Chapter 7
Sky
I ascend the stairs to the first floor, stifling a yawn. The night was restless as I spent hours contemplating how to operate in the coming months without attracting the attention of the press. This is paramount.
No scandals at Touch av lyx.
That's the golden rule. Regardless of how well I represent my father, if even the slightest piece of information about me and my past becomes public, it won't bode well for him. Employees have always had confidentiality clauses in their contracts with staggering penalties, so I don't need to worry about those. But everything else is a problem.
Simply staying in Stockholm is dangerously risky. Nevertheless, I have to do it. That, and something else.
When I arrived at my parents' house yesterday, I was too weak. I knew how dangerously close the day had brought me to a boundary I must never cross again. So I merely collapsed onto the living room sofa and closed my eyes.
Now, I stand before this wooden door with elegant embellishments. The incoming sunlight reveals a thin layer of dust on the handle. My toes press into the plush carpet that stretches the length of the hallway.
Although I'm fairly certain I know what isn't behind this door, a part of me hopes for something different.
With a deep breath, I press down the handle. The door swings open.
I swallow hard.
Where my bed used to be, there's a treadmill. Only a grimy gray outline remains to remind me where my desk once stood. The television is still there, but someone has carefully removed the butterfly stickers, leaving no trace of adhesive residue.
It's as if I never existed. I wonder if keeping my room intact was too painful for my father.
"All of this, you'll have again," I remind myself aloud. "Show him what you're made of. Prove that you're worth being his daughter."
With determination, I march back into the hallway. I need to be at the airport in an hour. I descend the stairs, ignoring the vacant spaces on the walls where my pictures once hung. I call for a taxi, specifying that I'll be picked up at Stureparken . I can easily walk the short distance to the park, ensuring the taxi driver won't associate me with my father.
Just as I zip up my suitcase, the doorbell rings. It can only be Lil. She must have had a change of heart, now wanting to fly to Milan with the photographer and me, to support me just as she does with my father. Or maybe Stig talked to her again.
With hopeful anticipation, I open the door.
It's not Lil.
It's the guy from yesterday, the one whose face lingered in my mind for far too long after our collision. Today, he radiates in a way that even makes the thinly frosted garden behind him seem somehow cozy.
"Yes?" I say, just as I realize I shouldn't have gone to the door. Officially, I don't exist. I'm neither Gustav Blohm's daughter nor am I in Stockholm. But I could be the housemaid. Yes, that would make perfect sense.
He runs a hand through his light brown hair, causing it to stick out in all directions. "Skady Blohm?"
I involuntarily flinch. How does he know my name? "No?" Oh, that sounded like a question, didn't it? Now he probably thinks I'm clueless.
In response to my reaction, he furrows his brow. "That sounded like a maybe ," he comments softly. Then a smirk plays at his lips. "Hello, I'm—maybe or maybe not—Kjell."
Kjell. I dig into my memory. Do I know a Kjell? If so, where from? Something about his eyes seems vaguely familiar.
Perhaps.
"Are you following me, Maybe-or-Maybe-Not Kjell?" I say out of desperation because if I've learned one thing from my father, it's that the best defense is a good offense.
"Never," he says with a feigned look of shock, one I'm not entirely buying.
"Oh yeah?" I raise an eyebrow. "Then why am I seeing you for the second time within twenty-four hours?" He didn't expect that. I can tell from how he looks down at the ground, somewhat embarrassed. "Why are you here? What do you want?" My words come out harsher than intended, but my fear of being recognized is simply too great.
"Compensation," he replies with such seriousness that I'd almost believe him if his lips weren't twitching suspiciously.
"Did you flatten your nose against the glass insert of the door too much?" It slips out, and I'm afraid I might even be smiling. Inappropriately so. Unprofessional. But there's something about him...
He pushes his lower lip forward. "Maybe..."
"Or maybe not," we both say simultaneously.
I know I shouldn't be grinning at him like this, but I can't help it. It's fun and feels light and easy in my chest, especially when he smiles at me like that. And that look, it's so... I can't quite put my finger on it...
"Alright, Skady—or maybe not—now, down to the facts," he says, placing his hand over his chest. "My interest in you is purely professional."
His job is to persue people? Suddenly, I'm back to my senses. I scrutinize him more closely, spotting the camera bag hanging by his hip, and everything becomes clear. "Are you the photographer?"
"Well... you see." He reaches for the camera, as if he himself needs to understand why he has it with him. Then I notice the suitcase by his feet. His apologetic smile makes him way too likable. "Yes, S?derberg had to cancel, and I'm filling in."
Okay, this is quite embarrassing. I probably could have just asked him why he was here. No wonder he's stumbling over his words when I'm acting like a lunatic. Since I returned to Stockholm, I somehow don't feel like myself. It's as if I've lost my balance.
"Alright." I feel my face heating and quickly turn away. "Wait here," I tell him and grab my suitcase so we don't waste any more time. "By the way, I'm not Skady; I'm Sky," I say after locking the front door.
Staring directly into my eyes, he grins mischievously. "Sky suits you much better."
He noticed my deep blue eyes, which earned me my nickname.
Interesting.
No, it's not. Not at all.
Struggling to focus, I walk with him toward Stureparken , where the taxi waits amid trees and shrubs covered in frost. Like a true gentleman, he holds the car door open for me. As I slip past him, I catch a whiff of his scent for a split second.
Alluring.
Dangerously alluring.
I quickly shake the thought from my mind. "Bromma Airport, please," I address the taxi driver with the thick woolen scarf while Kjell takes a seat beside me.
She signals and merges into the heavy traffic. Warm air flows from the ventilation system, enveloping me in comfort. I unfasten the oversized buttons of my short coat and check my phone. My father should be in the operating room by now. I probably won't hear from June until we land in Milan, but I can hardly put my phone down.
No. I must focus on my task, no matter how difficult it is.
It's about a thirty-minute drive to the airport from here, ample time to discuss the basics with Kjell. Because that's what my father would do.
"Did you receive the briefing?" Since Touch av lyx commissions photo shoots for every show, my father documented the necessary information for photographers years ago. Hopefully, the briefing still exists.
"No." He shrugs apologetically.
I strain to recall the instructions after all this time, which is not as easy as I had hoped.
Gradually, I explain that we primarily need backstage shots that capture the hustle and bustle and the ambiance of the show—candid shots of preparations and creative close-ups, all with a focus on the designs.
"A few things are especially important," I conclude with a professional tone.
Until now, he has only nodded in agreement. Now, he raises his index finger to signal he needs a moment and takes out a notepad. "Go on."
"First, no photos of me." I sound like a drill instructor. Terrible. But as much as I hate it myself, it must be done for him to understand the seriousness of the situation.
"Why not?" he asks, without writing it down. Behind him, Stockholm's facades pass by. Briefly, that feeling resurfaces that I should know him.
I nod toward his notepad. "No photos of me. Please note that."
He furrows his brow skeptically. He holds my gaze for so long that a strange confusion builds within me again. Then he thankfully jots down the most important rule.
"Second, every picture must be personally approved by me," I quickly add. "I decide which photos can be used after the show and which must be definitively destroyed. You're familiar with the contract Touch av lyx has with your agency, right?"
"Um," he pretends to think, probably to tease me again.
I'd love to engage in the banter, have some fun, and unwind. However, I force myself to focus on him. "The confidentiality clause?"
"Of course," he says, lifting the corners of his mouth.
"Good." I pluck a piece of lint from my skinny jeans. "Have you been backstage at a fashion show before?"
He lowers his pen and sizes me up. "No. Have you?"
The car stops at a red light. I frantically consider how to answer.
Can I tell him?
Probably not. Even though he's committed to confidentiality, it's safer to remain vague.
"Once in a while," I say, gazing out the window. The night was clear and frosty. Now the sun shines, gracefully sparkling on the frost that coats the blades of grass beside the road.
"Mysterious," he murmurs.
His voice resonates warmly within me. "Maybe," I can't help but grin inwardly as the taxi resumes its journey. "Or maybe not."
"Mysterious and beautiful."
What did he just say? "Did you just say beautiful?" It's entirely possible that I'm staring at him. Equally possible that I feel flattered—which I absolutely shouldn't.
A hint of remorse flashes across his face, then he bursts into laughter. "Super strict. I said mysterious and super strict."
Oh? Ohhhh!
How foolish of me. Looking embarrassingly at the back of the taxi driver's head, I open my mouth but don't know what to say.
Well done, Sky. Father would be so proud.
Kjell clears his throat. In my peripheral vision, I see him flipping through the notepad. "And third?"