I looked at them both, and I felt this hatred well up inside of me. I was so, so angry at them. The anger hadn’t faded at all. If anything, it was stronger. I saw them standing there with my son between them, and I wanted to tear Henry away from them, like they tried to tear him away from me, and never let them see him again.

But I swallowed it down, because we were there for Serwa, not for me. We sat and talked with her, and told her everything was going to be alright, she was going to recover again, like she always had before. She was on a short-list for a lung transplant. We thought that would fix everything.

Instead, she died that night.

When the doctor told us, my father broke down in tears. I’d never seen him cry before, never in my life. He grabbed me and pulled me into his arms and sobbed, “Simone, forgive me. You’re all we have left.”

I felt so alone without Serwa. I wanted my mother and father back just as badly as they wanted me. I hugged Tata, and my mother hugged us both, and we all cried together.

I don’t know if I forgave them, though. I never answered about that.

And even now, three years later, I’m not sure if I have.

We see each other often. From the outside, we look like the same close-knit family we used to be—minus Serwa, and with the addition of Henry.

But of course, what you see from the outside never tells the story of a family. It’s a ripe, red apple. When you cut it open, there could be anything inside. Crisp, healthy flesh . . . or rot and worms.

Henry lives with me now, full-time. I can afford a nanny/tutor for him. Her name is Carly. The three of us travel all over the world together.

The gossip rags wrote that I’d adopted my nephew. I didn’t correct them. I don’t talk about my son publicly, not ever. I don’t allow photos of him. It was my choice to plaster my face on billboards and magazines. I keep him hidden as best I can, so he can choose for himself someday if he wants a public life or a private one.

Also, I’m afraid . . .

Afraid of what might happen if Dante ever saw a picture of Henry.

Because when I search Henry’s face, I see my features . . . but I also see Dante.

I stole his son from him.

My worst fear is that he might someday steal him back.

The shoot is over. Hugo has carefully laid the snake back down in its nest inside the trunk. Ivory is shaking her head at me.

“Don’t hug me after you touched that thing,” she says.

I grin at her. “But you look so cute in that sweater. So snuggly and cuddleable . . .”

“Don’t even think about it!”

“Will you at least share a car back to the city with me?”

“Yes,” she says loftily. “That would be acceptable.”

Ivory and I have been friends for four years now. It’s hard to stay close to anybody in the modeling world—we all travel around so much. But you do tend to work with the same people over time, as certain photographers or casting agents recommend you for jobs.

I’m probably the only person who knows that Ivory’s real name is Jennifer Parker, and she didn’t grow up in France, like she likes to tell people. Actually, she’s Canadian—from a little town in Quebec called Mille-Isles.

Ivory says she has to craft a mystique around herself. “Nobody ever would have given a fig about Marilyn Monroe if she kept calling herself Norma-Jean.”

I understand secrets.

I understand that the truth can be so painful, that it’s much easier to live a make-believe life, where any questions that people ask you can’t hurt you at all, because they’re all just part of the narrative. It’s so easy to talk about yourself when nothing you say is real.

That’s how I do interviews.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Red.”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Pasta.”

“Who would you most like to eat lunch with?”

“Chris Evans, of course.”

It’s all just nonsense. The interviewers don’t care what I say. Neither do the people who read glossy magazines. Simone the Supermodel is just a character. She’s “The Body.” Nobody cares if I have a brain.

Ivory and I share a cab back to the city center. She drops me off at the Ritz-Carlton.

I take the elevator straight up to my room. As soon as he hears my key in the lock, Henry comes over to the door. He tries to scare me, but it doesn’t work because I was already looking for him as soon as I opened the door.

“Hey, you,” I say, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him against my chest.

Henry is so damn tall. He’s only nine years old, and he’s already up to my shoulder. I have to buy him clothes for sizes twelve to fourteen, and even then, the waist is baggy while the pants are barely long enough.

“I took pictures with a snake today. Do you want to see?” I show him the snaps I took on my phone.

“It’s a Burmese python!” he says. “ ‘D’you know they can grow up to twenty feet?”

“Luckily, this guy wasn’t that big.”

“They’ve got two lungs. Most snakes only have one.”

Henry loves to read. He remembers everything he reads and everything he watches on TV. I’ve had to cut down his YouTube time, because he was following his curiosity down all sorts of rabbit holes—some that I wouldn’t want him learning about even five or six years from now.

He’s got long arms and legs now, and his face is leaning out. It’s hard to see the chubby little boy he used to be. Some things are the same, though—he’s still a gentle giant, helpful, kind, and careful of others’ feelings.

“What should we do tonight?” I ask him.

“I dunno.”

“Did you finish all your schoolwork?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see it.”

He takes me over to the little hotel desk where he’s got his papers and textbooks all spread out. He shows me the chapters he was reading with his tutor.

Sometimes when I know we’ll be in the same place for a while, I enroll Henry in one of the international schools, just so he can experience classrooms and friends in a somewhat normal manner. He seems to like it when he’s there. But he seems to like anyplace we go. He’s so easy-going, that I can never be sure if he’s genuinely happy, or if this is all he knows.

I have a lot of money saved now. Enough that I could stop working, or slow down. We could live almost anywhere.

The question is, where?

I’ve been to every city in the world, it feels like. But none of them are home.

Most recently, my parents were living in DC. After Serwa died, my father launched himself into humanitarian work. He’s brokering some big international anti-trafficking coalition. In fact, he’s doing a cross-country media blitz right now.

Well, speak of the devil.

My phone buzzes with my father’s number.

“Hold on,” I say to Henry.

I answer the call.

“Simone,” my father says, his deep, smooth voice cutting through the airwaves between us, as if he’s right in the room with me. “How was your shoot today?”

“Good. I think they got everything they wanted, so that was probably the last day.”

“Excellent. And what do you have booked next?”