Chapter 39
Frankie stared into the camera’s red blink and prayed for a miracle she knew would not come. A bead of sweat slid down her spine, chased by something colder. Recognition.
Ten minutes ago, she’d been floating through Gi Gi’s Crossing’s Gatsby night, all brass and laughter and borrowed stardust. She and Marcus had Charlestoned until her cheeks hurt, and for one dangerous beat, she’d let the town, the music, and the man convince her that soft might be safe.
The spell cracked under a voice she hadn’t heard since the post-stiletto press conference.
“Frankie, would you be so kind as to answer a few questions?”
Her heart thudded once. Hard.
Melanie Carter.
Celebrity vulture. Collector of scandals. Velvet knife with a microphone.
Frankie smiled. Not the accidental, real one the locals kept coaxing out of her. This was her Monday-morning pitch-meeting smile, the kind that said she was the gatekeeper and would kill weak ideas before lunch.
Gi Gi’s Crossing didn’t know her yet. If Melanie peeled back the gloss, would they turn on her for the lie? Would she lose the oddball stage-one friends she was considering graduating to stage four, the kind who feel like family?
“Of course,” she drawled, heat banked and steady. Crisis-management muscle memory slid into place. Whoever had leaked her location was about to learn the definition of regret.
The cameras swung wide. “Tell me, Gi Gi’s Crossing, did you know you had a celebrity in your midst?”
The crowd went half awe, half oh-no-she-didn’t.
A producer thrust a mic at Harriet. Harriet narrowed her eyes. “Listen, missy, in Gi Gi’s Crossing we don’t gossip with outsiders.”
“For those just tuning in,” Melanie purred, sugar over steel, “we’re live in Gi Gi’s Crossing, formerly known as Nippleton Falls. Once ranked number three on a listicle of Ten Towns You’d Move to If You Hated Yourself.
Groans rippled through the crowd.
“And standing with me,” she added, leaning in, “is Frankie Peterson, former editor-in-chief of Naked Runway and high-heeled icon of controversy. The woman whose social media to that listicle was, ‘Honestly, number three feels generous.’”
Frankie’s jaw ticked. Around her, whispers popped like firecrackers, a phone or two lifted, her real name floating up like a flare.
“There is no former,” she said evenly. “I am the editor-in-chief of Naked Runway.”
“We’ll circle back to that,” Melanie said, smile tight. “First, the other rumors about why you really threw the stiletto. Which one is true?”
Frankie felt the old pulse of panic trying to climb her throat. She shoved it down and gave the practiced answer. “A model stumbled. I was having a bad day. I threw a shoe. End of story.”
Melanie tipped her head, the picture of sympathy, the scent of blood in her eyes. “Funny. I rewatched every angle. I can’t find even the ghost of a stumble.”
“Then your eye isn’t trained for runway detail,” Frankie said, smooth as glass. “Trust me. She stumbled.”
Say it clean. Don’t blink. Make the livestream believe you.
And still, Melanie smiled, certain the kill was coming.
Whispers rose up all around Frankie.
“She wasn’t wrong. Three was generous.”
“I thought she said her father cut her off.”
“Wait, she’s not an heiress?”
No one said liar. No one sounded angry. Just confused.
“Hmm.” Melanie leaned in, smile thinning. “And you are sure it had nothing to do with the argument you were overheard having backstage, with the designer scheduled right after Naked Runway’s final look?”
“Of course not,” Frankie said, voice press-release smooth.
“Then you admit you argued with her?”
Behind the camera, the crowd tightened. Quiet, sharp.
“I don’t even remember who was up next.”
A lie. She remembered everything. The panic in Lola’s eyes. The promise Frankie had made. The silence after. She’d taken the hit so the other woman would not have to.
Melanie lifted a brow. “So you deny throwing the shoe to protect her from an embarrassing debut?”
Frankie set her jaw. “Do I look like the sacrificial type?”
“Fair enough,” Melanie said. “Our viewers are very invested in this next question. Vegas has odds.” She let the pause stretch. “Was it Naked Runway who placed you on an indefinite leave after your very public meltdown?”
The words went off like a charge.
Something in Frankie splintered. The story she had polished to a shine began to unravel, right there on Main Street.
Shame burned hot in her chest, and for the first time in years, she had no comeback. Just Frankie Peterson, exposed and breakable, standing in vintage T-straps on ground she had started to trust.
Her gaze swept the crowd. Marcus.
She had avoided looking for him. He knew too much, and lying was harder when someone saw every crack. But now she searched anyway.
Because for the first time in her life, she wanted to be rescued.
Two weeks apart and he had come back with apologies and gentle hands. He’d made her believe, stupidly, recklessly, that maybe this time someone would stay.
Now he was gone.
When she needed him most, he’d vanished. It landed like an open-hand sting.
“Shall I take your silence to mean no—”
“Shame on you!” Ziggy’s voice cracked the square.
Heads turned as he strutted into the light, finger wagging at Melanie like it had its own license. “This woman’s brilliance is being dimmed by your camera lens, and I will not watch it another second.”
Before she could breathe, he had her tucked to his side.
Frankie exhaled, the knot in her throat loosening, but not gone.
Marcus had disappeared. He’d left her hunted and alone, the one person who could have made it easier. The worst part? She had believed he was the kind of man who stayed. Someone she could trust. Someone she could pin a hope to.
She’d been wrong. Her father had walked away once. Marcus had just done the same.
Ziggy stayed. Loud, loyal, ridiculous, steady. He was the friend who helped you bury the body, no questions asked.
Marcus was not.