26. Natalie
NATALIE
Rebecca’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of my unmade bed, compact mirror balanced on her knee, curling her lashes with precision. There’s a soft pop from the curling wand plugged in by the dresser, the faint scent of hairspray and vanilla lotion hanging in the air.
I’m standing in front of my closet, staring down the same three dresses, unable to decide.
“Wear the black one,” Rebecca says, eyes still fixed on her reflection. “It makes your waist look ridiculous and says, ‘I’m not here for attention, but yes, I will accept that award, thank you.’”
I glance over my shoulder. “We’re not winning.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. Clive would’ve hinted.” I tug the black dress from its hanger anyway. Vue hasn’t won anything in years. I don’t even know why we bother showing up.
Rebecca shrugs, setting her eyelash curler down. “Oh well. It will be fun anyway.”
She’s right. It’s usually a good night. Win or lose, the photos always look good. Plus, there’s free champagne and this year, Henry will be hosting. When he told me, I actually laughed. I thought he was joking.
I slip into the dress, cool satin sliding against my skin. Rebecca zips me up and lets out a low whistle.
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s the one.”
She’s wearing a red dress with a sculpted fit, the kind that turns heads.
The neckline dips low, just enough to raise eyebrows but on Rebecca, it doesn’t look scandalous.
It looks elegant. It’s not something I’d ever wear.
But for her, it’s perfect. It’s her first time at the CFID awards.
She’s coming on Cosmo’s invite. He’s in Europe, touring suppliers across Italy and Germany.
She got his ticket and but the looks of it, she plans to make an impression.
I’ve been relieved that Cosmo’s been away.
I keep telling myself I’ll talk to him about Henry soon.
It’s always Next week. After the show. After the awards.
When things are quieter. When I’ve figured out what to say.
But the days keep slipping past and even I can hear how rehearsed the excuses are starting to sound.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
Henry: What are you wearing tonight? Might need time to mentally prepare.
Natalie: Nothing flashy. Behave yourself.
Henry: Always do.
Natalie: No jokes. No drama. No headlines.
Henry: Yes, boss.
Rebecca sidles up behind me, catching me off guard. I quickly lock my phone. She slips my necklace around my neck, our reflections meeting in the mirror.
“What’s with the ‘H.J.C.’?” she asks, peering at the initials etched into the bar.
I hesitate for a beat too long. “It’s my aunt’s initials,” I improvise.
Her eyebrow lifts. “Do people usually wear jewelry with their aunt’s initials?”
I meet her eyes in the mirror, forcing a smile. “Apparently. We should go.”
Rebecca turns back to the mirror, touching up her lipstick with practiced grace. The shade matches her dress perfectly.
“Henry’s going to be there,” she says, lips pursed before she smacks them lightly. The lipstick clicks shut and she tucks it into her clutch.
My fingers drift to the pendant and press against the tiny letters etched there. For a heartbeat, I almost tell her. That man you’re swooning over? He’s mine.
Not yet, though. Soon.
The crowd’s in full performance mode when we get there. Air kisses, pitched laughter, too much perfume fighting for space. The room’s smaller than I remembered, with low ceilings and gold light trying its best to look like luxury.
Rebecca’s beside me, practically vibrating. As usual, her excitement’s contagious. For a second, I feel it too. The old rush of it. I don’t even know when this started feeling routine. This used to be everything I wanted. Now it’s just another night.
“That’s Leslie Henderson,” Rebecca squeals, clutching my arm. Leslie’s standing near the bar with a crowd I don’t recognize.
I smile. Leslie’s talented, sure, but she’s also vapid and rude, the kind of person who glances at your shoes before your face. I don’t say that, of course. Rebecca’s eyes are too bright and I’m not about to ruin her excitement.
“Should we say hello?” I ask instead, even though I already know the answer.
Rebecca practically bounces. “Can we?”
Luckily, Leslie’s in a good mood tonight. She even looks Rebecca in the eye when we greet her, which, by Leslie standards, is practically a hug.
Rebecca surprises me. She pins down her fan-girl energy so completely it looks like watching someone slip into a role.
She talks to Leslie as an equal. She’s calm, confident, and a touch witty.
Leslie seems to like her. Of course she does.
Rebecca is good at this. Quick to adapt and instantly fluent in whatever language the room is speaking.
I’ve told her she should aim for more than assistant. She could run circles around half the people in PR or marketing. She always laughs it off and says she’s still learning. Watching her now, though, I can’t shake the thought that she’s selling herself short.
They turn toward something behind me, and before I even move I already know who it is.
Henry stands across the room in a tux, surrounded by the usual cluster of people leaning toward him.
His tie is loosened just enough to read as effortless, but that ease is deliberate, part of the act.
He gives people what they expect: the charm, the practiced laugh, the smile but it’s all performance.
He’s always a little on guard at these things, always holding something back.
Knowing that makes me love him more because I understand the pretending and the need to seem fine. I do it too.
I know I’m being unfair to him. He deserves more than this half-life I keep offering. The truth is, I’ve known for a while that if it came down to him or my career, I’d choose him. I just need to follow through.
The lights dim, and the room settles. Conversations fade as the stage warms to gold. Henry glances at his watch, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. I guess we’re starting early. He smooths his jacket, steps onto the stage, and takes the microphone.
For a moment, no one moves. Then the applause swells, right on cue.
“Good evening,” he says, voice low and smooth through the speakers. “If everyone could take their seats. We’ve got plenty of awards to get through, and odds are, most of you won’t be taking one home.”
Laughter ripples through the room, a little too loud. Rebecca and I are halfway to our table near the front when something purple flashes. Velvet. My stomach drops.
Cosmo.
“Surprise,” he says when we reach him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Just got in.”
I glance at Rebecca. She’s supposed to be in that seat but before I can speak she cuts in.
“I’ll stand in the back,” she says.
“Rebecca—”
“It’s fine,” she whispers, and before I can stop her, she’s gone.
Cosmo watches her leave, expression unreadable. Then he turns to me, a grin plastered on. I sit down beside him, trying not to look as rattled as I feel.
“I heard we’re up for something tonight,” he says, settling back in his chair.
“We’re usually up for something, aren’t we?” I say. We never win.
He hums in agreement then lifts a hand to flag down a waiter gliding past. “Champagne?”
Before I can answer, he’s already taken two flutes from the tray. A few people join us at the table. I smile, say the right things, nod in all the right places but I keep scanning the room for Rebecca. This doesn’t feel fair. I should’ve swapped with her. Why didn’t I think of that?
When everyone finally settles, Henry starts the awards. His voice fills the room like he was born with a microphone in his hand. The crowd eats it up.
“Why on earth did they get him?” Cosmo says, not even trying to lower his voice. He leans back, all bored elegance. “There are at least a dozen people who’d do it better.”
I don’t respond.
The ceremony drags on. Category after category, applause rising and fading. Henry keeps it moving, perfectly charming, perfectly composed. By the time we near the end, the room’s gotten louder, looser, champagne doing what champagne does. I’m four glasses in and have officially cut myself off.
“And finally,” Henry says, “our last award of the night. Brand Influence. This one goes to companies that shape…”
I tune out, pulse pounding in my ears. We’re not winning. Of course we’re not.
“…Vue.”
For a second, I think I misheard him. We don’t win things like this. We’re old news. I’m already halfway to standing when a hand closes around my arm.
“I’ve got it,” Cosmo says, already moving past me.
By the time I process what’s happening, he’s halfway up the stairs. Cosmo takes the stage, accepting the award as if he’s been rehearsing for weeks. The little gold statue gleams under the lights—tiny, really—but my chest feels tight.
We won.
God. We actually won.
“Wow,” Cosmo says, pausing just long enough to let the applause stretch. He smiles wide, soaking it in, holding the mic like he’s been waiting for this moment his entire life.
“This year’s been a big one for Vue,” he says. “We decided to take some bold steps, shake things up, bring the brand into a new era. Clearly, it paid off.”
More applause. He gives a little nod, all fake humility, like he’ll endure the praise if he must.
“This year, I told the team we have to stop chasing trends and start setting them. We needed a sharper voice, a modern edge, something with guts. That shift has been my focus for months now, and seeing it recognized here tonight means more than I can say.”
My nails bite into my palm.
I said that. Those were my words. He argued with me about it.
“Change isn’t easy. But I pushed for my vision…”
Cosmo keeps talking and taking credit for everything, spinning it like it was all his idea from the start. He doesn’t say my name once. Not the team’s. Not anyone’s. He just goes on about his leadership and brilliance.
It’s fine. Really. I don’t need praise. I sit perfectly still, hands folded neatly in my lap, my smile polite, my heartbeat loud enough I can feel it in my throat.
There’s movement on the stage. Henry’s standing just off to the side, half in shadow, watching. Something changes in his posture. His shoulders square and his jaw tightens. His eyes are fixed on Cosmo like he’s holding himself back by sheer will.
Then he takes a step forward.
Oh no.