9. Saar
Chapter 9
Saar
Celeste
How is it @Saar?
Cora
Pitt and Clooney miss you.
Cora
Me too, strangely. (tongue out emoji)
(eye-roll emoji) This house is huge.
Lily
At least you can avoid your fiancé.
Silver lining (laughing emoji)
Cora
Housewarming party?
What a great idea! He’s gone.
Celeste
I wish I could drink. Merde.
“ T hank you.” I see the movers out and close the front door behind them.
Leaning against it, I sigh. So this is it. I’m officially living with my fiancé. Not that he bothered to show up and welcome me.
His housekeeper, Livia, gave me the keys and showed me my room.
“This is where Mr. Quinn wants you,” she announced. “If you have any questions, I’ll answer them tomorrow. I’m sorry, but my granddaughter has a play at school today, and Mr. Quinn allowed me to leave early.”
She talks about him like he was an employer of the month. I can’t possibly imagine Corm treating anyone with respect.
So here I am, all alone in my new home. I shiver at the idea. A bathroom here is probably the same size as Cora’s entire apartment.
The place is massive—obnoxiously massive. The ceilings are so high, I swear you could fit a small plane in here, and judging by the heliport on the roof, it wouldn’t surprise me if he did.
Why does he even need such an enormous place? Is it a status thing? The foyer is large, with a staircase on one side and a square archway across from it, leading to the dining room.
The floor is checkered black and white, and looks almost like a gigantic chessboard. As his future wife—fake wife—am I the queen or the pawn here? I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.
Across from the front door is the entry into the corridor that leads to the living room, kitchen, and some other rooms.
In the middle of the rounded foyer is a large oval table with the most peculiar statue on it. The bronzed abstract monstrosity probably cost a fortune, and if its purpose is to scare away visitors, it does a pretty good job.
Behind the statue, a long corridor seems to end with glass doors leading to the backyard, I think. I’ll explore that later.
Rounding the statue, I wander down the hallway to the living room. It’s like walking into a high-end designer catalog.
The walls are soft gray, and everything is sleek and minimalist, but there’s this strange warmth in the space. It’s too clean, too curated, but still... comfortable.
It doesn’t have that icy, sterile feel of my childhood home. No marble statues glaring down at me, no grand chandeliers flaunting our wealth to everyone. This place, for all its scale, feels more like a home than that mausoleum I grew up in ever did.
Jesus. What am I thinking? This is not my home. It’s just a temporary station, before I get my trust fund and finally stand on my own two feet.
I worked hard since I was fifteen not to depend on my father. And here I am, at twenty-seven, exactly in that situation.
The idea makes me want to cry. More so because I don’t even know what to do with my life currently. I have no degree, no skills, no experience other than posing, smiling, walking, and being efficient at packing and navigating airports.
I have never written a resume or applied for a job. I worked hard for twelve years, and now I’m dependent, not on one man, but on two at the same time.
My father, who hasn’t spoken to me in a year, and my lovely fiancé, who made it clear I shouldn’t mess with him.
I haven’t seen him for two days, and yet I’m still feeling the aftershocks of our last encounter. The way my body craved him. The way he crowded me. The way we parted.
Don’t control my time with your trivial mind games, and I will leave you alone. Thank God Larissa interrupted us. Sex must be off the table. It’s the last thing this hateful, temporary relationship needs.
I need to get laid. But I can’t even go clubbing. Betsy sent me a list of events and commitments for the next two months, and I practically won’t have time to sleep. Not that I’ve been sleeping much since the twelve-hour shuteye after our date.
I wander over to the dining room, my footsteps muffled by the thick, plush rug. Nestled in the middle of the large room, with floor-to-ceiling windows overseeing the manicured backyard lawn, is a long table, sleek and dark.
It’s made for power dinners with CEOs and politicians, not for breakfast or genuine conversations.
I run my hand along the smooth surface, wondering if anyone’s ever sat here long enough to spill coffee or laugh too loudly.
I’m irrationally upset he isn’t here. Not that I need a welcoming committee, or to be in his presence, but somehow, being here alone makes me feel insignificant. Like he couldn’t bother. Like I’m not important enough to put me on his agenda.
Don’t be stupid, Saar. I’m not important. I’m just a means to an end. A photo op. Arm candy. He doesn’t need to make an effort in the privacy of his home. Or anywhere behind the closed door.
Why the fuck am I so unsettled, blaming him for my lack of direction and purpose? Moneyless, jobless, without a plan, just… this. A fake marriage and a house so big I may actually get lost in it.
I grab a glass of water from the kitchen, take a long sip, and set the glass down on the island, staring at the spotless counters.
Does anyone even live here? There’s no sign of life, no clutter, no messy corners, no indication that anyone actually exists in this perfect, polished space.
I continue roaming the house aimlessly. I don’t know what I’m looking for—some sign that Corm is human after all? A hidden room full of personality and warmth? Yeah, right.
Let’s unpack. Something to be useful. It’s going to be nice not to live from my suitcase for a change.
Taking two steps at a time, I go upstairs, and for a moment, I can’t remember which way is my room. Jesus, this place is stupidly big.
When I finally find it, I open the window despite the cold weather. Cool air sprouts goose bumps on my skin. Anything to feel alive.
My room is huge. It has a small sitting corner and a king-sized bed. I open the double door to a walk-in closet and frown. Several designer evening gowns hang from the rod on the far wall.
Did he get gowns for me? Are they even for me? My eyes widen. Has another woman left them here?
I unpack, trying not to look at the dresses. Not until I know they are mine. It’s not like I need beautiful dresses. Beautiful dresses feel like work.
But they keep taunting me. So I finally cross the floor to look at them. There is a white card hanging on each of them.
What is that? It looks like a date and time. They are organized chronologically. The first date is in a week. Wait a minute.
I pull out my phone and check the schedule Betsy sent me. Sure enough, all the dates on the dresses correspond with an event I’m required to attend. Has Betsy’s firm sent the clothes?
Are outfits for the same occasions prepared in Corm’s closet? Is it Livia’s job? Or is there someone else doing it? Fuck, this really is like being back at work.
And I’m so shocked, and entertained, by this glimpse into Corm’s personal life that I wander off in search of his closet.
To my surprise, his bedroom is beside mine. I was expecting he’d relegate me to the farthest wing away from him. This mansion can house us both without us ever running into each other.
But of course, he needs to control this as well. Asshole.
His bedroom is simple, but like the rest of the house, annoyingly welcoming. The large king-sized bed has dark blue sheets and duvet. There is an armchair in the corner where a large window meets a balcony door.
The door to the bathroom is open, but I turn to open the other double door. Shit, his closet is large. Does he own a suit and a pair of shoes for each day of the year?
I spot the labeled outfits immediately. They are neatly suspended in the far section of this room—it can’t be called a closet. There is a full L-shaped sofa in the middle, for fuck’s sake.
Sure enough, the hangers sport labels similar to mine. There is golfing attire, tuxedos, casual wear. All marked with the date and time.
I lived around labeled clothes all my life, but someone using the runway system to organize their life is news to me.
I giggle, because somehow this little discovery makes him feel human. Like someone is dressing him because he can’t do it himself. It’s a stretch, but shit, I enjoy the revelation.
I really am bored.
And full of excellent ideas. Carefully, I take the hangers down and remove all the labels. I’m about to throw away the cards when I get a better idea.
I shuffle the cards and hang them back on the outfits randomly.
Satisfied, I leave Corm’s bedroom and saunter to my en-suite bathroom. It’s beautiful, with a vintage tub in an alcove and a lot of light streaming through a large window.
Turning on the faucet, I wait for the hot water. I strip and step in, slowly sinking my tired body into the steaming bath.
I stare at the high ceiling. So this is my life now? Stuck in a mansion, engaged to a man I can’t stand, with no idea what to do next.
It’s a beautiful prison, but a prison nonetheless. And here I am, stuck in it. Lost in this huge house like I’m lost in my life.
I roll my eyes at the dramatic thought. And then I get an idea. Maybe I can make this place more mine.
Or at least less his.
“I’m so glad you called.” Nora Flemming is a beautiful woman.
It’s not just her former model looks; there is a kindness and softness to her that just makes me feel comfortable.
The waiter comes to take our order, and I automatically order mixed salad without even looking at other sections of the menu, while she goes for pasta. I guess that’s a new habit that will take a moment to form.
We’re in a trendy bistro in Tribeca, and for the first time in my life I feel uncomfortable in a place like this.
Not because of the hidden and less hidden glances in our direction. That is something I’m used to. It’s because I wonder how I am going to cover the bill.
“I hope I’m not bothering you—”
“Let me stop you right there,” she interrupts with enthusiasm. “I was where you are right now. First, let me congratulate you on your decision. That business can be toxic, and even when we want to get out, once we take the leap, it still feels weird. I’m glad I can help.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly how I feel. I was looking forward to quitting, and now I’m just lost.”
I look away quickly, because I feel like I’m lying to her. I’m not going to burden her with my financial issues. Even though those are contributing to my current state.
She reaches over our table and squeezes my hand, probably misinterpreting my hesitation. “Nothing to feel bad about. It’s normal. From what you told me about your decision to quit, you’re quite probably experiencing burnout. Get a therapist, and start eating and sleeping normally. It takes time to decompress from your now-former lifestyle. Speaking from experience.”
I let out the air through my cheeks. “It’s hard. I need money.” Shit, it comes out before I realize.
To her credit, she doesn’t question the premise. “Okay, well, if you think you’re ready to try something new.” She cleverly avoids my money slip, taking a sip of her wine. “I saw you talking at the Alzheimer’s gala in London last year. You chaired the event.”
Whiplash anyone? I guess she abandoned the topic altogether.
“Yes, it was a privilege to be involved. Frankly, those kinds of events were a great mental break from the everyday grind.”
“You could have chosen to party or to sleep during your time off. Like some of your colleagues.”
“And who could blame them?” I chuckle. “But I always enjoyed lending my name to a worthy cause.”
“It was obvious at that gala. You were there, truly present, informed, a genuine ambassador. Your speech was so authentic, I wonder if you wrote it yourself.”
Something warm spreads through my chest, and I smile, feeling an inch taller. “Thank you. Yes, I did.”
“I’m sorry to pry, but do you have someone with Alzheimer’s in your life?” she asks, just as the waiter brings our dishes.
“No, I don’t, but as I said, I like to lend my name to a good cause. My job requires me—required me—to show up, shut up, and look pretty. I didn’t want to do the same when I volunteered my time.”
She beams at me with… I think it’s a pride. In the absence of any praise from my own parents, I’m craving her honest compliments.
She takes a spoonful of pasta and chews for a moment. “My husband purchased a media network, and we’re looking at restructuring and landing voices to causes and topics that get overlooked or sidetracked by the mainstream channels because there is no money behind them.
“We will have several podcasts and a streaming service and some other outlets. I think you’d be perfect to host one of our podcasts.”
My fork drops. I take the napkin and wipe the corners of my lips. I take a sip of water. None of the automated actions provide any clarity. “I have no experience.”
“My vision is to talk about issues impacting young people—solo episodes as well as interviews. Nothing is set in stone, so you can input and create the final format.”
“I have no experience,” I repeat, unable to process why she would think I’m a good candidate.
“You researched and talked about Alzheimer’s without any experience, and you did a damn good job. I go to these events all the time, and I tune out of most of the speeches. You gripped me from the first sentence.”
Her enthusiasm is contagious. Almost. Because a voice, quite a loud voice in my head, keeps saying I’d make a fool of myself.
“Thank you, Nora. I think I need to take your first advice and rest, and figure out what I want to do.”
She gives me another smile, this one not reaching her eyes, and shrugs. “It’s a shame this doesn’t excite you. You would be great.”
“Oh, it’s not that. It sounds appealing… and scary.” Mostly appealing, I think, if I tuned out the little devil on my shoulders.
“You know what? There is no rush. Why don’t you think about it? Take a few weeks. If you want to talk about it more, call me anytime. But don’t doubt yourself, Saar. You’d be perfect.”
“You’re too generous.” I pick up my fork again.
“Let’s be honest, I have an ulterior motive; your name would bring in listeners.”
And the devil on my shoulder rejoices. Of course, it’s not about my abilities. It’s about my name. At least this gig wouldn’t be about being pretty.
We finish our lunch talking about different topics, gossiping a bit about people from our industry, and without me realizing, brainstorming the show I told her I don’t want to do.
The woman is a subtle manipulator, but I have a great time with her.
When we leave the restaurant, cameras accost us. Goddammit.
“Saar, where is your engagement ring?”
“When is the wedding?”
“Have you moved in together?”
“Why are you not wearing your ring?”
‘Stupid ring would break my finger,’ I want to snap, but I just look down and rush forward, my heart pounding in my temples while I shake with anxiety.
Luckily, Nora has bodyguards waiting outside, and they help us into her car.
“Sorry about that.” I sigh when we pull away.
“Not your fault. I didn’t realize you got engaged. I’m avoiding gossip sites at all costs. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” My stomach churns as I muster my work-perfect smile.
“So where is your ring?” She chuckles.
A lump grows in my throat. It’s not my ring. “Are you planning to sell the story?” I tease, acting more nonchalant than I feel.
She laughs and drops the topic. I laugh, and drop to another low point in my current life.
“Why wouldn’t you come to us if you needed money?” Finn paces around Cal’s large living room. He may get blisters if he continues.
I sigh and look at Celeste, who sits beside Cal on the sofa to my left. She may be the only reason why Cal is not pacing with Finn. Why he seems more on my side. Or at least, less vocal about his opinion on the matter.
Celeste gives me a sad smile.
“Because I don’t need you fixing my problems.” I try to stay calm.
Finn stops and looks at me, unimpressed. He doesn’t have to say it, but I know what he thinks. He’s been fixing my problems for a while—why stop now?
“Why do you need money?” Cal asks.
Both my brothers search my face like the answer is etched on my forehead. I stand up and walk to the wall of windows overlooking the city.
The night is still young, casting a veil of mystery over the skyline, softening its edges with the fading light of dusk before darkness fully descends.
I should just tell them the truth, but I’m even more embarrassed to confess to them than I was with my friends.
“I invested and lost,” I say to the city, the lie bitter on my tongue. I guess, technically, I invested my trust in the wrong person.
Celeste sighs. Shit, now I’m putting her in a position where she’d have to lie to her husband.
Finn huffs. “If you wanted to invest, you should have asked us for advice. What were you thinking?”
Fuck. I spin around, fighting the tears of frustration. “I was thinking I can take care of myself. That I don’t need my overbearing brothers to pamper me. That I can learn from my own mistakes like the rest of the world.”
“Bambi.” Finn sighs.
All the sighing and huffing and patronizing.
“I made a mistake. I’m correcting it.”
“With Cormac fucking Quinn? You’d rather have him help you than us?” Cal raises his eyebrow.
“Oh, so it’s your ego that is hurt? This is not about you. It’s my life.”
Both my brothers flinch. I feel like shit. They love me. They expect me to trust them with my problems.
Don’t they get it, though? This is not about my relationship with them. This is about my relationship with me.
“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. I thought you had something to gain as well,” I accuse Cal.
He snorts. “There are plenty of women out there that could marry him.”
“Well, it’s me who got the honor. So back off. I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to tell you before the media circus started, but that’s the only thing I’m sorry about.”
“So what’s the plan? You will just get your trust fund and divorce him?” Finn shakes his head.
“Yes, and I’d need you to pretend you’re happy for me at the wedding, because this is a huge photo op for Corm.” I fold my arms across my chest and look at Cal. “And for Merged.”
“But he hurt you,” Cal protests, practically jumping from his seat. Celeste puts her hand on his thigh. He glances at her, and his jaw relaxes.
“He didn’t hurt me. And it doesn’t matter. It happened years ago, and some teenage mistakes are completely irrelevant. In fact, the two of you are the only ones still feeding that history.”
Suddenly, it feels completely irrelevant what happened back then. They try to control my life, motivated by care and love, but still. First my parents, then my brothers. And now… fuck, now my dear fiancé.
Finn bows his head, shaking it. “As long as you’re happy.”
I wouldn’t go as far as being happy. “Everything is fine.”
“I’m going to kill him if he hurts you.” Cal stands and walks to a liquor cabinet hidden in his bookcase.
Not if I kill him first. “Thank you for your concern. I love you both, but I need you to let me fight my own battles.”
“Fuck, Bambi, fight your own battles, but don’t hesitate to ask for help.”
Is that what I’m doing? Am I refusing the help foolishly? Believing it’s a quest for independence?
I return to the empty house. Tired, but unable to sleep. Hungry, but not interested in eating. Bored, but unsure what to do.
I pour myself a glass of wine, and without bothering with the lights, I pad over to the living room.
Sitting on the bench in the window overlooking the garden, I pull my phone out. In the absence of my daily dose of attention from cameras, I decide to dive into the virtual world where I can pretend just like anybody else.
I miss living with Cora, and having a human conversation served with takeout.
Something prompts me to turn on the camera. The lighting is off. I look like I haven’t slept in days and just argued with my brothers.
I look like me. I take a few pictures. No filter. No pretense.
Before I think about it, I open my feed. It would be the first honest picture on there once I post it.
I stare at the display, considering what hashtag I should use, and before I realize, my fingers run across the screen.
My new home. From the outside, it looks like I’ve made it. It’s all beautiful. And it’s a lie.
All my life I’ve sold an illusion—the perfect face, the perfect body, the perfect life. The truth? For all the perfect I’ve lived, I have never felt more out of place than I do right now.
Am I the only one? We’re constantly told we need to be something more, something better, something impossible.
I’ve spent years making myself smaller to fit the world’s idea of beautiful, pushing myself to fit a mold. I’m exhausted. That kind of life is unattainable. And pretty damn lonely.
So this is me. No filter. No camera-ready look. Just me, sitting in a vast mansion, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
Do we all feel this lost when the facade falls away? Or is it just me?
Wow. It feels good to write freely what goes through my mind.
But it feels really vulnerable to share that with the world, so I save it in drafts and go to my bed where the sleep doesn’t come.