Prologue
Shiloh
Ten Months Ago
Mirrors.
They’re funnythings.
Sometimes, when we’re all dressed up and painted to perfection, they reflect an image everyone strives to emulate. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I love them. I walk by them and stare at myself, occasionally shocked at the woman looking back at me—Shiloh West. The one who’s in demand all over the world for the image they’vecreated.
Other times, I catch a glimpse of the coastal country girl who still hides inside the desired woman. The bitch everyone hated because all they saw was a vapid waste ofspace.
Shallow.
Risking one last glance, I straighten my pale pink dress, making sure the neckline is pushed down far enough so that my breasts make the next day’stabloids.
Mirrors.
They don’tlie.
They also don’t hide dirty little secrets. Cursing, I run a finger under my nose and wipe away the faint white powder. Tilting my chin back, I check for any residue. When I’m positive all is clear, I flash a brilliant smile at myself then spit in the center of the mirror. Saliva trails down the glass, splitting my image into a grotesque comic bookvillain.
You can lie to cameras. Mirrors tell thetruth.
I fucking hatemirrors.
Every eye in the club follows me as I make my way back to the VIP lounge. Sliding into the booth next to my friends, I paint on the plastic smile I’ve perfected over theyears.
“To the ones who love us, copy us, take our pictures, but will never be us.” I lift my three-olive martini and shove it toward the middle of the elevated booth, missing Lena’s and Kirkland’s glasses completely. Half the liquid sloshes over the rim and coats Kirkland’s silverpantsuit.
“Damn, Shiloh! How many of those have you had? We’re right here, for God’s sake.” Even with her face scrunched up, Kirkland Maynard still looks like Jessica Rabbit. Half the men in the club have probably jerked off to her covers just for her titsalone.
“Not nearly enough.” After draining the glass, I slam it onto the table and hold my hand in front of her face. “I’m sober as a judge.” I expect to see a steady palm, but instead find myself digging two fingers into Lena’s fakeeyelashes.
“Son of a bitch!” Smacking my hand away, Lena blinks the dislodged fur ball until it suctions back onto her eyelid. “You’re cutoff.”
I can’t help but laugh.Cut off.There’s no such thing in our world. Dealt-in, catered-to, and over-ass kissed are more like it. We want for nothing. If our resting bitch faces slightly falter, no less than a dozen people flock around us either begging for our forgiveness or complementing our every detail. Our lives revolve around excess. We’re envied by our peers, loathed by women, lusted by men, and overpaid by a king’sransom.
We’re models, and appearances areeverything.
We’re the elite. The few who achieved worldwide fame on beauty and a deep sense of self-worth.
Noregrets.
Mostly none, atleast.
You can’t survive in this business living with regrets. If you do, they’ll eat you alive and spit you out. Chin up, eyes forward, and conscience clear. For seven years I’ve lived by that code, and it’s brought me international fame I never dreamed possible. My face has graced every fashion magazine from New York to Milan. I’ve bedded A-list actors and chart-topping rock stars. I have more Instagram and Twitter followers than the president of the United States and probably twice the hatemail.
Take a good look. Do I look like Icare?
Hellno.
People can say whatever they want. You aren’t shit in this world if you don’t have haters. I’ve had them all my life. Even in high school, girls hated me. Not because of anything I did, but because even then, I made no apologies for who Iwas.
Abitch.
Real is real. Some are born to lead and others are born to follow. Drive the train or board thebus.
