Someone Else

Prologue

Yvonne Dupont studied her face in the mirror. She looked a mess; hair unkempt, eyelashes damp, lipstick smeared. If anyone saw her, they'd stop in their tracks and go the opposite direction.

It wasn't because of how she looked, no. Even with runny mascara, she could still be on New York Magazine's Most Beautiful Women in Art list.

And she was. For three consecutive years.

But one look at her and people would see the sorrow in her eyes, clear as day. It was so visible, so deep, most people wouldn't have the first clue what to do with.

Her eyes, once green as freshly-cut grass in the spring, glinting at the hint of sunlight, now seemed dull.

Her cheeks seemed to have lost some of its color too.

As she inspected every inch of her pale skin, she realized she didn't know when she'd stopped shielding her feelings.

Perhaps when she'd dropped by her father's office earlier this week for her birthday dinner and he said he'd take a raincheck (not the first).

Or when she'd overheard her two best friends – only friends, really – talking trash about her at a coffee shop nearby, and having to act like she didn't hear anything when they spotted her because, well, how else was she supposed to act?

Or when she'd planned to sneak into her boyfriend's apartment just hours prior to surprise him, only to catch him screwing another girl.

She clenched her teeth, not wanting to turn on the waterworks. She'd already shed more than she'd allowed herself to. Replaying that memory now would only add anger to the mix.

How much shit did a girl need thrown at her until someone paid attention?

I wish I was someone else.

She tipped her head up and closed her eyes, her grip on the washbasin tightening as she took a deep, calming breath.

"Count to four," her yoga instructor had said. "Then release."

After some time, her heartbeat slowed and the fogginess in her mind cleared.

There. She felt less pathetic than she did a second ago.

She peeled her eyelids open and faced the mirror once more, nabbing a tissue from a container on the lavish granite counter and using it to wipe her mouth, nose and eyes.

She was glad the bathroom was empty. She'd wanted to go straight to her suite and lock herself in her own bathroom so she could cry in private, but she couldn't keep the tears at bay long enough to go up nineteen floors.

The lobby lavatory it was.

In the end, the tissue was completely soaked with moisture.

Her lips now bore no artificial coloring, but looked plump and pink from all the scrubbing. She'd also gently dabbed the area under her eyes so as to avoid smudging her makeup further, and managed to remove noticeable traces of ink to the best of her ability.

It looked good enough to pass off as natural. At least from afar.

It wasn't as if anyone was going to get up close and personal anytime soon...

Or was it?

She paused, her mind assessing the possible outcomes of the idea, before sloppily tossing the balled-up tissue into the nearest bin and zipping open her Valentino bag. Her fingers made quick work of locating her phone.

She'd already typed up a text message and sent it before her brain could catch up.

Eve Dupont: Is that offer still on the table?