Tinsel (Lark Cove #4)(3)

“Damn.” He came to my side, showing me the display screen on the back of his camera.

This time my smile couldn’t be contained.

He’d nailed it.

Malcom had captured me in profile, finding just the right angle so my face was in shadow compared to the bare skin on my shoulders. The late-afternoon light cast a golden glow on my already flawless complexion, accentuating the long lines of my neck. My Harry Winston earrings dangled from my ears and matched the ring on my right hand, which Malcom had delicately positioned in front of my chin.

Malcom’s assistant nosed in next to him to see the camera. “That’s your cover.”

“The cover?” My mouth fell open.

“Ultimately the magazine has final say,” Malcom said. “But this is the best picture I’ve shot for this project. Once I do some minor edits, it’ll be the clear choice.”

A feature in the magazine’s interior was definitely worth boasting about. But the cover? That was on par with my sister’s accolades.

Aubrey was always being mentioned and discussed in Fortune 500 magazines or in periodicals like The Wall Street Journal. This feature would be in NY Scene magazine, and though it was a lesser-known publication, it had been gaining a lot of popularity lately. People were calling NY Scene the next New Yorker.

And I was going to be on the cover for their New Year’s edition.

Maybe the lifestyle I’d chosen wasn’t such a mockery after all.

Maybe I’d finally be seen as something more than the other Kendrick child, the pretty one who hadn’t amounted to much.




“Sofia, how could you not tell me about the article? You know we have to be careful around the press.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. And I didn’t say anything bad. She took everything I said and twisted it around!” I wailed into the phone as I sat in a crumpled heap on my living room floor.

Tears coated my cheeks. Snot dripped from my nostrils. My normally tan and bright skin was a blotchy mess, and my eyes were too puffy. I was the definition of an ugly cry.

All because of that miserable magazine.

I’d been so excited an hour ago when my doorman had brought up ten copies of NY Scene. I’d ordered extra so I’d have some to give to my parents and some to get framed.

But that was an hour ago, before I’d read the article.

Now I was dealing with the aftermath of another classic Sofia mistake. It never got easier to hear that I’d let down my father. It always hurt to read one of my sister’s condemning texts.



Seriously? Could you at least try not to embarrass us?



It stung, though the pain was just a dull ache compared to my own agonizing humiliation. The words the reporter had used to describe me were cruel. Reading them had been like taking a lash to my skin.

Instead of stylish, she’d called me superficial and gaudy.

Instead of charming, she’d called me na?ve and phony.

Instead of witty, she’d called me flighty.

Clearly, the woman had mixed up notes between interviews. That, or my self-image was off a touch.

“Sofia.” Daddy sighed, his disappointment seeping through the phone. “I’ll see if there is anything we can do, but since you didn’t run this by me first, I doubt we’ll be able to pull a retraction.”

“O-okay.” I hiccupped. “I’m s-sorry.”

“I know you are. But next time you’re asked to give an interview, I think you’d better have one of our lawyers come along too.”

So basically, Daddy thought I needed a babysitter to speak. My sobs returned full force, and I barely heard him say his good-bye before hanging up.

I tossed my phone onto the carpet next to me and my ten magazines, then buried my face in my hands.

Everything was ruined. The reporter had been thorough in her portrayal of my life. She had found every unflattering detail and put them front and center in the article.

She’d written about both of my failed marriages and how I’d rushed into each, only dating my former husbands briefly before walking down the aisle in multimillion-dollar ceremonies.

She’d made sure to tell the world that I’d never had a job, and rather than dedicating my time to my family’s charitable foundation, I spent my days shopping for new clothes and handbags.

She’d even interviewed my ex-boyfriend Jay to exploit the nasty details of our breakup. We’d been together for almost five years but had never married. I’d thought I was being smart, not hurrying into another marriage. Turns out, matrimony would have been better.

My ex-husbands had both signed confidentiality agreements as a condition of our divorce settlements. If the reporter had called them, they’d been forced to stay tight-lipped. But not Jay.

He’d told her I threw tantrums worse than a two-year-old when I didn’t get my way and that I hadn’t been supportive of his career.

Lies.

Jay hadn’t loved me, he’d loved my trust fund. He’d been determined to win the World Series of Poker—except he wasn’t good at poker. When I’d stopped covering his tournament fees, he’d picked a fight with me.

My tantrum had been me shouting at him in one of the dressing rooms at Bloomingdale’s. He’d barged in on me, demanding I give him money. When I’d refused, he’d threatened to tell the tabloids I’d cheated on him with his scumbag manager. Again, another lie. But I’d lost it all the same and security had been called to escort us both out of the store.