57. Collaborate
Collaborate
Natalia
The first package arrives before breakfast.
By ten, there are six more stacks in the entryway. By noon, Mama stops asking what I ordered and starts insisting I must have accidentally joined some kind of subscription cult.
Perfume. Makeup palettes. Skincare. Clothes.
Shoes. Jewelry. Five different brands I’ve followed for years, three I’ve tagged before, and one I mentioned once in a story because their winter collection made me briefly believe I could become the kind of woman who wears white cashmere without spilling coffee down the front.
Every box comes with some version of the same note.
We’re so excited to collaborate.
By the time another courier leaves two enormous garment bags draped over the banister, the house looks like an influencer warehouse exploded inside it.
Mama stands in the middle of the living room with both hands on her hips. “Natalia, what is all this?"
Aga is trying to stop Amelka from chewing on the corner of a makeup palette while Kacper sits on the floor surrounded by tissue paper from some designer shoes he's managed to already destroy, delighted by the damage he’s causing.
He's already crushed one lipstick into the carpet, so this is just icing on the cake.
“Kacper, no.”
He looks up at me with the complete innocence of a two-year-old who has definitely committed the crime and feels no shame for it. Then I see the cream shirt beside him.
Black lines zigzag across the front in wild loops. Some have transferred onto his pajama pants. One streak disappears beneath the hem like he tried to color himself too. I stare at the label.
"That shirt costs more than an entire year of tuition at Blackmoore Academy," I tell him with a shake of my head.
Not that Kacper cares at all. He’s two. He barely attends pants. Aga snatches the marker away before he can continue his masterpiece. “Where did you even find this?”
Kacper points at the floor as though the marker grew there naturally.
From the sewing room, Mama calls, “There are more boxes in here!”
My bedroom is already full. The living room is disappearing. Mama’s sewing table has vanished beneath boxes and branded envelopes. Another garment bag hangs from a cabinet handle because we’ve run out of hooks.
There is only one person I know with enough money, influence, and poor impulse control to make this happen overnight.
I grab my phone.
So, I guess Bomos told these brands he has a favorite influencer he wants reviewing all this? How did you get my address?
i have my ways.
Kiri Chhim. Did you pay for all this shit?
thats a rude way to talk about the brands your representing
maybe
MAYBE?
at least itll keep you busy while Im in the studio
thinking about every way Ive already had you and every way Im going to
Heat races up my neck so quickly I turn away from Mama on instinct. Behind me, Amelka starts crying because Aga has removed the palette from her mouth. Kacper takes advantage of the distraction to grab a fistful of shredded tissue paper and throws it into the air.
This is insane. You shouldn't have done this.
you wont be working some job you hate. youll be working for yourself.
thats what you wanted right?
My annoyance loses some of its shape. I look around the house.
At the perfumes lined across the mantel.
The palettes spread over the coffee table.
The clothes draped over chairs and stacked on the stairs.
At Aga trying to clean marker off Kacper’s fingers while Amelka reaches for every glittering object within range.
Yeah but you bought all of it.
The typing bubble appears, disappears, then returns.
sure but musicians hollywood actors whatever
its never all talent
its luck
let me be your luck. i just got the shit you have to make it into something. which i know you can do ive seen you in action
you make everything into something
I stop breathing for a second. It's such a disgustingly perfect thing to say that I almost throw the phone across the room.
Instead, I sit on the arm of the couch while everyone moves around me.
Aga is negotiating with a toddler like it's a hostage situation for the black marker.
Mama is still trying to work out where any of this came from.
Amelka has stopped crying because she found a ribbon to wave around.
And Kiri has somehow dropped himself into the middle of all of it from a studio in Los Angeles without anyone here knowing he exists in my life at all.
I stare at his message. I want to tell him that isn’t why I like him.
Except like is beginning to feel too small.
It’s his talent, obviously. The way he makes a bass feel alive beneath his hands.
It’s his kindness, even when he hides it under profanity and bad decisions.
The way I feel safe in his arms. Calm. Like nothing outside the space between his body and mine can reach me.
His arms.
His chest.
His mouth.
His eyes.
The way he looked at me in that penthouse as though I were something he’d spent his whole life refusing to admit he wanted. I bite my lip.
Ugh.
It's everything. There's no chance I’m sending him a full inventory of every pathetic fangirl thought I’ve ever had about him.
I never once seriously considered his money.
Maybe that was stupid. He’s been famous for years.
He sells out arenas. His face is on shirts, magazines, billboards, and probably several regrettable tattoos.
Obviously he has money. But it was always abstract.
Something managed by accountants and credit cards he never had to think about.
Now it’s here. In my living room, bedroom, in Mama’s sewing room and in the cream shirt Kacper has just covered with what might be his first attempt at art. Suddenly I understand the scale of it.
Kiri has money. A lot of it.
Enough to call brands, move people, create opportunities, and open doors I’ve spent years standing outside.
And he wants to spend it on me? Spend seems wrong too, because he doesn't just want to spend it to impress me with perfume or clothes or whatever ridiculous thing arrives next.
He wants to spend it on my dream. That part is so sweet I almost feel sick at the magnitude of it.
My heart trips over itself.
I look down at his message again.
Let me be your luck.
All this isn't why I like you.
i know
thats another reason why i want to do it
I close my eyes. Another delivery van pulls up outside. Mama sees it through the window. The doorbell rings.
“Natalia, no more.”
“I don’t control them.”
“Then who does?”
My grip tightens around the phone. “No one. It’s just brands wanting me to represent them. Some videos went viral recently.”
Mama narrows her eyes but turns toward the door. Kacper holds up the ruined shirt with both hands, proud of himself. I take a picture and send it to Kiri.
One of the pieces has already been customized.
tell the artist i’ll pay double for it