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“I told my manager I’m quitting, and he told me he’d just found out. I know that the rational person would push through and work while the situation clears out. But I really can’t, Cora. I can’t explain it, but it really makes me physically sick.”

“I get it. My corporate job used to suck the soul out of me. That’s why I didn’t hesitate to leave. And things have been hard and really tight, but I wouldn’t be able to go back there.” She takes a sip. “You really have no plans?”

I play with the stem of my glass and sigh. “I thought I’d take some time off and figure out what I want to do. But now, I might not have the luxury to take time off.”

“I thought you had a trust fund.”

“I do, but my grandfather didn’t step into the twenty-first century, and the terms are as archaic as they come.”

I don’t tell her how I feel about using van den Linden’s money.

Having spent a week here, I realized how privileged I am regardless of my current plight. I would normally meet Cora at her bistro, or we would go out somewhere. Confronted with her living conditions, I now realize how out of touch I’ve been, living in my own bubble.

“Archaic?” She picks up one of her cats.

“I have to be married to access that money.” I roll my eyes.

She snorts. “Thatisas archaic as it gets. A convenient marriage seems to have worked for Celeste.”

I persuaded my brother to marry Celeste when she was going to lose her visa. Now they are so in love, I hardly recognize my brother.

I look at her deadpan. “Will you marry me?”

She puts her hands on her heart in a dramatic gesture. “Why, I thought you’d never ask.”

“It would show my grandfather.”

“That is so fucked up.”

I chuckle, but there is no humor in it. “You know what is the biggest irony? Those archaic clauses were put there because men used to believe women couldn’t take care of their own money. Like we needed our fathers to hand the control to our husbands. That provision might be beneficial in my case.”

“Saar.” Cora sighs. “Don’t blame yourself. You trusted someone who betrayed you, but that doesn’t make you unable to control your own destiny, or your money for that matter.”

But isn’t that the story of my life?

“As soon as I left my childhood home, I handed the control to Vito, my manager. Not that any of this is his fault—”

“You see, if you don’t find him responsible for what happened while he was in charge, why don’t you extend the same grace to yourself? Saar, shit happens. Blame yourself; don’t blame yourself. But you need to look forward and act. Fix what can be fixed. Take control. Move on.”

It sounds so easy when she lays it out like that. “I don’t have any experience other than smiling and being pretty. Do you know someone who is hiring for that?”

“You’ll figure it out. You’re a survivor.”

“You think?” I hate the need in my voice.

As much as I hate the idea of modeling again, I can’t deny I have been missing the spotlight. That sense of being seen, being accepted, being validated.

As false as those circumstances were, they supplied me with confidence I might not possess when away from it all.

It’s like I’d become invisible. Again.

“Everyone who grows up with a pair of evil parents like yours is a survivor.” She raises her glass.

And I chuckle, toasting to that. The wine spreads to my legs, making me feel heavy and weightless at the same time. Shit, I probably shouldn’t have drunk on those pills.

But the feeling is peaceful at the same time. The knot in my stomach has loosened a bit. My lungs stretch better on each inhalation, my mind floats on the cocktail of possibilities. Or more probably on the mix of sleeping pills with alcohol.

I scrunch my face up. “I’m worried I’ll end up scavenging for discounts to have my lips enhanced or my forehead lifted, and I’ll look like a wax figurine with a mouth like a duck.” My tongue doesn’t work properly.