21. Juliana
TWENTY-ONE
JULIANA
Shop till you drop.
I've always found that to be a ridiculous expression, a gross exaggeration made by overly dramatic fashionistas. No one actually exerts that much energy while shopping, of all things, or wastes that much time at the mall. It just feels like they did.
Well, I'm officially here to set the record straight about all those rich housewives, living it up in The Hamptons...
They. Must. Be. CRIPPLED.
"Uuughhhh," Mei groans beside me on the couch.
Much like myself, compared to when we stepped into the first store, she looks positively wrecked. Her hair's a mess, her knee-high boots discarded on the floor, as she slouches over the armrest, wrapped in a black-and-gold Versace blanket, which cost a cool thirteen-hundred dollars. One of her several thank-you gifts from today.
"Tell me about it," I mumble, sinking farther down the couch. "My whole body aches."
Never in my life have I been poked and prodded to such an extent, or been asked so many questions about a sense of style I don't possess. Thankfully, I had Mei as my cheerleader. But even still, I thought we'd never reach our goal of three-hundred thousand—a number I'm honestly numb to at this point—but we did. Just barely.
"Your feet must be fried."
Indeed, they are. My soles are tender, my calves burning with an aching tightness. I wiggle my toes inside my fuzzy slippers, finding little relief. "You have no idea—I got blisters on blisters."
She snorts, as another entourage of clothing racks rolls past us, aiming for my bedroom, pushed by men who look like they should be guarding the president. Dark suits, stern expressions, blacked-out sunglasses, the whole Secret Service wardrobe.
"Shall I call a masseuse, Miss Brooks?"
I nearly jump at the feminine voice behind me. A woman in a trendy two-piece suit rounds the couch, holding a clipboard. Sasha is her name, I think. I can't keep up.
I blink, swapping weird looks with Mei. A masseuse? After shopping? Where did Hayden find all these people? Is there some company rich people all know about, and just call up on the fly, whenever they need help wiping their asses?
"Uhh... that's alright."
"A cup of tea, perhaps? Or a hot meal. I could call in a private chef and—"
"We're fine with our waters. Thank you, though." I might sound blunt, but I can't bear another second of all this pampering and un-deserved doting... I'm at my wits end.
She smiles politely. "Of course, let me know if there's anything else I can assist you with. We should be done here shortly." With a curt nod, she disappears down the hallway.
"Whew." I release a breath, as does Mei.
"I'm pretty sure if you told her you wanted a kidney off the black market, she wouldn't bat an eye. She'd probably secure you express shipping."
Laughter spews from my lips, unable to contain itself. "Mei Nguyen, always speaking the first thing that enters her mind. Could you be any more morbid?"
"Wow..." Mei breathes next to my ear.
"I know..." I whisper back.
"That's really something."
"I know."
"Seriously, you might have the most pimped out closet this side of Central Park."
Admittedly, the closet was already stunning, even in its emptiness, but it's on a whole new level now, a transformation and attention to detail accomplished only by the hands of professionals.
Designer clothes drape off racks in a color-coded fashion, heels stand on pedestals as if they'll never set foot on pavement, and luxury bags peek from behind glass display cases under ambient lighting. Even freshly cut tulips lie across the center island, beside glass perfume bottles I don't recall buying.
Like a sail out of wind, I stand pencil-straight, stuck in the doorway, feeling as though one step, one blink too quick might wake me from this dreamland.
"You think so?" I ask, already knowing the truth.
"Definitely."
For a minute, I dare enter, letting the splendor sweep me off my feet. In silent awe, I brush my fingertips across the silky fabrics and luxurious marble, all but wondering who I might become, if I slipped on a particular outfit. I even lean over the island and smell the tulips, basking in their freshness, until their scent turns up sour. Fleeting, like this made-up reality.
"It's only temporary," I tell Mei, watching her shoulders deflate. She gets it without further explanation—he'll likely return everything, once our arrangement is finished. This is all part of the fa?ade.
"You can steal a few pieces—or more than a few." My lips upturn slightly. "It's not like Hayden would notice, especially since he's never here. Where is he, anyway?"
"He said he had to stay late at work."
Now, what he does, exactly, working under his father at Kingston Entertainment, I haven't the slightest clue. He's yet to bore me with the gritty details, mostly because I haven't asked. Hayden's not the only one who equates the corporate nine-to-five to prison. Or... he used to think that. Now, I'm not so sure.
"Until ten o'clock at night?"
I shrug. "It's not the first time."
"On a Friday," she adds.
An inkling of jealousy shoves its way into my heart, and I hate it when I realize she's right. There's no way the Hayden I've known my whole life is at work this late, and not picking up some gorgeous model at a bar. He's probably already driving back to her place.
"I'm not his real girlfriend."
Wrong answer! my common sense bellows. How 'bout next time, go with a simple "I don't care."
Mei folds her arms. "That may be true, but I'm not letting my best friend date a liar. Even if it's fake."
I chuckle, hoping she doesn't hear my sadness. "I think you're a little too late."
"Maybe... Although, his lie does buy us some valuable time."
I arch a brow, noting the mischievous grin spreading along her lips. "For what, to play dress up?"
"No, silly... Time to snoop."
"Mei... Mei!" I hiss anxiously, watching her fling back drawer after drawer inside Hayden's home office, only to find them empty. "We've looked long enough."
"Not quite."
She speeds out of the office, which I just now discovered in the last thirty minutes. Same with the poker lounge, another room with a stripper pole and red-leather couches, and a small library, all easy to overlook in the twenty-thousand-foot penthouse.
"I'm serious!"
I trail behind her, my sore calves burning with each step, as worry drips from my teeth. I'm a rule-follower, through and through. Always have been, always will be. And while I do live here, and have the right to go wherever I please, this feels wrong.
"He could be back any minute," I warn.
Mei swings a left, leaving my words in the dust. Clearly, none of our discoveries have scratched her detective itch.
"What are you even looking for?"
"I don't know, but there's something here. I can feel it."
What'd I say? She's turning into Sherlock Holmes.
Like a treasure hunter in search of hidden artifacts, Mei zooms up the winding staircase, down several corridors, through the gigantic ballroom, and halts beside a flappy door with a circular window. Similar to the one at our work, but much fancier.
"Where's this lead off to?" she asks.
"The service wing."
Curiosity sparks in her eyes, as she makes for the door—
"It's just as empty as the ballroom."
"You've been inside, then?"
"Well, no... But look through the window and you'll see."
When she bursts through the door, I roll my eyes. What follows is five minutes of searching through a— big gasp —totally barren kitchen. Empty cupboards, empty pantries, empty everything, even the extra storage rooms. So, as she makes her way down to the final door, which will surely be more of the same, I stop in my tracks.
"This is getting ridiculous, Mei. I've had enough snooping for one night. You and your psychic energy are wrong on this one."
"Just one last door!" she hollers.
I shake my head, swiveling on my heel. "Well, I'll be in the living room, after you see that I'm righ—"
A gasp rings down the hallway, lurching my heart, compelling me to turn back around, until I realize what she's doing... My lips thin. "Yeah, yeah, okay, Mei. You almost got me. I know there's nothing but dust in there."
When she doesn't respond, I sigh and whirl around, only to find her faced away from me, stuck in the doorway at the end of the hall, frozen, like a reflection of myself not long ago in my own closet. I cock my head suspiciously, marching toward her, positive I'm seconds from her Aha! Gotcha.
"What'd you find?" I ask, earning myself more silence, until I'm a foot from the doorframe, with anticipation coursing through my veins for reasons I can't explain, that I hear her voice. So breathless, I nearly miss it.
"Our missing artist."
What? Missing artist? I exhale sharply. Now she's speaking in riddles, thinking she's some—
Oh...
I switch on the brakes, my pace grinding to an abrupt stop, shoulder-to-shoulder with her, as a room like no other in this apartment comes into view.
Wowwww...
Colors... I've never seen so many colors...
"Our missing artist," I breathe.
Moonlight streams through an oval skylight, cascading onto the countless canvases below, scattered across the room. They stand atop wooden easels, lean up against the wall in stacks, and lie along the ground.
Unsure if Mei will ever break her hypnosis, after stumbling upon a modern-day Picasso's art studio, I motion my way inside, wary of my steps, as I inspect each painting, one by one, beneath the faint light.
Paint covers the entire canvas of some, with a glossy finish sealed over top, others are merely pencil sketches, while most lie somewhere in-between. Works in progress, clearly under the skill of an artistic savant, who seems to carry an appreciation for everyday life, for scenarios or people one may discover while walking the city streets.
Like dining in quaint restaurants, or exploring the grounds of Central Park. Until I reach the far wall, that is, where I discover a new collection that, even to my untrained eye, unmistakably shares a resemblance to the Victorian painting in the living room.
Could these really all be from Hayden?
I've never caught him drawing or participating in any art clubs during school, but why else would this studio exist...? It's clear that one artist is responsible for all this, as well as the majority of the paintings in the penthouse, given their similar styles.
Except, there's no way of knowing for sure, since none of the pieces are signed, not even the finished ones, just like the painting in the living room.
If Hayden is this talented, why wouldn't he sign his own—
My head whips to Mei, who is finally searching about, as the faintest of noises trickles into the studio. A door shutting, deep inside the penthouse. Our eyes connect, hers shimmering with wonder and mine shadowed with unease.
"Okay, act natural. We'll say we—"
"We?" she giggles, too loud for my liking. "Girl, please. You're the one who's gotta go put a straight face on for your genius of a fake boyfriend. As for me, the service wing's got an elevator. I'll just slip through that." She winks on her way out the door. "See you tomorrow, Cinderella."
I blink rapidly, utterly stunned. Why I am, exactly, I'm not so sure. I tell myself it's because she essentially just equated herself to my fairy godmother, who's sending me off to the ball with a whole new look, instead of the real reason.
The occurrence that's more shocking than me slipping on a pair of heels—though they're not glass, mind you—an event rarer than lightning striking in the exact two places, a chance phenomenon encroaching on the ledge not of improbability... but im poss ibility...
Someone thinks Hayden Kingston is a genius.