Chapter 21 Promotion
I’m not going to have sex with Faust today.
Mostly because I’m going to freak the fuck out.
“What do you mean, they bailed?”
“They said the suit got caught in customs.” I’m on the phone with Mei, pacing in my room. “Something about the silk not being declared? Or it was illegal? Can silk be illegal?”
It’s April 27. Tomorrow is the Day Gala.
I’ve worked almost nonstop for the past three weeks to plan Faust’s look meticulously.
The Garden of the Gods theme ended up being easy, perfect for non-fashion men who wear plain black suits to the gala regardless of the theme.
Like, so sorry you have to attend the best night of fashion, held at an actual museum—must be so hard.
And yes, Faust’s look had been a black suit, because I know him and he looks good in black.
But I’d called in a favor with a small designer I’d met in Milan, an up-and-coming twenty-year-old who specializes in crystal embellishing.
One hundred hours later, and we had a suit bedazzled with silver beading along the shoulders, down where Faust’s spine would be, gathered at the lapels.
It almost suggested a skeleton, though it isn’t quite as on the nose as McQueen or Schiaparelli; “I’d been inspired by his name,” the designer had written to me.
“A man called Faust has to go as Hades, the god of death.” As if his ego wasn’t already oversized.
And now, it’s gone.
“The tariffs,” Mei hisses.
I have no idea how that comes into play here and I feel really dumb for not knowing. “I’m so sorry, Mei. This is my fault.”
It is. She knows it, I know it. I’ve had weeks. I hear Mei exhale over the phone, static blowing through my speaker. “Okay. Can you just buy him something?”
That idea kicks me while I’m down. “Off the rack?”
“I mean, yeah.”
“It won’t be tailored.”
“Get a tailor.”
Fair. I bite my thumb nail, anxiety transforming my central nervous system into the Drake Passage.
I’m in New York City. Stores are open late.
I’ll go to Armani—or Thom Browne. Both. Two options, two suits, a backup plan for real.
I look at the vintage Cartier cuff links sitting on my dresser, and my heart sinks down to the floor.
They’re white gold. I’d been so certain that Faust would be wearing them with the beaded suit—they would’ve looked perfect—
The inspiration.
“Wait,” I tell Mei, and hop over to the tiny closet where I stowed my vintage store spoils.
Miu Miu Mary Janes for me, a pair of tortoiseshell Persol sunglasses I thought Faust might like, and two-thirds of a McQueen suit I knew he wouldn’t, but I had to buy anyway.
I slip the jacket from the hanger. Black wool, with white-threaded appliques.
Birds, flowers, scattered up the arms, flying around the back.
It’s very McQueen. It’s a piece of history. There’s no way Faust will wear it.
Unless I ask very, very nicely.
I let out a long, slow breath. “I’ve got it handled.”
“You do?”
“I have two-thirds of a McQueen suit.”
“Pants?”
“Yes, and the jacket.”
“They’re good?”
“Original, pre–Sarah Burton, who I love. Don’t get me wrong.”
“What about a shirt?”
I go quiet. None of those. Though I do have white cotton button-downs of my own. And Faust and I are almost the same height. And it’s McQueen. For the Day Gala. I can get weird.
“I’ll make one.”
“You—”
“Yes.”
“You can make a shirt?”
“I’ve got it.”
It isn’t pants, or a suit jacket, and I’m not starting from scratch. So that might be why I’m completely confident. Like, locked-in, three-cups-of-coffee confident. Mei makes a quiet noise, like she’s been wounded. “Does the jacket fully close?” she finally asks.
“Yes. If it looks awful, I’ll button it up. It just has to be a bit of white behind the lapels.”
“Fuck. Okay. If you screw this—” She stops. I’m already unearthing my own button-downs, grabbing my clothing steamer and emergency sewing kit. “It’s going to look good.”
Mei’s switch-up stops me in my tracks. I worry my lip with my teeth, smiling.
“You aren’t getting sentimental on me, are you?” I ask, echoing her from what feels like years ago.
She huffs out an indignant laugh. “Send me pictures immediately.”
I’d called Faust at one a.m. He’d messaged me when he’d landed in the city, though I didn’t get back to him until I was done with the shirt. No distractions. His voice had been thick and sleepy when he’d picked up, but he’d picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me. Can I courier something to your hotel?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t ask what, or why. And I think that’s when it happened for me. The first shift that I was totally aware of, and completely understood.
I could fall in love with this man if I’m not careful.
But I’d needed to sleep, was already shaky from adrenaline, and that was a thought for later. “Will you wear it for me tonight?” I’d asked. “Please.”
A long, slow second. “Mm.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Sleeping.”
His breath swirled over the line. “Okay. You okay?”
My fingers were covered in Band-Aids from accidental needle pricks. Clouds of white threads covered the floor of my room. I had to be at his hotel by ten a.m. to meet with his hair stylist. “I haven’t felt this good in a really long time.”
I’d slept some, mostly didn’t need to. Levitated through Faust’s beauty treatments and hair grooming, watching from the other side of his penthouse suite like a Cheshire cat.
I’d forgotten what this was like—making something, then seeing it on a body.
When he’d put on the shirt that I’d spent all night stitching together, it had gone from three vintage cotton button-downs into a look.
The scraggly, unfinished seams I’d lined with silk salvaged from an old blouse.
The covered buttons I’d stolen from the Miu Mius.
I wasn’t going to tell him it was my design. But then the stylists had stepped out of the room to discuss colognes, and it was just Faust and me, and he was in the suit—a vision of black fabric and white flowers and my shirt—and he’d said, “Did you make this?”
Don’t lie, I’d thought. And nodded. “Just the shirt.”
The stylist had left his hair wavy and textured, a few longer pieces tucked back.
It made him look softer than hard, gelled-back hair would, a touch of humanity against the dramatic black and white.
So when he’d smiled, like I’d done something amazing, like he was proud of me, I let myself steal a single touch behind his million-dollar hair.
He’d leaned in, eyes shutting.
“It’s perfect.” His voice had been low. Just for my ears.
“Not too much?”
“No. Never.”
That had been hours ago.
In the limo, Faust drums his fingers on his knee, both of us ignoring the complimentary champagne tucked in the door behind him.
Every once in a while, he looks at his phone or glances my way; occasionally, he checks in with the handler that Stark-Benzin sent along with us, a perfectly nice woman named Alice.
“You’re going to do great!” she reassures him.
“They don’t let any press inside the gala, or even phones, so you really just need to make it up the steps, into the museum, and then you’re in the clear! ”
Faust’s eyes meet mine again. There’s a shred of accusation there. You did this to me, his eyes say.
Correct, I blink back.
He smiles.
Once we’re parked and ushered out, cameras whirring around us, Alice helps us navigate to the holding area.
Duct-tape marks cover the carpet, and tall, temporary walls hide us and the other waiting guests from view.
“Remember, Faust, you’re going to walk up the stairs.
Cat, you’re going to walk behind him in case he needs any help with his clothes.
This is pretty normal here—it’s a fashion-focused event, so they like us to feature the people on the team, not just the celebs.
” Without warning, she reaches out and fluffs Faust’s hair.
He lets out a surprised grunt. “Perfect. So handsome.”
My eyes stray to the long, white, carpeted steps leading to the famous white door.
That’s the goal. Get to the door. There are just one million photographers between here and there, and their photos are being instantly uploaded to every news site across the world.
No big deal. I’m barely here in my own black suit, the go-to outfit for celebrity stylists.
Just nice enough to be photographed in the background.
I take a deep breath and shimmy my shoulders.
Faust eyes me. “What are you doing?”
I don’t stop shimmying. “Getting out my nervous energy.”
“Is that possible?”
“In general, or for me?”
“For you.”
I shoot him a mock frown. “In general, yes, it’s good to shimmy before you perform. Haven’t you ever seen High School Musical?”
He shoots me a glare. “Cat.”
Giggling, I reach for his shoulders, careful to not touch any of the embroidery lest I pop a thread. I push his right shoulder back, then his left. “There you go! I used to do this before I walked runways. It helps. Don’t you have pre-race techniques?”
He’s looking at my nose. Or my lips. Maybe he just doesn’t want to look at my eyes when we’re this close? “Used to play chess.”
“Ha-ha.”
He frowns. “I’m serious.”
“I’d think a checkerboard wargame motif wouldn’t be relaxing that close to a race.”
“Everything’s checkerboard in F1. No escaping it.”
“Why is it a checkered flag at the end of a race, anyway?”
“Wargame motifs.”
I side-eye him and he smiles. I don’t know where Alice wandered off to. Probably to find hair pomade. She kind of screwed up Faust’s bangs when she was messing with them. One of the brown waves is sticking up at a tragically weird angle. “Hold on a sec,” I say, reaching up to un-fluff the piece.
Without realizing it, I must’ve set my hand fully on Faust’s shoulder to steady myself—high-pressure environment and all that.
But I notice our closeness when his hand goes to my waist. My heart stops at the touch of his fingers, how connected he feels when he grips me through the many layers of fabric.