4. Natalie
NATALIE
Isleep in until seven on Saturday, then follow the usual routine. A pilates-yoga circuit by the window, a shower, coffee, and then emails.
Today, I hesitate on the emails. Instead, I watch the sun rise through the glass. I’m nineteen floors up at Halden Terrace, and sometimes the view still doesn’t feel real. When I first started at Vue, I used to walk past this building and picture myself up here, successful and untouchable.
Now I am. Kind of. But if I want to stay here, I have to keep working. I reach for my phone, and the quiet disappears.
My inbox is chaos. Flooded with PR alerts. I scroll through headline after headline, all versions of the same story. Carter is sponsoring the gala. There’s not one mention of Vue. Every article repeats the same quote, word for word.
“Carter has a long history of supporting Elder’s Children’s Hospital, and this gala presents an opportunity to continue that tradition.
Fashion has the power to create real change, and when we commit our resources and creativity to a worthy cause, the results can be extraordinary” — Henry Carter, Marketing Director, Carter.
This isn’t an accident. It’s strategic, calculated and annoyingly effective. Henry’s angled it so Carter sits at the center of the story, like the gala was theirs all along. Vue’s role will be shoved to the margins like an afterthought.
This is my fault. I should’ve moved faster. I should’ve beaten him to it. But I second-guessed myself, told myself I was being paranoid to think Carter was sponsoring the gala to spite us.
I sink deeper into the couch, phone glowing in my hand. What are my options? A counter piece now would read like we’re clinging to Carter’s coattails instead of leading. The truth doesn’t matter. People skim the headline, absorb the narrative, and move on.
I scroll down to the photo attached to the article.
Henry in a suit, grinning like he owns the world.
I shake my head. What is he playing at? He crashes the gala last minute, winks at me across the table, calls me out of nowhere to ask me out, and meanwhile he’s pushing articles that make it look like Carter owned this event all along.
It’s whiplash. But then, I’m sure the asking out was a tactic. A distraction. The man thinks the world revolves around him, that women line up just to orbit in his light. He probably thought I’d be so flattered I’d drop everything and end up in his bed.
He’s attractive, sure. Ridiculously so. Charming in that smooth, practiced way men like him master before they’re out of college.
That’s the problem. He knows exactly what he’s doing with that smile, with the way his voice drops when he says your name.
It’s not sincerity. It’s choreography. Men like Henry are the worst kind of players because they make you feel like they actually mean it.
I’ve worked too hard, for too long, to let someone like him get the upper hand. I’m not taking this lying down. If he wants a fight, then fine. Unlike him, I’ve got everything to lose.
The countermove forms instantly. It’s spiteful. I know if I play it, there’s no turning back. The fallout will be immediate. This is going to get personal. Before I can talk myself out of it, I draft the email. I should probably run it by Cosmo first. I really, really should.
Instead, I hit send.
Later that afternoon, I’m in a cab headed to my parents’ place. I’ve refreshed my email three times a minute. Still nothing. With a sigh, I shove the phone into my purse and turn to the window.
The further we drive, the smaller the buildings get. Grass goes patchy, fences sag, graffiti crawls over the walls. Yards are cluttered with broken swing sets and sun-bleached plastic toys.
I grew up here. It’s technically Alton Hills, but barely. Realtors call it “up and coming” when they’re feeling generous. It’s been “up and coming” my whole life, and it’s still a dump.
I can’t wear my usual clothes here. They’d stick out like a billboard. So today it’s worn sneakers, jeans, a plain white T-shirt. Hair pulled into a bun. Oversized sunglasses, just in case. No one I know would be caught dead on this side of town, but I don’t take chances.
I’m not a snob but in fashion, image is everything.
If people knew where I came from, they’d see me differently.
No one likes to say it out loud, but it’s true.
When I say my family works in shipping, I’m not lying.
Not exactly. My dad’s been a mailman for twenty-three years.
Shipping is the word I use because it’s easy.
It earns nods, not questions. Say it with the right vagueness, and people assume it means old money.
They accept me. Say “mailman,” though, and you’ve branded yourself as an outsider. A nobody.
I was a nobody once. The cab stops, and as I step onto the cracked sidewalk in front of my parents’ sagging house, one thing’s clear, I’ll never let myself end up back here.
Dad opens the door before I can even lift my hand to knock, pulling me straight into one of his bear hugs. The kind that still makes me feel like I’m eight years old.
“There’s our girl,” he says, easing back just enough to study my face. His brow creases. “You look tired, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Dad. Exactly what every woman wants to hear.”
He chuckles, ushering me inside. The smell of coffee and warm sugar wraps around me before I even reach the kitchen. Mom’s there, peering into the oven with her hair tied up in the same messy bun she’s worn my whole life.
“Perfect timing,” she says without looking up. “They’re just finishing.”
She pulls out a tray of blueberry muffins, the tops golden and split, filling the kitchen with steam and the kind of smell that feels like home. I grin, and I take a seat at the kitchen table.
“So,” Dad says, lowering himself into the chair across from me, coffee in hand. “Tell us what’s been happening?”
“Not much,” I say, tearing at the edge of a muffin wrapper. “There’s this charity event I’ve been working on. Something important for the company.”
Dad nods like he’s following every word. “And?”
“And someone bigger swooped in at the last minute,” I admit. “Took the spotlight. Now it looks like we’re just tagging along.”
Mom’s mouth tightens. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not,” I say with a shrug, though my stomach twists even now. “But that’s the game with Carter.”
“Carter?” Mom’s eyes go wide. “Oh, sweetheart. Did you hear that, Steve? She’s working with Carter!”
Dad lifts his mug, unbothered. “Yes, Mary. She’s sitting right here.”
“I just…Carter,” Mom says again, like it’s a holy name. “They’re so expensive. My friend Janine’s cousin gave her a scarf once. She looked it up. Nine hundred dollars. For a scarf.”
“Yes, ridiculous,” I say. If she knew what half the pieces in my closet cost, I’m pretty sure she’d keel over right here at the kitchen table.
Mom launches into one of her spiels about how the most expensive thing she owns is a pair of jeans she found at the thrift store for twelve dollars. She says it like it’s a point of pride, like nothing could make her happier than finding a bargain no one else spotted.
The truth is, her closet holds more than she realizes.
I’ve slipped her Vue pieces over the years, cut the tags out, pretended they came from the thrift for three bucks.
She never suspected. Come to think of it, the blouse she’s wearing now is one of them.
It retailed for over five hundred dollars. I could never tell her.
I nod along, smiling, until Mom pivots. “I caught up with Penny the other day. She told me her nephew, Geoff. You know Geoff, with the wonky leg? Anyway, I mentioned you live on Halden Terrace and she said he did a fit-out on an apartment there. Get this, he said the rent was six thousand a month.”
My stomach drops.
“Oh,” I say, pitching for casual surprise.
“I told her you live in an apartment there but there’s no way you’d be paying that much.”
“Oh, no. My place is very sensibly priced.”
Her eyes narrow. “How much?”
“Twelve hundred a month.” The lie slips out before I can stop it.
She nods, satisfied. Of course she believes me. She believes I’d never waste money like that.
I hate lying—really, I do—but this isn’t a lie that hurts anyone. If people at work think I come from money, fine. If Mom and Dad think I’m paying a modest rent instead of bleeding half my salary into an apartment, fine. Everyone sleeps easier. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I get away with it because I’m always the one who comes here.
I told them my apartment’s so small we wouldn’t all fit.
If they ever saw the place, they’d know the truth in a heartbeat.
But that’s a problem for future Natalie.
For now, I’d rather let them believe I’m still the kind of girl who’d never waste money on square footage.
I pick at my muffin while Dad launches into the story of his new route, explaining how cutting across a back street shaves thirteen minutes off his deliveries.
Mom smiles, nodding her head like she’s heard it all before, and then they share one of those glances where after thirty-something years of marriage, a whole conversation is exchanged in silence.
“Tommy Martinez stopped by yesterday,” Mom says casually. “Fixed our garbage disposal for free. Said he owed your dad a favor from when he helped him move last year.”
Here we go. I brace myself.
“Such a sweet boy,” she adds, not even pretending to be subtle. “Opened his own business last month. It’s booming. And he’s still single, if you can believe it.”
“Mom.”
“What? I’m just saying. He’s doing well. Happy. Stable.”
My parents don’t push, but they’re far from subtle. Dating is the last thing on my mind. I’m finally just breaking through in my career. They’ve never really understood my ambition.
To be honest, I think it started with Mom. She was always focused on saving money, and when I was little, I was the same. I felt proud when we found the cheapest thing, proud when we made a dollar stretch. Then I saw a different world.
I still remember it clearly. I was about ten, maybe eleven, at the mall. Mom was guiding me to the discount store to get sturdy jeans and sneakers. But that day, we took a different path. We walked past the designer stores. I had never seen anything like it.
The mannequins wore the most beautiful clothes I’d ever seen. The people going in and out looked like they were from magazines. They didn’t just look stylish, they looked powerful. Like the clothes made them special.
Suddenly, the bargain bins felt wrong. It wasn’t about saving money anymore. It was about how the clothes made me feel, and mine made me feel small and invisible.
That was the moment. The spark. I knew I wanted in. Not just to wear designer clothes but to be part of that world.
And now I am.
After about an hour, I tell Mom and Dad I should really get going. I need to get home and start getting ready for the art show tonight.
Before I can stand up, Mom says, “Wait. You’ll never guess what I found.”
She pushes back her chair and disappears down the hall. A moment later, she comes back holding something I haven’t seen in years. It’s a battered old sketchbook, the spine cracked and the pages curling at the edges.
She sets it gently on the table. “Found it in the attic.”
I flip it open. Pages of awful sketches stare back at me. Gowns with impossible proportions, streetwear that would never survive a sewing machine. Then magazine clippings. Dream boards of everything I wanted back then. A penthouse apartment. Red carpet events. Designer studios.
“You always had so much imagination,” Mom says softly.
I grin, mortified. It wasn’t a secret. I used to show her these sketches all the time, but still.
Back then I only knew I wanted into the fashion world; the how was still fuzzy.
First I thought I’d be a model, but at five-four that dream ended fast. Then I thought I’d design, until I realized my sketches looked better in my head than on paper. Marketing, though, that clicked.
I turn the page and freeze. A clipping of the Carter brothers. Four boys in tuxedos, fresh-faced at some charity event. Beneath the photo reads: William Carter, 19. Henry Carter, 17. Dean Carter, 15. Maxwell Carter, 13.
And there, above Henry’s head, inked in pink gel pen, is a perfect little heart.
Oh god.
I’d forgotten about this. Forgotten that once—for about five minutes, when I was fourteen and hopelessly hormonal—I was just like every other girl in Alton Hills and maybe I did have a Carter crush, and maybe it was Henry.
“Silly designs,” I say, snapping the notebook closed a little too hard. “We should throw this away.”
Mom whisks it out of my hands. “Absolutely not. These are memories.” She presses it to her chest like it’s priceless.
“Just don’t let anyone see it,” I warn.
I don’t think I could live down the humiliation.
Even back then, everyone knew Henry was trouble, and there I was, doodling hearts like an idiot.
But it wasn’t really him, I tell myself.
It was what he stood for. The wealth, the glamour, the effortless place he held in a world I was desperate to reach. That’s all it was.