Chapter 3

Laughter and mockery rolled through the room like a tide.

"Worth every penny — even a pig can become a beauty queen! Incredible!"

"Which surgeon did this? I need a referral!"

I stood up, ready to speak.

Damian crossed the room in three strides and slapped me across the face.

"Aria!" He seized Stella's phone, his eyes burning with a fury that looked almost like betrayal. "I worked eight years in advertising — I know what an unedited photo looks like! The lighting is consistent. The skin texture matches. You lied to me. This whole time."

I didn't answer. I straightened slowly.

The desire to explain had died somewhere along the way.

What I was quietly calculating instead was simpler: that slap was worth five fingers. His.

Stella touched Damian's arm, her voice honeyed.

"It's fine. Girls like pretty things. A little surgery is perfectly normal." She tilted her head at me. "Not like us — I barely even moisturize."

I looked at Stella's perfectly blended, meticulously applied "no-makeup makeup" and smiled to myself.

When I got around to pouring makeup remover on her face, she'd discover exactly what she actually looked like.

The emcee announced the next segment — a duet performance.

Stella and Damian.

I watched their backs as they walked up to the stage, side by side, and let my mind wander.

Damian wasn't wrong about the photo. It wasn't retouched.

But the "before" and "after" were two different people.

What I was truly puzzling over was simpler: how had Stella Vance gotten hold of my university ID photo?

I opened a message thread and sent a task to my team.

[I want everything on Stella Vance. Thirty minutes.]

On stage, Damian dropped to one knee. He sang to Stella, eyes full of something I used to think was reserved for me.

"Say you'll marry me today..."

Something hollowed out inside my chest.

When had the man who once seemed to blaze with light become so dim?

I remembered the first time I'd met Damian. I was abroad, robbed clean, standing on a foreign street wondering whether to call in a family favor. Then he appeared.

He'd draped his own coat over my shoulders, walked me to the embassy, stayed while I filed a police report. He had no money to spare, but he pressed every bill in his wallet into my hands.

The day they caught the thief, he was more excited than I was.

Beneath the Eiffel Tower, he'd confessed his feelings and sworn himself to me — only me, always.

Back in Philadelphia, he forgot every word of it.

He'd walk out of a movie at the best part because Stella called. He'd murmur her name in his sleep after a few drinks — "I'll drink her share, don't give her a hard time." His family dinners never had a place for me, but Stella was always at the head of the table.

I reached for my purse, done with all of it — and felt my phone buzz.

My team had responded.

[Boss. Stella Vance is a serious problem.]

[The case files are ready. Say the word.]

I frowned and tapped the link they'd sent. Stella's influencer profile loaded on my screen.

I scrolled for two seconds.

Then my breath stopped.