Chapter Eleven Charlotte #2
“I know the public wasn’t happy to find out I’m immortal, and the Righteous have only made things worse, but I wouldn’t exactly say—”
Imani huffs, shoving her phone toward me.
People. Immortal and Still Not Married: What’s Wrong with Charlotte Bellefleur?
“That’s not—”
She uses her manicured thumb to swipe to another. Us Weekly.
Fans Slam Lucifer’s “Bride” for Manipulating Him with Immortal Allure
“Okay, you and I both know that one is just downright ridicu—”
Imani shakes her head, scrolling some more. Politico.
Hell Hath No Fury: Charlotte Bellefleur Outed as Immortal—World Leaders Demand Answers.
“I know, but—”
And the final nail in the coffin.
TMZ.
Publicly Empowered. Privately Unraveling. One Devil Wasn’t Enough? Lucifer’s Fiancée Accused of Secret Affair!
I stare down at the shoddy side profile of Azrael and me. My heart stops. “It’s not like that. You can’t actually think I would ever—”
“Girl, it doesn’t matter what I think. It only matters what it looks like.”
And it looks like I’m everything my father said I’d be.
A jezebel. A whore. The devil’s plaything.
Loathed by the whole of humanity.
But that’s not what really plagues me.
I slouch in my chair, unable to meet Imani’s gaze.
Behind the sensationalism, there’s a kernel of truth there.
I glance down at the headline again, feeling suddenly fatigued.
Publicly Empowered. Privately Unraveling.
It’s a brutal, impersonal autopsy of my life. Especially with the second accompanying photo: me looking like a hot mess as I stumble out of some club. Like any normal twenty-something. A woman I barely recognize.
I sigh.
Back when I first started dating Lucifer, I thought I knew who I was, or at least, who I was supposed to be, but now that I’ve taken charge of my own life, my own fate, every choice I make feels like a betrayal.
To myself. To Lucifer.
To who I was previously.
To God, maybe?
To a human version of me I’ll never be able to get back.
When the truth is . . .
I still don’t know who I am, what kind of immortal I’m becoming.
The question sits like ice inside my chest. Not because I’m still uncertain of the answer, but because I think I know it already.
And I’m not certain I like what I see.
I wave a hand, passing the phone back. “This isn’t anything that can’t be fixed with a little reframing. We—”
“Charlotte, Sloth’s lawyers called this morning. You know he’s been dragging his feet on signing the contract, which means . . .”
The sound of my heartbeat thrashes in my ears.
I’ve lost one of the Originals.
In addition to the one who went rogue already.
“No. No, no, no, he can’t do that. He—”
“If you think any of the others won’t try to pull the same . . .” Imani gives me a chastising look.
Meaning I need to clean up my image—and fast—and until then, I’m more of a detriment to my own clients than anything. And considering my only clients are Lucifer’s billionaire siblings who are paying me in the divine favors I desperately need to stop the apocalypse . . .
This isn’t just another PR nightmare or damage control. It’s mythmaking.
Unless I can stand confident in who I am . . .
The whole of humanity is fucked.
“What are you proposing?” I fist my hair as I cast Imani a desperate look.
She passes Greed’s all-natural protein bar to me with a muttered “eat this” before she says, “You’re the boss now, Charlotte. You tell me.” She smiles, encouraging me.
Like she always does.
I nod, my lungs expanding a little.
She’s right.
I know this game. Imani taught it to me backward and forward.
But Lucifer made me a true master at it.
That’s all PR is anyway—manipulation.
And I wouldn’t even be sitting here if she and Lucifer hadn’t chosen to believe in me.
“We need a trifecta. A high-gloss crisis makeover. Elevate the narrative, control the frame, radical transparency. We stage a couture resurrection during Fashion Week. Balenciaga and Xzander handle the look. Apollyon coordinates. At the same time, we land an exclusive with The Cut. A soft-focus confession—me crying barefoot in Tuscany, you know the drill. Bloomberg reframes my brand as a visionary under fire, Vogue Business gets the fashion angle and spins this as a new era of sustainable luxury. In a few weeks, everyone will be saying they’re only hating on me because I’m a woman who owns her power. ”
“And what about you?”
I lift a brow.
“What’ll you be saying?” Imani gives me a knowing look.
My ribs tighten as I push my hair out of my face. “Just leave this to me.” I glance down at my hands. “I’ll handle myself for once.”
“You’re certain?”
I nod.
I don’t doubt my own abilities anymore.
But somehow that hasn’t changed anything.
I’m still far from the confident woman I want to be.
The woman I wish I saw in the mirror.
“Okay,” Imani says, smiling a little, like despite all I still have to learn, she’s proud of me. Like I’m growing.
Maybe I am.
I just wish growth didn’t come with so much uncertainty.
“All right, it’s a plan then. Take the rest of the day and handle your shit. I’ve got this.” Imani tips her chin over her shoulder to indicate Greed.
I sink back into my chair, already exhausted. “You’re honestly the best, Imani.”
“Don’t I know it?” She grins, fixing her curls in one of the style room mirrors before she heads for the door. “Oh, and Charlotte?” She looks over her shoulder at me.
“Yeah?”
She lifts her phone again, flashing one last headline.
Sin Conceived! Is She Pregnant or Just Bloated? Lucifer’s Fiancée Spotted with a Rounded Belly
I glance down at my midsection, paling slightly.
Some of my designer clothes have been feeling a little bit tighter lately.
Imani gives me an amused look. “Girl, you’re glowing. Do us both a favor and take a damn pregnancy test.” She closes the style room door behind her just as I look toward the dressing room mirror, noticing exactly what she means, and a whole different kind of uncertainty settles into me.
The shame I was raised with isn’t as much of a problem anymore.
But clearly, my own denial is starting to catch up to me.
I decide to actually take the rest of the day off after that, like Imani said.
At least from my work at Zest.
I grab another coffee, decaf this time, and nibble a bit more food—my stomach is seriously making me regret not accepting Azrael’s tea—and stop by my new office space.
Well, what I’m hoping will be my new office space.
When all this is said and done.
I stare up at the vacant building in Battery Park overlooking New York Harbor, feeling something expand inside my chest with a new kind of certainty.
A new kind of hope.
I can do this.
I know I can. Even if my confidence wavers occasionally.
Loving Lucifer and now Azrael has taught me that much.
I snap a quick photo to post—#dreaming—wishing Jax were here, telling me all I need to do is manifest everything I’m hoping for in some spiritual ritual.
A few minutes later, I know exactly what I need to do in order to make my first move. That CVS bag on my bathroom counter is calling my name.
I turn to head back toward the Town Car, only to find the archangel Michael standing across the street waiting for me, holding my mentor captive.