Page 11 of Vows in Sin

S eraphina

Josie wears a matte lipstick perfectly matched to her lip liner, just as I do. Only hers is a deep shade of mauve, mine’s bright pink. Her long golden hair gleams like a mermaid’s. She leans forward, offering me a hint of her sparkling bergamot scent.

She parts those perfectly made-up lips and smiles at me with a straight set of perfect teeth. “Welcome, Seraphina. I was so excited when my PA brought your resume to me.”

“That’s wonderful!” Hope sparkles in me like a glitter bomb’s gone off.

“This,” with the tip of her manicured nail, she taps the printed copy of my resume on her desk. “This is impressive. You’ve got some big-name companies on here.”

“I’ve been so fortunate! Made a lot of great contacts on the way.”

Her brow knits with polite curiosity. “You’ve been freelancing for a long time. Tell me. Why would you want to work for a company after having the freedom of working for yourself?”

Because, beautiful woman, no one will hire me after my stupid mistake. I wasted my time, my money, ruined my career, and lost all my self-respect.

Oh. And I tried to poison innocent teenagers.

Shaking my head with feigned innocence, I give my rehearsed answer. “It gets lonely at times. Working on my own and traveling on my own. I think it would be refreshing to be a part of a team. Collaborate with others. Ping off one another’s ideas.”

“Artists often prefer to work alone.” She flips the page, revealing photos I included with my applications.

Glossy pages of successful campaigns. “Your work goes much deeper than basic marketing. It’s art.

” The brow knits again. “Would it be difficult for you to work as part of a team when it comes to the creative aspects of the projects?”

“Not if everyone does exactly what I tell them,” I offer.

Josie gives me a look.

“Joke.”

She laughs, genuinely and warmly. She thinks I’m funny. Called my work art! We’re getting along famously. We chat for another thirty minutes as she picks my brain about my favorite projects.

Then, she asks, “And what was the last company you worked for?”

A rash of heat covers my face, making my skin feel prickly and tight. This was my main stumbling block when preparing myself for the interview. I don’t want to lie.

But I really don’t want to tell the truth, either. “We didn’t see eye to eye on the campaign.” I give a light laugh. “Can we just skip it?”

I think of that night with Dame, the hurt I felt when he ghosted me. The humiliation of failure. The desperation in seeking a stranger to punish me.

And I think of my sister.

She looked up to me. A lot. I want to be the girl I was in her eyes.

“Seraphina,” Josie says softly. “I do need to ask about your last client.”

My mouth opens. Closes. Then I tell the truth.

Finally, after a lot of tears, I went back and checked those notes I took at my meeting with Magda, a few days after the dismal meeting. It was there, clear as day, in my neat, scrolling handwriting—Magda’s vision.

Word for word.

Target Teens. Go for the 18-20 crowd. Think of high school graduation night, with bonfires on the beach.

“I made a mistake. In hindsight, it sounds small. But in reality, it was a massive oversight on my part.”

Now I’ve really got Josie’s attention. Everyone loves an epic failure. She leans in. “What was your mistake?”

“I was thrilled to work with the head of the company. She’s a powerhouse of a woman—with a killer fashion sense. She told me to target the wrong demographic. And I did.”

I leave the story there.

Josie’s face holds a neutral expression. God, she’s good.

“I let her make a fool of me in front of her entire team.” I swallow back the acid of bile. “I stood there, and I took it. I let her gaslight me in front of the entire company.”

She stays silent, giving away nothing as she waits for me to continue.

“The mistake I made,” I take a big breath. “Was not trusting myself.”

“And what did you learn from that mistake? Other than to trust yourself?”

“The experience made me realize that I’d like to work as part of a team.

You see, when you’re standing alone, one mistake can ruin your career.

But if others have your back, they can catch you before you fall.

” I take a deep breath. “And if I’m part of your team, Josie, I’ll 100% have your back. Always.”

She waits. Blinks. Nods. “Great.” Offers me a professional-looking smile. And stands.

I was expecting…something. A smile? A, ‘yeah, I get that.’ Something. Any little bit of reaction I can use to judge how this interview went.

Instead, she holds out her hand. “Thank you for coming in.”

I’ve been dismissed.

With a sinking heart, I give her my hand. “No, thank you for your time.”

We have a nice, feminine handshake, neither too firm nor too weak.

She says, “We’ll be in touch.”

The entire subway ride home, I’m googling different variations of ‘what does it mean when they say they’ll be in touch at the end of an interview.’

I’m the girl with the loud laugh and bright lipstick—the one who cracks jokes sharp enough to sting but sweet enough to be considered charming.

I wear silk like armor: flowing robes in tangerine, hot pink, and sunflower yellow.

My fingers flash neon polish as I wave them around in animated conversation.

I distract them with my sunshine.

That’s the point.

Two more subway stops till I’m home. I stare down at my phone screen, doing something I’ve not done in weeks.

I check my website. It’s the same medley of coral, mint, persimmon, and magenta.

My face is beaming the perfect smile in my headshot.

The tagline below my picture reads, “Lifestyle Inspiration with Heart.” It’s all a well-designed lie—a loud, beautiful distraction.

Because beneath my strong facade, something simmers. Something dark and heavy, like tar bubbling beneath the surface.

I carry her everywhere—my little sister. Alessi. Sissy. Her name resides within me like a soft bruise I press too often.

But no one sees that side of me. They see the jokes, the stories, the color, the light.

Not the silence.

Never the silence.

I don’t let the cracks show. I don’t say her name out loud. I don’t cry in front of anyone. I smile wider, choose a new nail color, and hit the salon. I throw another joke to distract.

Because if I stop, even for a second, I worry that the grief will consume me completely.

My screen lights up with a call.

I swipe up and answer. “Hey, you. Long time!”

“Hey, Seraphina!” Lucy’s voice is a burst of energy through the line. “I was thinking about you. We missed you at Girl’s Night Out. How are you doing?”

A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I lean back against the subway seat. “Oh, you know me, always a ray of sunshine,” I reply with a touch of playful sarcasm.

“You haven’t posted in forever. I live for your TikToks. The one with you dancing in the banana robe? I choked on my coffee.” Her voice dips with concern. “Are you going on social anytime soon? We miss you.”

I haven’t been out in ages. I used to post quirky, fun videos of myself working or dancing in my apartment a couple of times a day to keep my friends entertained and potential marketing companies intrigued with my fresh content.

I’ve not posted on any sites since the day of my firing.

“Soon, yeah, of course! I’ve been busy lining up work. Whew, it’s time-consuming—all those meetings!”

“The drawbacks of being self-employed,” she laughs. “You have to choose which brand you want to work with next.”

I haven’t been entirely honest about why the PalmVolt campaign is no longer active. I only told friends that they’ve chosen to go in a different direction. This happens from time to time, I’ve assured them.

We chat about everything and nothing—memes, outfit ideas, gossip, and the latest influencer scandal. Our laughter bubbles like a well-rehearsed dance: quick, easy, and perfectly timed.

Then she slows down. I sense the question before she speaks a word. “So, are you seeing anyone?”

Our girls’ group loves our gossip.

“No, not at the moment.”

“What about that guy you met in Rome? He sounded hot. Did he ever text you back?”

“God, him?” I laugh. Too quickly. Too loud.

“I’d forgotten about him till you just mentioned him.

” Which, oddly, is almost true. My twisted tryst in the storeroom helped with that.

Reign helped with that…I cough up a laugh, clearing the emotion welling in my throat.

“Time flies when you’re single in this city. ”

“Really? It’s dragging for me. All I’ve landed are the Peter Pan types.

There are far too many amazing women in this city for them to choose from.

They get lazy.” She goes on to tell a story about the last man she dated, who was her age yet didn’t know how to work a washing machine.

As I laugh along with her description of what she calls ‘deadfish’ sex they had, my mind wanders.

To Reign.

He’s older. A real man. I don’t know who does his laundry, but he knows his way around a mafia, a business, this city.

And my body.

“Anyway,” she says, bringing me back to the present. “I’m done with him now.”

“I’m glad you’ve given up on him,” I say. “You deserve to have good sex.”

A beep from my phone—another call coming in.

“Hold on, Lucy.” I glance at the screen. “I’ve got to take this,” I sigh. “Can I call you later?”

“Sure,” Lucy says. “Text me later, okay?”

“Of course. And thanks for checking on me. You’re a good friend.”

We hang up. My heart sinks as I switch to the next call. “Hey.”

I hold the phone to my ear. Hear the familiar voice. The monologue I have practically memorized begins.

Floodwaters surge inside me, threatening to overwhelm me.

“I can’t talk. I’ll call you back.” I hang up the phone before I drown.

I won’t be calling her.