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Hey, could you remind me to call Mr. Ananda when I get back? I need to check in on some misplaced files with him.

The least I could do is offer him some money to hold him over until he finds another job, which I’m sure wouldn’t take very long anyway. According to my father he was well qualified, despite his inability to spot basic mistakes.

“So, your appointment at Trinity Gallery is at three, right? What are your plans after?” Tehani asked.

“I’m meeting some friends from university for dinner and drinks.”

“Oh, okay. Then I’ll make an appointment at the spa and order room service, if that’s okay with you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Thank god she didn’t ask to tag along and make me have to come up with another string of lies.

My phone beeped right on cue.

Reservations made for 7 p.m. Hope you’re ready to have your brains fucked out. xSteve





Let’s hope this asshole’s moves in bed were better than his supposed dirty talk. After all the chaos since the engagement, I deserved to blow off some steam.





22


KAAVI


Four Days before the Wedding


THE DAYS LEADING up to the wedding were more stressful than I could’ve imagined. I didn’t know how time sped up the way it did. It’s not like I was having fun. You’d have thought I would have enjoyed it—the picking and choosing and shopping. I’ve been the center of attention my whole life, so it’s not like I wasn’t used to it. I just wish I could shake the sense of dread that had made itself at home in the pit of my stomach.

I finally got a morning that was relatively free, so I spent it filming a whole load of content. My follower count was slowly ticking upward, and I would be stupid to waste this opportunity. I wore the pink silk robe that had just arrived from La Perla; thank god for my forwarding shipping box. It cost me an arm and a leg in customs tax, but there really was nowhere decent to shop in Colombo, and I’d already shot with the clothes I’d bought during my trip to Singapore.

I had my hair twisted up into an artfully messy bun. It only took about a million bobby pins and half a can of hair spray. Of course, I spent an hour making it look like I wasn’t wearing makeup. That my glowing skin was just the result of being in love. Of—insert air quotes—pre-wedding bliss.

I climbed back into bed and messed the covers up around me. I held up my iPhone with the ring light attachment and took a selfie.

Finally, some downtime relaxing in bed x Wedding prep is tough work! I posted.

Then I set up my tripod to shoot a video. I spent about twenty minutes talking about my pre-wedding skin prep routine, making sure I mentioned the products I was being paid to endorse but never really used because they made my skin break out. I can’t imagine anyone actually believing this bullshit—my skin was the result of weekly facials, a cocktail of imported serums and elixirs, a solid layer of foundation, and a ton of cash to blow. Any moron who thinks there’s a miracle product for looking this good has been smoking some shit.

I eyed the arrangement of pink roses that I had delivered last evening. They were missing something. I pulled out a note card and a pen.

I can’t wait to marry you. Love, Spencer, I wrote. I stuck it on the arrangement of flowers and filmed a quick Boomerang opening up the card. Perfect.

Was I laying it on a little thick? Sure. But I’m only giving everyone what they wanted. It’s like a service, really.

And for what it’s worth, I wasn’t always like this. Everyone goes on about it, so I guess it must be true—I was a dreadfully boring, shy child. Throughout college all I ever posted were pictures of landscapes and black-and-white photos of mundane things like shadows. Things that I thought made me seem mysterious and arty and cool. It all happened one day by accident. I’d moved to Chicago and was depressed AF (your best friend suddenly cutting you off will do that to you) and had just done my makeup for a night out with my friends from J.P. Morgan. I think it was Red who took the picture and bullied me into posting it on my Instagram.

I guess it was easier to boss me around back in the day, because I did, and then forgot about it until I woke up the next morning. I’d usually gotten ten, maybe fifteen likes on my landscape photos. When I checked my phone, I had seventy-eight, and it went up to ninety-three through the day. Along with comments—which foundation was I using? Were my eyelashes real? Could I post a tutorial? With each like a piece of my heart felt glued back together. With each comment a little bit of my emptiness evaporated. I didn’t have to be this insipid, sad girl. Not anymore. I could build myself up to exactly who I wanted to be, one post at a time.

I never thought back then that a picture on Instagram would lead to everything I had today. That I would finally build my empire around it.

I know that everyone and their grandmother has an opinion on social media—how it’s “fake” or “performative.” Well, I’ll just ask you one thing: What part of life isn’t performative? From the image an intern portrays at work to be taken more seriously, to the beggar on the street who pretends to have varying ailments to extract some change for the day’s meal, everyone is playing a part. Props to anyone who’s managed to monetize it.

I checked the time. Damn it.

I was going to be late for my sari jacket fitting. I had just selected my outfit when my phone beeped.