They reached the Fullers’ penthouse and the door swung open. Atlas’s dad stood on the other side. “You’re Calliope, right? Pierson Fuller,” he said with a charismatic smile, and shook her hand.
“Nice to meet you.” Calliope wondered what exactly Atlas had told them about her. If she was meeting his parents, did it count as a date?
It probably depended on where she spent the night tonight.
She followed Mr. Fuller into the living room, its gleaming touch screens carefully hidden behind carved furniture and plush cushions. The crystal chandelier overhead bathed them in a soft halo of light. Everything was decorated in shades of white and cream, against which the touches of black—Atlas’s and his father’s tuxes, and of course Calliope’s midnight-black gown—stood out like stark exclamation points.
A woman who must be Atlas’s mom glided in from the bedroom, glittering in alabaster tulle covered with Swarovski crystals. “Which earrings should I wear?”
She posed the question to all of them, holding out her hands, in each of which lay a dark velvet box. One contained a set of pear-shaped colorless diamonds, the other a pair of perfectly matched pink diamonds. The jewels seemed to burn against the contrasting velvet, light kindling within them to flash in a thousand small sparkles.
Calliope’s breath caught, and she tried to take a few snaps without being conspicuous. What her mom wouldn’t give to see these earrings. It was hardly Calliope’s first time around excessive wealth, yet everything she’d seen over the last few years suddenly felt garish next to this. These people practically breathed money. Their every gesture was painted with it, glazed with it.
She wondered what they would do to her, if they ever found out why she and her mom were really here. Her grip on her purse tightened until her knuckles cracked. She knew the answer: they would destroy her with the same ruthless elegance that made up the rest of their lives.
Mrs. Fuller glanced belatedly around the room, then set the boxes down as she registered Calliope’s presence. “Calliope, my dear! Elizabeth Fuller. How lovely to meet you.”
“Thank you so much for having me,” Calliope said.
Mrs. Fuller just smiled and nodded. “Where’s Avery?” she asked her husband and son.
Mr. Fuller moved to the couch and leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other knee. “Who knows?” he mused, seeming unconcerned. Atlas stayed oddly silent.
“Well, then, which do you think that I should wear?” Mrs. Fuller went on, returning to the gleaming white side table where she’d placed the two velvet boxes with their priceless contents. After a moment, Calliope realized that the question had been directed at her.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry; her eyes flicking back and forth between the showstopping gems, both sets of which probably belonged in a museum, rather than on a wealthy socialite’s earlobes. “The clear ones,” she decided, finally. “The pink are a little heavy with your dress.”
Mrs. Fuller turned her plain but expertly made-up face back and forth, studying her reflection in an insta-mirror that had materialized out of nowhere.
“You’re right,” she concurred. “But someone should wear the pink ones. It would be a waste not to.”
Calliope could never in her wildest imaginings have anticipated what happened next. To her complete and utter shock, Mrs. Fuller held out the earrings—toward her. “Do you want to try them, Calliope?” she offered.
Calliope opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “Oh, I don’t know,” she finally stammered, though she could practically hear her mom’s voice in her ears, hissing at her to stop stalling and take the damned earrings. She’d just been too surprised to react properly.
Mrs. Fuller smiled. “They would look striking against your hair. Stones this color have to be worn by us brunettes, you know.” She gave a little wink, as if she and Calliope were allies against an army of diamond-stealing blondes, and dropped the earrings onto Calliope’s bare palm as easily as if they’d been a couple of chocolate candies.
This couldn’t be real. People didn’t act this way on their own, unbidden. Calliope thought of all the times she’d been given expensive things in her life, always by boys who were trying to get into her pants, and then only after a great deal of persuasion and manipulation, of dropped hints and innuendos and excruciatingly thoughtful conning. Yet here was Atlas’s mom, offering up the most expensive, exquisite items Calliope had ever laid eyes on, without any sort of prompting at all.
Calliope didn’t understand. She’d only met the woman five minutes ago. Maybe Atlas’s judgment of her character was good enough for Mrs. Fuller, she thought uneasily. Or maybe the Fullers were genuinely nice people.
Her mind flashed to that waitress at the Nuage; to the old man in India; to poor adoring Tomisen, Brice’s friend, whom she’d taken a “loan” from and left without a backward glance. They had all trusted her, and she’d cheerfully turned around and violated that trust. Maybe they had been genuinely nice people too.
Calliope wouldn’t know, because she’d never stuck around long enough to find out.
She felt shame rise up in her throat as if it were a physical thing, horrible and blocky, like that time she’d tried to swallow one of Mrs. Houghton’s rings and almost choked on it. What on earth have you been doing? her mom had screamed, giving her six-year-old shoulders a little shake.
What on earth had she been doing all these years? Calliope thought, as some core part of her worldview began to crumble. She felt like she was looking at herself from the outside in, as if she were seeing herself through someone else’s contacts. It made her dizzy.
Somehow, mechanically, she unscrewed her own small drops and fastened the spectacular pink diamonds into her ears. “They’re beautiful. Thank you,” she whispered, leaning toward the insta-mirror. The stones were radiant against the smooth curve of her cheek. She wanted them and she hated herself for taking them and she couldn’t look away from them.
The doorbell rang, and everyone momentarily forgot Calliope as a sudden influx of people poured into the room. The hum of voices grew louder, all of them laughing and complimenting and greeting one another.
“Flicker to Mom,” she whispered, turning aside, and closed her eyes against the dizziness as she began to compose under her breath. “Mom, you’ll never guess what I’m wearing.” Forget Nadav; they would have to leave in the middle of the party, catch a flight down to South America. These earrings would set them up for several years, at least.
She couldn’t finish the sentence. Calliope knew this was her chance, the kind of opportunity that would come along only once in a lifetime, and yet here she was, freezing up like a complete newbie.