I’m about to ask, when Ollie continues. “Susan is directing the fashion show.”

“I got my training in pageants,” Susan says, “although it wasn’t formal training. More like an apprenticeship.”

“Susan Morris?” I say, finally clueing in. “Alicia Morris’s mother?” Susan Morris was almost as much of a stage mother as mine.

“I was hoping you’d remember me,” she says. “Ollie said that Damien Stark was here with his girlfriend, and I just had to see you.”

“I’m so glad you did,” Social Nikki says. The real me isn’t at all interested in this relic from my past. I can tell that Damien sees the real Nikki, because he squeezes my hand in support.

“Your mother and I have stayed close. In fact, since I moved to Park Cities, we lunch together at least once a week,” she adds, referring to the affluent Dallas neighborhood where I grew up. “I talked to her just this morning, as a matter of fact.” Her voice is strangely tight, and I want nothing more than to get away from this woman who reminds me too much of my mother.

“How nice,” I say. I flash my wide pageant smile. “I should really go check on my friend Jamie. It was lovely talking to you.”

She takes a step sideways and blocks my departure. “Your mother is so mortified she can’t even hold her head up in public. And you haven’t been any help. You haven’t returned her calls or her emails. It’s terribly ungrateful, Nichole.”

Ungrateful. What the fuck?

Damien steps closer to me. “I believe Nikki has already said that she needs to go check on her friend.”

But Susan Morris is not taking the hint. She aims a finger at Damien. “And you! Elizabeth told me how you shipped her home just when Nichole needed her.”

My mouth falls open. Needed her? Needed her? All I’d needed was for her to be gone.

“And now you’ve dragged her into this … this … degrading lifestyle!” Susan Morris is speaking machine-gun fast, and with as much damage. “Posing nude. Erotic art. And accepting money like a common whore. It’s contemptible.” She literally spits the last word, and I see the tiny droplets of moisture fly from her mouth.

I can only gape at her, my Social Nikki facade having shattered under this unexpected onslaught.

Damien is not so frozen. He takes a step forward, his expression like thunder. I think vaguely that he will hurt her, and that I should hold out a hand to stop him. I don’t. All I can think about is the nausea and tightness and clammy coldness that has settled over me.

“Get the hell out of here,” Damien says, his hands pressed firmly against his sides.

“I will not,” she counters. “You think you can buy anything? Even a girl like Nichole in your bed? I know your type, Damien Stark.”

“Do you?” He takes another step toward her, and she has the sense to look scared. “In that case I think you would listen when I tell you to get out. And for the record, Nikki is a woman, not a girl. And the choice she made was her own.”

Her mouth drops open, but she doesn’t reply. Instead she turns back to me. “Your mother expected better things from you.”

I can do nothing but stand there. I’m frozen, my body chilled to the bone. And, goddammit, I’m starting to shake. Deep, trembling shudders that I cannot control, and that I do not want Susan Morris to see.

Throughout all of this, Ollie has stood stock-still, Courtney’s hand tight on his arm. But now he, too, takes a step forward. “Do what Mr. Stark says and get the hell out of here or I will have you fired from this pageant right here, right now.”

“I—” She shuts her mouth, gives each of us a hard look, then leaves.

I do not remember sliding into Damien’s embrace, but that is where I am, and it feels warm and safe, and my trembling starts to subside. I don’t want him to open his arms, because I don’t want to face the world. I want to be home with him. Back in the penthouse where ghosts from my past don’t pop up. Where I’m not accused of being a whore. Where my personal life isn’t gossiped about by people who don’t know me and know even less about the choices I’ve made.

“Are you okay?” Courtney asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m not.”

I see Ollie shoot Damien a vitriol-filled look. He may have sided with me against Susan Morris, but it’s clear that he’s still not on Team Damien.

“I’ll take you home,” Damien says.

I nod, then hesitate, then shake my head. “No. I want to stay.”

“You’re sure?”

I hesitate only a moment, then nod. “I just need to go to the bathroom. Then I want to find Jamie. We haven’t looked at all the booths yet.” I am proud of myself. I sound so steady even though I’m anything but.

Damien’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen, then types out a quick response before sliding it back in his pocket.

“Not important?”

“Charles,” he says. “He’s at one of the cash bars and wants to have a quick talk. I told him I was with you, and business could wait until morning.”

“Can it?”

He looks right into my eyes. “Right now, the only thing I care about is you.” He takes my arm. “It looks like the ladies’ room is over there.”

While Damien waits, I go in—then immediately clutch the counter. I’ve been working so hard not to let Damien see my cracks. Susan Morris. My mother. The rumors of sex for money, of being a whore. It’s all tied up in my head like so much noise and I want to sort it out. I want Damien—but I know he blames himself, and if I can just gather myself a little. If I can just make one tiny inroad on keeping myself collected …

I look around for something sharp, but there is nothing. Only the granite counter, the mirror, and the ceramic soap dispenser.

I remember the apartment and the glass vase that Damien shattered. I close my eyes, feeling the imaginary shard in my hand. Glass cuts on all sides. It’s perfect. It’s like a tiny miracle biting into the palm of your hand.

Wildly, I open my eyes and look around for something with which to break the glass. I snatch the soap dispenser, stand back, and start to hurl it.

That is when I see my reflection. Oh, God. What am I doing?

My fingers go slack, and the dispenser crashes to the ground—and in the back of the room, from behind a closed stall door, I hear someone yelp.

I jump—I hadn’t realized anyone was in there—then immediately relax when I see it is Jamie. Her face is splotchy and her makeup is smeared, but I must look worse because she takes one glance at me, looks down at the ceramic shards on the floor, and says, “I’m finding Damien.”

“Jamie!” I call, trying to get her back, but it’s too late. She’s out the door, and only moments later, Damien is in the ladies’ room.

“I didn’t,” I say immediately. “I just dropped a soap dish. That’s all. Jamie overreacted.”

He is looking at me with such intensity that I am certain he can see the lie inside my head. “All right,” he says slowly. “Now tell me the rest of it.”

I sigh, then drop my gaze. I count to five, and then look back up to him, my composure restored. “I was going to,” I say. “But I talked myself out of it. And then, really, I dropped the dispenser. It’s slippery.”