Chapter Three - Suzy
Smoke coils in the beams of the green glass desk lamp, thick enough to sting my eyes before I even step fully into the room.
My father doesn’t look up—not at first. The scent of his cigarettes is familiar, woven into my childhood the way other girls remember warm bread or new paint.
My pulse is a slow hammer in my chest. The air in here is dense with old money and old power, both things I’ve spent years learning to move through like water, never leaving a ripple.
I stand, silent, waiting for permission to exist in his world. After everything I did tonight, I thought maybe I’d earned more than that.
He glances up, ledger open beneath his ringed hand. The lines of his face are sharper than usual, the deep grooves bracketing his mouth shadowed by the lamp. He marks a sum in his perfect script, then sets the pen down with a click that sounds final.
“You did good work, Suze.” His voice is warm, worn smooth from years of practice; affection and command are braided so tight I can barely breathe.
I swallow, waiting for something more. The words I want—the words I’ve spent all night rehearsing—jam at the back of my throat. I imagine him saying you’re ready. I imagine him saying you belong here.
Then he sighs, barely a flicker of pride crossing his eyes. “That’s enough. You’re not to get further involved.”
The words slap cold. I flinch before I can catch myself, and I hate that he sees it. The finality is gentle, but it burns sharper than anger. It’s the kind of gentleness he only uses on things he plans to keep locked away: heirlooms, secrets, daughters.
He slides the ledger closed, steeples his hands, and for a moment I think he’ll explain—tell me why, tell me what I’ve done wrong, what rule I broke. Instead, he gives me a look I’ve only seen a few times before: after my first real job, when he checked my hands for blood and found none.
After my sixteenth birthday, when he made sure the car he gave me was armored. He loves me, but it’s the kind of love that’s always braced for loss.
“I mean it, Suze. You did well, but I want you out now. You’re not for this.” His tone brooks no argument, but there’s an ache at the edge of it—something soft that he’d never call fear.
I nod, lips pressing into the shape of a smile. I can fake this; I’ve had years of practice.
“Of course, Dad,” I say, and my voice is the one I use for teachers and strangers, smooth and careful. “Whatever you think best.”
He smiles back, pleased at my obedience, and I can see the moment he lets himself relax—work finished, problem solved, daughter safely returned to the glass case. I wonder if he ever imagines how sharp the glass could be, if someone ever leaned on it too hard.
When I leave his office, the house feels colder, emptier. I walk the corridor slow, let my mind drift—not forward, but back, the way it always does when I feel him slipping away from me.
Two lives, always running in parallel. My mother’s world: all white teeth and red lips, camera flashes, the scent of perfume and hotel sheets. She told me, over and over, that I was destined for light, for things that sparkled and never stained. Magazine covers, glass awards, gallery openings.
When I was small she’d smooth my hair and tell me I’d thank her someday for keeping me clean. I never knew if she meant safe, or just unsullied.
My father’s world: all steel and shadow, measured in lessons never written down. He taught me how to drive a stick before I learned to parallel park, taught me to shoot a pistol before I ever tried a lipstick.
I’d sit on the rug in his study, tracing the map of his scars, listening to stories he’d never tell anyone else. I didn’t have his name. Not legally, but I learned the one lesson he never said out loud—never let anyone see you bleed, especially not the people who claim they love you.
Both of them wanted to keep me out. My mother because she was ashamed, my father because he was afraid. They built walls so high I still wake up sometimes thinking I can’t see over them.
Tonight, standing in the place where I thought I belonged, I realize he never saw me as an heir—just a daughter who could deliver a message and then disappear. A pretty pawn, not a player. “For my own good,” he’ll say, if pressed. “For your safety,” he’ll insist. I wish I could believe him.
I slip my phone out as I cross the marble foyer, screen lighting my face with the familiar, civilian glow.
Out in the world, my other life is waiting: tomorrow’s call sheet, the campaign notes for the new skincare brand, a list of modeling requests that would make my mother preen with pride. I let the two lives settle on my shoulders like coats I’ll change between, depending on the weather.
***
In my apartment, I move through the evening’s rituals with the ease of practice. I strip out of the black suit, careful to keep the foundation from smudging on the collar, and hang it in the dry cleaner’s bag in the back of my closet.
I slide into the cream silk pajamas my mother sent for Christmas, smoothing my hair into the style my agent prefers. I pack a canvas bag for tomorrow: moisturizer, concealer, heel pads, protein bars. Everything neutral, everything light. My “normal girl” armor.
I set two alarms. One for the campaign call time—4:00 a.m., before dawn. The other, an hour earlier, just in case something from my father’s world drags me out of bed.
I brush my teeth, count the brushstrokes, and stare at myself in the foggy mirror. No sign of the steel, not tonight.
My eyes are wide, mouth soft, a face that belongs on billboards or at parties, never in smoke-hazed offices or locked rooms. I wipe a thumb beneath my eye—no smudge, no mascara out of place.
As I slip between the cool sheets, the city flickers through the blinds, painting gold stripes on my skin.
I tell myself I should be satisfied. I did what he asked.
I did it well, but all I feel is the old hunger, curling in my chest, a need to be more than the clean-handed daughter, more than a pawn. To be trusted. To be seen.
Tomorrow, I’ll smile for the cameras. Tonight, I make a silent promise: I won’t let myself vanish. I won’t stay on the sidelines. Not for him. Not for anyone.
***
The sun is already too bright by the time I hit the studio, slicing through skylights and bouncing from every slick surface.
The air smells of hair spray, coffee, and nervous energy.
I arrive early—never first, never last—just another body in a room full of moving parts, every one of us pretending the day hasn’t already outpaced us.
A row of folding chairs sags under bags and water bottles. Light booms hang overhead, a gentle, pulsing hum beneath the conversations and laughter.
On set, I’m Suzy. Just Suzy. Nobody here would ever imagine what I did forty-eight hours ago. I slide into the space the crew expects: the sweet one, the polite one, who never complains about foundation in her hairline or last-minute wardrobe changes.
The only evidence of last night’s world is the extra set of keys in my tote, the new burner phone zipped under my wallet, just in case.
The lead for today’s campaign is Elara. She’s taller than me by half a head, cheekbones that could slice glass, but there’s a sharp wit under the glossy veneer. Her jokes have teeth, and she doesn’t bother to hide it. I like her immediately, even though I won’t let myself relax.
Elara plops beside me in the other makeup chair, a handful of almonds balanced on a magazine.
“You slept? You don’t look like you did,” she says, arching a brow in the mirror. I give her a smirk.
“Insomnia’s a brand these days,” I reply, voice light. “Or maybe it’s just the concealer.” The makeup artist grins, dusting shimmer on my collarbone.
The day runs in fast-forward—wardrobe, lip gloss, blinding flashes, instructions shouted in three languages. I slip into poses like water, catching the light, throwing practiced smiles at the camera, laughing when the art director cracks his fifth joke.
Every move is deliberate, every gesture easy but never careless. If the world is watching, let them see the version they expect.
Elara pulls me aside before lunch, phone raised. “Selfie time, darling. Give me ‘done with this day’ but make it cute.”
We press cheeks, pull faces. She snaps six, then scrolls for the best. In the frame, I’m all teeth and shoulders, her arm slung over mine. For a moment, the noise in my head fades.
We slide into a shadowed corner, eating fruit from the craft table and whispering gossip—agents who double-book, the creepy guy who always lingers too long at castings, whose playlist is more unhinged, who has the most unhinged mother.
I laugh for real, a small shiver of something like freedom. Elara feels solid, unmanufactured in a world built from gloss and smoke. I let my guard down just enough to remember how good that feels.
“Carpool after?” she asks, bright, hopeful.
“Rain check?” I offer, softening it with a crooked grin. “I’ve got a call with my agent, then errands.”
It’s the truth… sort of. I can’t let her orbit me for long; my life collects shadows, and I won’t let anyone else pay the price for proximity.
She shrugs, unbothered, and tosses her hair. “Next time, then. You’re buying coffee.”
“Deal.” I watch her go, her energy lingering even after she’s out of sight.
After the shoot, I linger in the dressing room, spinning my lip balm in my palm, pretending to hunt for something as the others file out.
I study myself in the lighted mirror: the glowy skin, the liner winged just so, not a hint of steel or sharpness left. If anyone were watching, they’d see a girl winding down from a long day, nothing more.
I text my mother—Campaign’s going great, see you this weekend—careful not to sound too eager, careful not to make promises I can’t keep.
I slide my burner phone deeper into the lining of my purse, push the lipstick down, zip it shut. One last look in the mirror, just in case. The face I wear is flawless, anonymous.