“No,” I say flatly. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with size.”

Fear preys on people who have something to lose.

I don’t give a fuck about much these days. I put all this time and effort into this complex—but the truth is, it was Nero’s idea. He wants the Gallos to be the richest family in Chicago.

I threw myself into the work, because that’s what I do. I steer this family. I execute the plans. I make sure everything goes off perfectly—no mistakes, no failures. I keep everyone safe, happy, and successful.

And when it’s done, I feel exactly the same as I did before . . . empty.

“I’ve got two more lease agreements for you to sign,” Abigail says.

I cross the bare, empty floor to take her clipboard. These office suites will be plush and luxurious once we get the windows, the drywall, and the carpeting in place. For now it’s an open box, with streaks of plaster and dust across the floor, and a few scattered screws.

I scan the agreements, then sign at the bottom.

Abigail is watching my face the whole time, while she toys with the bangle on her left wrist.

“It’s not often I look up to a man,” she says. “Especially not when I’m wearing heels.”

She’s got on sky-high stilettos, nylons, a knee-length skirt with a tasteful slit up the back, a silk blouse, and expensive-looking earrings. I can smell her floral perfume and the slightly-waxy scent of her red lipstick. She’s standing very close to me.

There’s nothing unattractive about Abigail.

At least, not to a normal person.

The problem is, I have a narrow and specific definition of what I find attractive. It was formed a long time ago, and it hasn’t changed since. Abigail doesn’t fit it. Almost no one does.

I hand the clipboard back to her. Abigail takes it, but she doesn’t move from where she’s standing. She trails her index finger, with its perfectly manicured red fingernail, down the outside of my arm. Then she lightly grips my bicep.

“Is that the kind of muscle you get swinging a hammer?” she purrs. “Or do you get your workout some other way . . .”

It’s obvious what Abigail wants.

I could give it to her—I’ve done it before, plenty of times, with other women. I could turn her around, yank up her skirt, rip open her nylons, bend her over and fuck her until I blow. It would be over in five minutes, and it would end this little game.

If I had the urge, I’d do it. But I don’t feel it today. I feel less than nothing.

So I ignore her comment.

“Thanks for bringing those papers by. I’ll walk you back to the elevator.”

Abigail frowns, seriously irritated. “I don’t get you,” she says. “You’re not married. I’m pretty sure you’re not gay . . .”

“I guess you’ve never encountered ‘not interested’ before,” I say.

“No, I haven’t,” Abigail says, unabashed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been turned down by a man. What is it—you don’t like successful women?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have hired you,” I say.

“What then?”

Now I’m the one who’s annoyed. I pay Abigail to find tenants for my buildings, not to interrogate me. I frown and take a step toward her. She stumbles backward on her stilettos, her expression turning to fright.

“None of your fucking business,” I growl.

“S-sorry,” she stammers.

She drops her pen, stoops to pick it up, then tucks a piece of hair behind her ear without looking me in the eye.

“I’ll scan these and email a copy to you,” she mutters.

“Thanks.”

Abigail hurries back toward the elevators. I stay exactly where I am.

Once she’s gone, I walk back over to the window again. Or at least, the place where the windows will be, eventually.

I’m standing on the west side of the building, looking out over that billboard.

The image flips over again. Now, instead of soda, it’s showing a seventy-foot-long perfume ad. It’s a woman’s face, in extreme close-up—the most famous face in the world.

Wide-set eyes, slightly tilted up at the outer edges, honey-brown with dark rings around the iris. Thick, black lashes, and straight dark brows. Smooth cheeks like polished bronze. A square face, delicate chin, full mouth. Those lovely lips are curved up in a smile. But the eyes are sad . . . terribly sad.

Or at least that’s how they look to me.

But what do I know?

She’s probably the happiest person in the world—why wouldn’t she be? She’s a fucking supermodel. Rich, successful, famous, traveling the world, hobnobbing with celebrities . . . what could she possibly be missing?

It’s me who’s fucking miserable.

I stare at that face a long time, even though every moment of it feels like pure torture. It feels like a vise tightening around my chest, squeezing and squeezing until my breastbone is about to crack.

Then, finally, the image flips over to cola again.

I turn away, face still burning.

21

Simone

“Simone, put that right hand on your hip. A little lower. Yes, that’s perfect. Ivory, tilt your chin up just a touch . . . that’s it, perfect. Somebody move that fan—I want the skirt blowing the other way. No, the other other way! Good. Now tilt that reflector . . .”

The camera clicks again and again. With each click, I shift my position slightly. First looking directly at the lens, then down at the ground, then over my right shoulder. Then I shift my weight to my opposite hip, then I lean back against Ivory, then I rest my arm on her shoulder.

I move through positions automatically, without even thinking. I always keep my face to the light, and I remember to hold my jacket open like Hugo wanted.

We’re shooting a campaign for Prada. It’s my third this year. They always pair me with Ivory, because we make such a nice contrast to each other—her so fair, and me so dark. Hugo sings that old “Ebony and Ivory” song at us when he’s in a silly mood.

He’s not silly today. We’re shooting at the sand dunes in Algodones, and it’s been a bit of a disaster from the start. First it was windy. The sand was blowing in our eyes and teeth and fucking with Ivory’s hair. Her hair is fine as candy floss and white as a cloud.

Ivory’s not just blonde—she’s albino. Her skin is pure milk, and her eyes are violet-colored, more red than blue in the right light. Of course, that means she has to be slathered in sunscreen to shoot outdoors like this, and the direct sunlight is murder on her eyes. When we did the first set of outfits with the retro, oversized Duple sunglasses, she was just fine. But now that she’s changed into a long, flowing maxi dress and no shades, her eyes are tearing up and she can’t stop blinking. It doesn’t help that Hugo has that damn reflector pointed right at her face.

Worst of all was the giraffe. Hugo had the bright idea that we should shoot with actual animals—first an ostrich, then a Masai giraffe on loan from the zoo. The handler came along to make sure he behaved. But the giraffe wasn’t liking Hugo’s shouting one bit, or the flashes from the lightboxes. He ended up galloping off, one massive hoof the size of a dinner plate barely missing Ivory’s face. After that she didn’t want to stand anywhere near the animals. It took over an hour for the handler to get the giraffe back, chasing after him in our dune buggy.