40. “Look What You Made Me Do” - Taylor Swift
“Look What You Made Me Do” - Taylor Swift
Walker
Everything is going according to plan.
While the quality of the photos I’ve rounded up isn’t professional grade, the items are hot enough that I’m hoping the committee will be willing to overlook any slightly pixelated backgrounds or less-than-aesthetically-pleasing styling.
Rhett’s was easy. He sent it himself a few weeks ago. I have to erase the whiskey bottle in Canva and do what I can to clean it up, but the whole thing only takes half an hour.
The guitar glitters in multiple shades of green, all bleeding together like a watercolor of a forest. It’s propped against a leather armchair, but it’s easy enough to determine the focal point.
Pierce’s is a little harder. I’m able to access professional photos off various websites, but all of them are watermarked by the museum or gallery in question.
I finally locate one where someone was stupid enough to put the watermark only on the solid white background. That’s an easy fix. Thank you, Canva.
I personally find the painting abhorrent, but based on a quick Google search, I seem to be in the minority on this. It looks like the type of thing a toddler would create on their mum’s kitchen walls in a fit of rage, all bright colors and nonsensical patterns.
Give me a Monet any day.
As suspected, Lux has a photo on her Instagram. That was never in question. The trouble is that the picture (downloaded through a backdoor site) loses quality from the original. With what are becoming mad Canva skills, I’m able to polish it up enough for the committee.
She’s displayed the bags on shelves I assume were custom-built for that purpose. Each one is backlit so that it looks like a Chanel store is masquerading as her closet. The whole thing is pretty impressive.
Maeve’s is the most difficult. She has sent me photos in the past, but they’re all on my old phone, which is unfortunately still in England.
After multiple password resets, I’m able to gain access to my cloud storage and find an appropriate picture there.
A little cropping work later, and we’re golden.
The photo was taken at a gala three years ago. The three of us are wearing exquisite gowns and elaborate updos. Maeve’s necklace was the star of the show for obvious reasons, emphasizing her slender neck and prominent collarbones.
Whitney Rivendale’s phone number was listed on the gala’s website, right below her name and This Year’s Host . I left her a voicemail before starting on the photo touch-ups. My phone rings beside me now, and her number pops onto the screen.
Here we go.
“Ms. Newhoff? It’s Whitney Rivendale, returning your call,” she says when I answer. Her nasally voice reminds me of those actresses who play older, adoring mothers of delinquent teenage sons whose actions they refuse to acknowledge as problematic.
“Thank you for calling me back.” I inject my voice with the brisk polish an assistant would use. “I’m calling on behalf of my employer, Pierce St. James. Is it too late to submit a few items for the auction?”
She sighs on the other end, and I picture my plan sliding through the cracks like sand on a dock. “The auction list goes to the printer this afternoon, along with the invitations. I’m not sure—”
“I think you’re going to want these items, ma’am.”
There’s another sigh. “Maybe if you tell me what they are . . .”
I quirk my mouth. Just the opening I need. “For starters, I have a two-hundred-piece vintage Hermes bag collection.”
I wait for the inevitable pin drop.
“I’m sorry, did you say two hundred pieces?”
“That’s right, ma’am. I also have Simone Caldwell’s Emancipation , which I imagine should be pretty popular.”
Ms. Rivendale titters through the phone, probably waving a freshly manicured hand in front of her flawless face. “Those items are— Well, you’re right. They will cause quite a rage.”
I grin to myself. More than one kind of rage.
We make arrangements for me to email her the rest of the details and photos. “I’ll have everything to you within the hour,” I assure her.
“Any later than that and we won’t be able to include them, much as we might wish to,” she says, her voice rising in pitch.
“You don’t need to worry,” I say. “I do have one more request. Could I pick up Mr. St. James’s invitation, along with those of his three fellow donors?”
* * *
I peruse the list one final time, ensuring there are no typos or missing words. A smile creeps onto my face unbidden.
From Mr. Pierce St. James, Simone Caldwell’s Emancipation ,
From Ms. Lux Colombia-Clarke, a collection of two hundred vintage Hermes handbags ,
From Mr. Rhett Cole, a custom Fender Stratocaster owned by musician Rodney Giles,
From Ms. Maeve Wilson, the Amarilla Pearl necklace
I attach the four photos I doctored in Canva and hit send. Whitney assured me the invitations would be ready for pickup tomorrow afternoon, in plenty of time to have them delivered to Pierce’s flat during poker night.
Heath’s going to wonder why he wasn’t included. While the rest of them open their envelopes and see what I’ve done, he’ll be sitting there, imagining something worse waiting for him at home.
It won’t come.
I spent hours thinking this through. Bestowing the same punishment on him as the others doesn’t seem right. After all, they were going to sabotage me by going after something important to me. It’s only fair I do the same to them.
But he destroyed what was left of my heart after mangling it the first time. He drew me in, taught it to beat again, then reared back to deal it one final blow.
That deserves something much more than a basic revenge plot.
Heath deserves a broken heart of his own.
Maybe he’ll live in fear of something happening weeks from now. Maybe he’ll feel ignored and left out of the scheme. Or maybe he’ll understand the subtle message I’m sending him: Just because you haven’t grown, doesn’t mean I haven’t.
The air swelters tonight, and I regret my long-sleeve button-down the minute I step outside. Gone are the balmy days of summer, replaced by the oppressive heat of hell’s personal sauna.
I check again to make sure all four invitations are in the car.
The envelopes look like the midnight sky, a stormy-blue linen embossed with tiny gold foil stars, names scrawled in thick calligraphy on the front.
They weighed heavy in my hand when I picked them up from the calligrapher’s, each containing a “small” gift as a token for considering the invitation.
The Atlantis looms above the other buildings downtown, its eighty-plus stories reaching for the darkening sky. I can’t tell which flat is Pierce’s from down here, but I can picture them all sitting around the table in the game room, antes already submitted, cards in hand.
I park in the underground garage and take the lift to the lobby. I recognize the elderly doorman. He’s been a fixture at the Atlantis for as long as I’ve been coming here, since back when Pierce bought his flat four years ago.
He smiles at me the way a grandfather might, not the exuberant ones who toss you into the air, but the ones who watch from the sidelines of every piano recital and gymnastics competition, chest puffed out proudly and telling everyone within hearing distance, “That’s my granddaughter.
” I didn’t have one of those, unfortunately, but I’ve seen enough of them to know what I missed out on.
“Miss Halifax.” His eyes twinkle with suppressed mirth.
“Hello, Leonard.” I stretch my arms out to give him a hug. His burgundy uniform is scratchy against my cheek .
“How are you, my dear?” he says. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”
“I’ve moved to England to study at Oxford full-time.”
His eyes widen, and he pats his chest like he’s looking for something. “Well, of course you are.” He fishes a pair of glasses from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Let me get a better look at you.”
I smile as he studies me head to toe.
“You’re just as pretty as you’ve always been. You here to see Mr. St. James?” He continues without waiting for an answer. “The others are here already, I believe.”
“Actually, I can’t join them tonight.” I pull the envelopes from my bag, pleased to see they haven’t been crushed. “I was hoping you could make a delivery for me, though.”
Leonard takes the stack from my hand and flips through them. “Surprising them, are we?” His voice sounds conspiratorial, and he winks.
“Something like that.” I smile at him one last time before heading back to the door. “You’ll get them up there tonight?”
He gives me a mock salute. “You can count on me, Miss Halifax.”
“Thank you, Leonard. You’re the best.” I blow him a kiss and return to the car park.
Showtime.