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Lucy

“I heard their new scent is supposed to smell like Gwyneth Paltrow’s Pussy Candle.”

I tilt my head towards the direction of the fake blond with massive breasts because clearly, my head is curious even though my ears are practically bleeding.

“Yes! No GMO’s, completely organic and apparently, an aphrodisiac. It’s a win-win in my book. Maybe one day they can make a perfume that can also be a tincture for premature wrinkles,” the brunette laughs.

It’s a rich laugh. An extremely rich laugh after a typical sentence that any uptight, rigid pilates mom would say in downtown Manhattan.

“That would be lovely, but it would also put my plastic surgeon out of business.” The blond laughs as they giggle and walk away from the store front.

Both her fake tits and botox are definitely not organic and GMO free. I know that’s for certain. But who am I to judge?

I’m the one standing in front of a luxury perfume store in SoHo, wearing my best friend’s borrowed wrap dress and somehow, I’ve already managed to ruin the fabric with a splatter of coffee. Something that might be impossible to wash out of a cream-colored dress. Something that’s totally visible and not good for a first impression.

Fleur de Femme is not only the most sought-after perfume company in the world, but it’s also the most sought-after brand for literally every marketing firm worldwide. I did extensive research on them during my time in college, and it was a dream to take them on as a client when I was interning at my first firm, but life had other plans.

Which is why I’m here now, standing in a stained, cream wrap dress with my resume and portfolio hugged tight to my chest. Because life has led me down a road of tragedy and now instead of taking Fleur de Femme on as a client, I am forcing myself to walk inside and schedule a potential interview with the lead sales rep. I’m tired of working long hours at the same bar every night. I’m tired of men grabbing my body when they please, tired of the shit tips and even shittier benefits. Or lack thereof.

I’m also tired of living on my best friend’s couch. Apparently, the feeling is mutual for her as well. Because as soon as I was sliding on my worn, scuffed, nude pumps and rushing out of her studio apartment door, she showed me a very large and sparkly engagement ring on her finger. Her college boyfriend has finally proposed after five years and now, they’re moving. Because unlike me, they graduated. Unlike me, they have money to move. And unlike them, now I am practically on the street and out of options.

Because also, unlike them, I don’t have a family to back me up and support me. I haven’t in a very long time.

So, here I am. Taking initiative. Making the first bold step for a better future. A future where I don’t rely on a single soul for help. A future that isn’t fueled by dirty money, but earnings made from hard work. A future on my own with no one else to judge me or control me.

A good future. A peaceful future.

A future that also doesn’t require me to work day and night at a bar, only to have enough money to pay for my unfinished student loans, half of rent, and a handful of groceries.

I smooth a strand of light brown, wavy hair away from my face and tuck it back into my long ponytail. When I pull my compact mirror from my worn, brown leather satchel, I stare at my tired, bright blue eyes. I tried every bit of eye cream and concealer to get rid of the tired bags beneath them, but the double shifts from the last two weeks have taken their toll.

“Here we go,” I say into the mirror before closing it and shoving it back into my old bag.

I stare up at the beautiful storefront. The glass windows display rows of elegant flowers and expensive bottles of perfume. Some from here, from Italy, from France. And hopefully, I’ll be able to work my way up to corporate ladder to travel to those designer firms and help with their marketing campaigns one day.

A girl can dream. For now.

“Let’s go sell bottles of Gwyneth Paltrow’s pussy,” I mumble, plastering on my best, fake smile as I walk up to the large, double glass doors with gold handles.

When I step inside Fleur de Femme, my nose is immediately assaulted with thousands of expensive, luxury scents. I want to fall into them, let them wrap around me tighter than this dress that’s definitely a size too small. The coffee stain is the least of my worries. I don’t want my ass to rip it open-

“Can I help you?” an attendant at the counter asks as I reach it.

She’s older, maybe in her forties. Her hair is blond and tightly gelled back into a perfect bun. Her lips are painted red and her white, crisp collared shirt is neatly tucked into her tight, black pencil skirt. She wears a large, expensive watch and a single diamond ring on her middle finger. I spot the gold plated name tag on her breast and it reads Priscilla.

She looks me up and down, her assessing eyes traveling from my old satchel to the coffee stain on my dress. I smile sheepishly at her.

You’re off to a great start, babe.

“Yes, um, hi,” I stammer, gently placing my portfolio on the glass countertop.

She sneers at me, glancing down at my unpainted, overgrown fingernails that are in desperate need of a manicure.

“I’m here to speak with your hiring manager or someone that’s in charge of the interviewing process-”

“That would be me.” She cuts me off, the scrunch in her small nose high, making me worry that she might ruin her very obvious and expensive nose job, but I smile at her anyway.

“Great. My name is Lucille, Lucy for short.” I chuckle nervously and she gives me a fake, judging smile as she nods slowly.

“Right, well.” I remove the resume from the portfolio and slide it towards her.

“I used to be a student at NYU and I studied marketing that specialized in global sales. While I haven’t finished my degree, and I’ve been working at a restaurant downtown for the last three years, I did used to intern at a small firm here in SoHo and I would love the chance to work for your-”

She holds up a firm hand and silences me instantly.

“I’ll pass this along to our store supervisor,” she says with a smile that looks very much like a sneer.

Don’t give up, Lucy. Keep trying.

“Is she here? I have some of my mock campaigns with me as well-” I try to explain, but she waves that very same hand that silenced me before.

“She’s in a very important meeting right now, but I’ll be sure to leave a message. Take care,” she says with that sneer as I stand there awkwardly in silence.

“Okay…um, well, thank you for your time,” I say as I turn on my heel, hoping my defeat doesn’t color my voice like it’s coloring my face right now.

She stops for a second, glancing down at my portfolio.

“Fairchild,” she reads, my last name rolling from her red painted lips.

“Say, you’re not related to Senator Michael Fairchild, are you?” she asks, her eyes sparkling just a little as I turn around and meet them.

I’m his disowned daughter I think, but I don’t say this. Not like they would know if I was disowned because no one really knows what I look like. I was too unruly, too unmanageable to bring out into the world for the public eye to view. My older sister was the perfect one. The rigid one, the obedient one. I was nothing but a wild child with her own thoughts and opinions.

“No, sorry. Just a…coincidence or common last name I guess,” I stammer as I smile and ramble nervously.

She nods, that disgust filling her dark eyes again.

I sigh as I turn and I swear that when I walk away from the counter I hear her crumpling that paper up, but I can’t focus on that because as soon as I walk past the large display of samples near the winding staircase by the crystal chandelier, I think I see a ghost.

A very beautiful, familiar and distracting ghost.

Damien Reed.

My sister’s husband, and owner of one of New York’s largest enterprises.

He’s talking with a woman in an expensive, tight red dress. Her hair is voluminous and the richest shade of brown, baring a very nice blowout that every woman dreams of having. He extends a long, suit-covered arm to fix the strand of expensive pearls around her neck. The sleeve of his jacket molds to his muscles and she’s tilting her head back and laughing at something he says.

Which I know must be a fake laugh.

Because Damien Reed is not funny.

He’s serious, cutthroat and very dark. He’s a secretive man with many shadows trailing behind him. The only nice thing I’ve ever seen him do was for me. And that was one time nearly three years ago, right before my sister filed for divorce.

I run into the display shelf and knock several small bottles onto the marble floor.

“Shit!” I hiss, scrambling to bend down and pick them all up.

Priscilla walks over, her black heels clicking loudly against the marble floor.

“Ugh, just leave them,” she growls, but I continue to grab the bottles, hoping that I’m hidden and Damien’s not able to-

“Lucille?” I hear him call, his rich and deep voice rolling through me.

Don’t respond, don’t react.

“Lucy,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like my name, it sounds like a command.

Something that Damien is great at giving.

I leave the bottles and Priscilla and stand slowly, some of the hair from my ponytail falling in front of my eyes. I swipe it away with a nervous, breathless smile.

“Damien! Hi! I didn’t know I would run into you here,” I say as he looks me up and down, the woman in the red dress now standing behind him with a grimace that looks very similar to Priscilla’s.

“I’m working on a merger with Fleur de Femme,” he says and I try to keep my jaw from dropping.

A merger with a designer perfume company? God, the campaigns I could create-

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his eyes going from my face to the stain on my dress.

Lie.

“I’m um, well, I’m…” I look down at my scuffed heels and scattered bottles.

He would never believe that I’m buying an expensive bottle of perfume. Even if he didn’t know that my parents cut me off, I definitely don’t look like I could afford one of these. I look like an imposter. A try hard.

“Well, I’m applying for a job, but I need to get going to my other one. Business calls!” I say with a nervous smile.

“Hope you’re well,” I say as I start to back away.

He looks as beautiful as he always did. Tall, so unbelievably tall. His shoulders so broad that I swear they might rip through his tailored, designer suit. His skin is just as dark and golden as I remember, like he spent years lying in the sun. His black hair is still a little long and smoothed away from his unshaven face, something my older sister always hated, but I admired it. I liked that he was a little edgy, unkempt.

I liked the big, crooked nose that I was too afraid to ask about because it was definitely broken once. I liked the small scar that runs from his right, thick brow down to the top of his angular cheek. Something I was also too afraid to ask about.

Because Damien is ex-military, a former Marine, I’ve known not to mess with him since my sister brought him into the family. I was young when he came around. He’s ten years older than my sister which makes him sixteen years older than me. When he knew me, I was barely a woman.

And when he saved me that night years ago, I was still barely a woman. A woman he never got to see again. Because after that night, Megan filed for divorce.

“And you, are you well?” Damien asks in a low voice, the baritone drawl rumbling through my veins.

His hazel eyes almost look golden in this lighting. Like the richest, most luxurious treasure.

“Y-yes. I mean…no. My best friend just got engaged and I’ve been living on her couch so I guess that means no home for me.” I chuckle nervously as I swing my arm in a mock victorious pump.

He just stares at me, his eyes slightly narrowing.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I told you that. I shouldn’t even…shouldn’t even be talking to you. Megan would be upset,” I say, referring to my older sister that he once married.

His head tilts at that, a strand of his dark hair falling over the thick brow that bares his scar.

“And does your sister talk to you often? Does she know about your…situation?” he asks and my cheeks flush slightly with embarrassment.

“Not a lot and no, she doesn’t. Not like she would help anyway. Our parents would kill her for giving me any sort of handout. They cut both me and contact with me off a few years ago, so I’m not sure they would be pleased if she were to take me in.” I grimace and then shake my head, my ponytail skimming my back as I do.

“Again, sorry. Not sure why I’m telling you this.” I sigh as I rub my forehead, frustrated and defeated from today’s events.

“Look, I have to go. Thanks for…talking. Take care of yourself, Damien,” I say as I turn on my scuffed heel.

“You do the same, Lucille,” he says, my full name running across my skin like silk when he says it.

He’s still your sister’s husband. Get a hold of yourself, Lucy.

Technically he was her soon-to-be ex-husband , but that was irrelevant. Even if he never married my sister, I’m nothing but a street rat beneath him. He owns a successful firm. He’s got more money than my own Senator father and I’ve more than likely given him a savior complex.

I rush out of Fleur de Femme and push out the big breath I didn’t know I was holding when the large doors close behind me and the bustling sounds of Manhattan fill my ears.

I think back to that horrible night nearly three years ago. I was out for drinks with some friends on campus because I had just turned twenty-one. Someone must have spiked something because before I knew it, I was being dragged into an alley by some frat boy. Damien was visiting my sister for her graduation before she would leave for law school. He found me there, half naked from the waist down. My attacker apparently was just zipping up his pants and getting ready to abandon me when Damien found us and beat him within an inch of his life.

The boy got expelled. Damien’s charges got dropped and I got pregnant. And when Megan and Damien split up only months later, my parents decided to split from me too. And then eventually, so did my unborn baby. I didn’t last a full trimester before the pregnancy terminated on its own.

I was a grieving mother, trauma victim, alone, scared and a college dropout.

Jenni was the only one that helped me and to be honest, she’s the only one that’s ever helped me in my entire life. Although my parents were both rich and famous, my life was hell. I never fit their mold to begin with. Megan was clean, well put together, thin and proper. She went to school for law and found a job that pairs well with the family image. Her hair was dark like my mother’s, cut and trimmed neatly right at her shoulders. Her makeup was clean. Her nails always bore the same, perfect French tip manicure and she only ate a few almonds and leafy salads at major dinners. Or really at all.

I was wild, joyous, curious and innocent. I didn’t want to deal with dirty people or dirty money. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to eat every bit of delicious food I could find, soak in every culture and experience. I wanted to live life fully. The mousy brown haired, curvy, eager girl could never fit into the shadowy family she was born into. They were waiting my entire life to cut me off. To be rid of me.

And now, after today, I wish I could be rid of myself as well.

“Of course he would show up today of all days,” I growl as I start to walk down the busy Manhattan street, cursing the man that has plagued my thoughts and made me question my morals for years.

“Fucking Damien Reed.”