He will not let your foot slip— he who watches over you will not slumber --Psalm 121:3

PARIS FASHION WEEK SHOULD'VE been fun.

Getting ready to walk the runway, as I had every year since being catapulted to fame in a Burberry ad at the tender age of seventeen, should have been a good time. It should have been as glamorous as everyone made it out to be.

Well, having to shoot for a handbag ad in the middle of a freezing winter wonderland in February hadn't been fun earlier this year, and Paris Fashion Week was not fun this week either.

Normally, I would extend my visit a few days and see the sights, wander around the Louvre and people-watch at cafes or feed pigeons by the Seine. Not this year.

Not when Sebastian Di Marco would be in attendance.

One of the most prominent photographers in the modelling industry, akin to Peter Lindbergh's level of fame and prowess with a camera, Di Marco was highly praised by almost everyone he worked with.

Just not me.

I had managed to somehow avoid him years before, since I'd been nineteen and had learned the true depths to which this industry could drag you, but not this year.

I'd known he would be here all year, and still–

Still, I hadn't prepared myself for how difficult it would be to see him. I hadn't considered how it would feel to have to see him, or how it would make me feel to have to be in his mere presence. No, I wouldn't stay in Paris any longer than I had to this year.

He would make sure of that, even if he didn't know I was here.

I was twenty-three years old, and my lustre would soon be lost and my place given to younger, prettier girls. I'd made my money, had my time in the spotlight, and in all honesty, I didn't know why I was in Paris. I should have been moving on, doing bigger, better, more purposeful things with my life than strutting down a catwalk or being a voiceless mannequin for someone else's clothes, ideas, expression.

I touched the bracelet George had given me before removing it and tucking it into my purse. The French carved onto it was done in a fine hand, and it must have taken hours to engrave. I recalled the words on it now from memory, having rubbed the silver so many times when bored or lonely or merely wistful. It was a line from Carmen: L'amour est un oiseau rebelle; love is a wild bird, carved over and over again into the slender surface.

"Georgia!" Leana Lim, the Singaporean heiress who thought modelling was fun because she had her father's shipping company to fall back on, called me. "Hurry up, we're getting hair and makeup done."

I yawned. We'd been up since five for this runway and had changed in and out of so many outfits while being subjected to so many pencils and brushes and powders on our faces that I was now numb at eleven in the morning.

"Okay," I said, trying to hide my tiredness. The concealer would probably do a better job.

As I sat on the vanity stool next to Leana while someone took my hair out of its hairspray-ed ponytail and began teasing it into another style, Leana started chatting. "So, who's the guy?"

Most of her conversations began with this question, so I should've been used to it by now. "I know so many guys. You'll have to be specific."

"He gave you the bracelet and showed up on a motorcycle?" she said.

"Right. George." I didn't particularly feel like talking to her about George, but I might as well. "Nothing serious."

"So, you wouldn' mind if I..."

I shrugged. I shouldn't have minded. Our relationship was as false as the rhinestones being placed on my forehead for the mermaid-themed catwalk show. "Go ahead."

"Thanks, girl." Leana's grin was one of victory. She was a spoiled child used to getting whatever she wanted.

Even if it didn't want her back.

I doubted George would want her back, but maybe I was flattering myself. Maybe he was done with me. Maybe he'd never cared for me at all. Any of that was possible.

Deep down, though, I didn't want it to be.

+

IN RETROSPECT, LETTING LEANA Lim take anything of mine was a mistake.

She'd once borrowed my second-favourite pair of Jimmy Choos and returned them scuffed after a night out. Why would I think that letting her go after George–even if he was only my friend, only my friend's brother–would be a good idea?

As it was, she was now fuming when I got to The Oak and Rose, one of the most exclusive clubs in New York, having flashed a smile and an autograph at the bouncer to get inside. Because that bouncer knew who I was–he just didn't know me as well as the other man who was currently working as a bouncer did.

George Devereaux.

I curled my fingers into fists involuntarily at the sight of Leana Lim, her form barely five-ten in three-inch heels as she staggered, drunk, up to George, saying something I couldn't hear over the pounding beats of a Crazy in Love remix.

I liked the girl, I really did. She had her own share of problems, father-related especially, but that didn't give her the right to act like a spoiled brat. Fortunately, the way to handle attention-seeking people was to give them attention. So, I gave her a hug, her smell of the ironically named perfume, Carolina Herrera's Good Girl, wafting off of her in waves, mixing with the scent of liquor and cigarette smoke.

"Oh my gosh, girl, I haven't seen you in forever!" I said, ignoring the fact that I'd been summoned by Katerina, who was also standing by, looking completely out of place in the club with her outfit, which for starters, was far more modest than the skintight dresses and jeans that most of the attendees were attired in. "Where have you been? I can't believe you're in New York! Weren't you just in Dubai the other day?"

This sentence was not as implausible as it may have sounded. Leana and I had last connected in Paris, but it was more than likely that she'd just been in Dubai, where her father had numerous properties being unveiled to the public via ribbon-cutting ceremonies, which he'd sent his daughter to deal with.

Hopefully, Leana was drunk enough that she could assault George with her purse as well as believe my words.

Unfortunately, she was likely hurt by George's rejection of her. It seems I should have warned him about her advances, but how was I supposed to know they would run into each other in a place like this? George wasn't a big partier.

Leana hugged me back, patting my shoulder before letting me go. Her anger apparently had yet to subside. "I just flew back this morning and decided to hit the club, but this wannabe security guard here—"

"Bouncer," George said, clearing his throat. "I'm a bouncer."

I rolled my eyes and mouthed not helping at him. He arched one eyebrow in response like he had more words than those to say to me.

"Whatever." Leana flipped her hair. "He tried to throw me out of the club. And then he hit me."

I had the feeling she wasn't telling the complete truth. The notion of George hitting a woman was about as likely as the idea of elephants riding winged unicorns to the moon, and I said as much.

"You're friends with this jerk?" Leana had apparently forgotten that George and I knew each other, or was at the very least, going to pretend that she hadn't tried to hit on my fake fiance because I had given her permission to. A headache began to throb at my temples. Perhaps this whole thing had been a terrible mistake.

"He's my cousin's wife's brother," I said, before jerking a finger at Katerina. "She's his sister."

The conversation seemed to unravel from there, as George and Katerina, dark heads bent close together as discussed something I couldn't hear, and I tried to calm the seething, enraged Leana, who seemed to have already been in her fair share of fights tonight. She had a bruise on her left arm and I had spied a girl we both knew with her hair extensions ripped out when I'd been in the bathroom.

As Katerina launched into a surprisingly passionate bit of invective, I interrupted her. "Kat, I'll take it from here."

I looped my arm through Leana's, took her glass, and passed it to George to dispose of. "Come on, I'll get you home."

Home. I wish I had one of those to return to, but George Devereaux had invaded so much of my life that I wasn't sure I could call any place home these days.

Even if I was terrifyingly close to calling him home.