,” the woman at the podium struggles to regain the attention of this buzzing den of fashion lovers and benefactor types, “with an 8.6, I give you Loretta Denmark, photographed by X Kennedy.”
They reveal a shot of a striking black woman with long legs who’s helping an elderly donor navigate the venue. The photo seems to demonstrate beauty and compassion, all in perfect lighting. Or at least, that’s what I’m gathering from the lipreading. And it’s a candid shot.
My heart clenches.
Shit. We’ve come to first place, with no mention of Lucy.
Again, my eyes dart to her and the other contestants. They cling to each other as the emcee summons an even brighter smile to her face.
“And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for. In first place, with a score of 9.3,” a drumroll accompanies roving spotlights to build anticipation, “Lucy Marlow and Heather Kincaid, photographed by Christopher Mancini!” This time, the woman applauds, pointing her clapping hands in Lucy and Heather’s direction.
The tension inside me bursts.
Shit. She won. Lucy actually…
The photo appears in breathtaking clarity. The shot captures Lucy in an unguarded moment, mid-spin in her flowing white designer gown, reaching out to pull the nervous young Heather into the spotlight with her. The image memorializes Lucy’s striking features, warmth, and confidence as she extends a hand in invitation. The photographer also showcases young Heather’s natural beauty and her vulnerability.
“This photo tells a story of empowerment.” The woman gestures to the screen as Lucy and Heather float together to the stage. “Sisterhood. And fearless authenticity. We, the judges, felt it perfectly embodied both the charity’s mission and the heart of what Runway Revolution is all about.”
A chorus of whistles heightens the momentum of applause shaking the room.
The photo’s incredible. But beyond that, Lucy’s impressed me more than I want to admit. All this glitz and glamor is foreign to me, but she’s really cut out for it. Here I thought she was just a brat with a reckless streak who wanted to be the belle of the ball. Turns out, she’s a brat with a reckless streak who’s also truly talented at the job she’s passionate about.And she actually gives a shit about her fellow competitors. She raised that other girl up, potentially changing the course of the younger model’s life.
I’d be lying if I claimed that reality didn’t alter my own opinion of her.
At least a little.
The contestants on stage hug each other, tears pearling in their eyes. Together, they strike one final pose for the next round of press photos while the woman in red brings the night—and any hopes of this assignment getting easier in the near future—to a close.
“Congratulations to our finalists, and thank you, everyone, for joining us this evening!”
Chapter 18
Lucy
In the giant bathroom of our hotel suite, I stare at my reflection. “You, Lucy Marlow, won tonight’s challenge.”
