BLEACHED — Behind the Lens

The most beautiful wedding in America was staring back at me from the cover of BLEACHED, and God, I was jealous.

SHE SAID YES. HE SAID MINE.

Victoria Lane, Hollywood's twenty-six-year-old Latina sweetheart, looked absolutely breathtaking. Her caramel skin glowed beneath the Italian sunlight, her long black curls spilled over bare shoulders, and an exquisite white lace bridal corset hugged her famous curves. She knelt on the marble steps of a magnificent Lake Como villa, a diamond-studded platinum collar around her neck. A silver leash connected it to the hand of Christopher Hale, her handsome billionaire husband, who stood proudly above her in an ivory tuxedo.

Behind them, wealthy white businessmen, politicians, Hollywood celebrities, and their elegantly dressed privately owned women applauded beneath an enormous archway of white roses. Diamond collars glittered among designer gowns, while attendants circulated with champagne.

It was extravagant, outrageous, and unmistakably Hearts America.

"Lucky bitch," I murmured.

Christopher had reportedly spent fourteen million dollars on the celebration, excluding Victoria's ownership contract. The twelve-page feature included an announcement that had already sent Hollywood into a frenzy: Victoria was retiring at twenty-six, at the absolute height of her career.

"Christopher wants me exclusively for himself," she'd explained. "I've spent years entertaining millions of people. Now I get to devote myself to the man I love. He knows what's best for our future, and I've never been happier."

I smiled at the photograph. God, that was romantic. Although giving up a Hollywood career at twenty-six seemed an awfully big decision.

Then again, Victoria looked positively radiant, and I was sitting here reading about her wedding instead of finishing my own article. Who was I to question her happiness?

"Still fantasizing about Victoria's wedding?"

I glanced up to find Megan Price standing beside my desk with two enormous coffees. My twenty-five-year-old Filipina colleague had honey-gold skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, glossy black hair cut into a fashionable bob, and a curvy figure that made even office clothes look like an advertising campaign.

"Look at this woman," I said, accepting a coffee. "Fourteen million dollars. And that collar!"

Megan leaned over the magazine. "Oh, it's gorgeous. Christopher certainly knows how to spoil a girl."

"Apparently the diamonds alone cost more than my apartment."

"Well, maybe you should find yourself a billionaire."

"I'll add it to my schedule. Right after becoming editor-in-chief."

She laughed, then glanced around with an expression I recognized immediately. "Speaking of gorgeous things, I have something to show you."

She pulled aside her neckline, revealing a freshly tattooed heart beneath her collarbone. The design was vivid red, with delicate ornamental lines and a tiny white BLEACHED emblem at its center.

"Megan! It's beautiful!" I leaned forward, pushing a few of my thick black curls away from my face. "When did you get it? Did Daniel choose the design? Has he seen it?"

"Saturday, yes, and obviously." She laughed at my interrogation. "He's absolutely obsessed. And that's not even the best news."

I narrowed my eyes. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! But Daniel's been asking about my contract."

I nearly spilled my coffee. "Seriously?"

She nodded eagerly. "He's spoken to the registry office!"

"Oh my God, Megan! When? Does Grace know? Have they given him a price?"

"Naomi! Breathe!"

Daniel Whitaker was a thirty-four-year-old white investment manager Megan had been dating for eighteen months. Handsome, charming, wealthy, and already married to Grace, a beautiful Korean-American woman whose contract he'd acquired several years earlier.

"Grace knows everything," Megan assured me. "We had lunch on Sunday. She's already helping Daniel prepare my room."

"That's wonderful! Does that mean you'll be living with them permanently?"

"That's the plan. Daniel thinks everything could be arranged before Christmas."

I squeezed her hand. "You're going to have the best Christmas ever."

"Right?" She touched her new tattoo, practically glowing. "Grace says Daniel's planning a proper welcome celebration. Apparently he's already got some rather outrageous ideas."

"Knowing Daniel, I'm not surprised."

"Oh, trust me, he's got quite the imagination." Megan grinned. "Grace says I should stop asking questions and enjoy the surprises."

"That woman has the patience of a saint."

"She does. Honestly, I adore her."

I could have listened to Megan gush about her future all morning. She was practically vibrating with excitement, and I was genuinely thrilled for her. Daniel had been treating her like a cherished member of his household for months. Making it official seemed like the obvious next step.

"So what happens to your assignment here?" I asked.

"I'm hoping he'll keep it. At least part-time."

"Have you asked?"

"Not yet. I don't want to make demands before he's even filed the application."

"You can ask a question without making a demand."

"Naomi, he knows I enjoy working here." She gave me an affectionate smile. "If he decides he'd rather have me home, I'm sure we'll manage."

Before I could respond, another voice interrupted us.

"What's this about Daniel?"

Priya Shah appeared with a stack of advertising proofs balanced against one hip. Twenty-eight and Indian-American, Priya was a striking beauty with deep brown skin, large expressive eyes, full lips, and luxurious black hair falling in thick waves down her back. Her narrow gold collar caught the office lights, its engraved pendant displaying the initials T.W.

"Megan's finally getting purchased!" I announced.

"Not yet!" Megan protested, laughing.

Priya gasped. "Oh, sweetheart! That's wonderful!"

She immediately abandoned her paperwork to admire the red tattoo. Unlike Megan, who could barely contain her excitement, Priya examined the design with the thoughtful appreciation of someone evaluating an expensive piece of jewelry.

"Excellent work. Daniel has good taste."

"He certainly does," Megan said.

"And you're going to look gorgeous wearing his colors. Has he selected a collar yet?"

"Not that he's told me."

"Then don't spoil the surprise."

"That's what Grace keeps saying!"

Priya smiled knowingly. "Listen to her. She's been living with him longer than you have."

"I just told Megan to ask whether she can keep working," I said.

Priya looked at me. "Why make it complicated?"

"Because she likes her job?"

"And Daniel knows that. If he wants her, he wants her. I'm sure he'll arrange things however he thinks best."

Megan nodded enthusiastically.

I sighed. "I'm surrounded."

"Look at Raj and me," Priya said, settling into the chair opposite my desk.

I smiled. "Here we go."

Priya had been married to Rajesh Shah for seven years. They'd met at university, fallen hopelessly in love, and eventually become part of the household of Thomas Whitmore, a wealthy white businessman who'd been Raj's college friend.

Thomas maintained several households, including other married couples. He visited regularly, hosted famously extravagant gatherings at his estate, and held legal authority over everyone whose contracts he owned.

Priya thought the world of him.

"Thomas was over on Saturday," she announced, touching her collar. "And apparently he's decided our December holiday is going to be completely outrageous."

Megan grinned. "Another one of his infamous parties?"

"Three days at the coastal estate. All his households, several friends, champagne by the case, and absolutely no chance of anyone behaving respectably."

"Sounds like a fucking spectacular Christmas," I said.

"Exactly!" Priya laughed. "Raj and the other husbands are organizing the children's activities while Thomas hosts the adults-only celebrations."

"Does that mean the entire household is coming?" I asked. "Even the couple from Virginia?"

"Everyone. Thomas has apparently rented the neighboring villa too."

"Good God. How many people does that make?"

"Don't ask. I'm afraid he'll start collecting more."

Megan burst out laughing.

"That man really does enjoy expanding his households," I said.

"And making them larger," Priya replied with a mischievous smile. "He mentioned wanting another baby in the family. Raj nearly choked on his wine."

"Another?" Megan asked.

Priya already had two children, both biologically fathered by Thomas. During her pregnancies, he'd arranged genetic editing so they would resemble Priya and Raj rather than their white biological father. Raj had raised both children from birth, and Priya adored watching the three of them together.

"Apparently two aren't enough for him," Priya said.

"How does Raj feel about it?" I asked.

"He's already discussing whether we'd need another bedroom."

I laughed. "Of course he is."

"And you?" Megan asked.

Priya gave an elaborate shrug. "Thomas hasn't made any decisions yet. But another baby wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."

"You're unbelievable," I told her.

"Thank you, darling."

Megan adjusted her blouse, revealing her tattoo again. "Well, Daniel's got some competition in the outrageous-plans department. Grace says he's planning quite the celebration once my transfer goes through."

"Have you decided what you're wearing?" Priya asked.

"Daniel has a few ideas."

"Should we be concerned?"

"Probably."

I laughed. "You two are impossible. I'm trying to work in a respectable magazine office."

Priya glanced toward the enormous BLEACHED wedding cover on my desk.

"Respectable? Naomi, darling, the bride is wearing a diamond collar and her husband's holding a leash."

"Exactly. High-class journalism."

All three of us dissolved into laughter.

God, I loved these women.

And I envied them more than I liked admitting. Not because their lives were perfect, but because they seemed completely at ease with the futures they imagined for themselves. Megan trusted Daniel's plans without needing every detail explained. Priya wore Thomas's collar, raised his children with Raj, and spoke about her complicated household as naturally as Megan discussed her new tattoo.

"Speaking of which," Priya said, turning toward me, "when are you finally going to find someone?"

I groaned. "Not you too."

"What? You're gorgeous, successful, and still state-owned. Surely you've had offers."

"Apparently my personality scares them away."

"Your personality is wonderful," Megan said. "Your tendency to interrogate people is the problem."

"It's called having standards."

"With footnotes," Priya added.

"And supporting evidence," Megan said.

I pointed at them. "You're terrible friends."

Priya laughed. "Seriously, Naomi. Don't you want what we have?"

Of course I did.

I loved the romance, the excitement of being chosen, the glamour of the ceremonies, and the idea of building a future with someone I could trust completely. I could imagine a beautiful collar around my neck, a shared home, and a man whose confidence made me feel secure.

But I loved other things too. Writing, traveling, debating ridiculous movies, spending time with my friends, and pursuing ambitions that occasionally made no sense to anyone but me.

I didn't need to control everything. I just couldn't imagine giving someone the power to decide that those parts of my life no longer mattered.

"I want the right man," I said.

Megan grinned. "With a complete written agreement about your professional future?"

"Preferably signed in triplicate."

They burst out laughing, and I joined them. It was easier than explaining a hesitation I couldn't entirely explain to myself.

Our office occupied the forty-second floor of Crown Living Tower, overlooking downtown Heartwell. Glossy BLEACHED covers decorated the walls, advertising screens displayed provocative luxury campaigns, and the neighboring studios were perpetually busy with models, stylists, and photographers.

I loved the place.

My own reflection appeared in the darkened glass of an advertising screen as I reached across the desk. At twenty-seven, I'd inherited my mother's rich mahogany complexion, high cheekbones, and thick natural black curls. I had dark brown eyes, full lips, and a curvy hourglass figure that made a good tailor an absolute necessity. My emerald-green blouse and fitted black skirt were professional enough for the editorial floor but flattering enough that I'd enjoyed my reflection in the elevator doors that morning.

Three editorial awards occupied the shelf behind my desk, including last year's Crown Excellence Award for Feature Writing. I was one of BLEACHED LIVING's youngest senior writers, and I intended to become one of its best.

"Wait," Priya said, picking up the wedding issue. "Who photographed this?"

I glanced at the credit beneath Victoria's portrait.

"Nathan Cole."

Megan immediately perked up. "Oh, him!"

"What about him?"

"He's adorable."

Priya pulled out her phone. "Adorable? He's gorgeous."

She searched his name and turned the screen toward me.

A blond man stood on the rooftop of a luxury hotel overlooking the Mediterranean. He looked twenty-nine or thirty, tall and athletic, with broad shoulders, tousled dark-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a disarmingly sweet smile. His white linen shirt was open at the collar, and a camera hung casually from one shoulder.

I leaned closer. "Oh. He's cute."

Megan grinned. "Cute?"

"Very cute."

Priya scrolled through his portfolio: Paris, Miami, Aspen, Singapore. Luxury fashion campaigns, celebrity portraits, exclusive resorts. He apparently spent more time traveling than staying home.

"I've heard of him," I said. "Didn't he photograph that Crown resort campaign last spring?"

"The one with the infinity pool," Priya confirmed.

I examined Victoria's wedding cover again. The light was magnificent, the composition flawless, and the bride's expression told a story without a single written word.

A better story, frankly, than some of the articles I'd been producing lately.

"Well," I admitted, "he certainly knows his business."

"And he's single," Megan added.

I raised an eyebrow. "Why do you know that?"

"Research."

"Of course."

Priya smiled. "Maybe you should meet him."

"Maybe you should both get back to work."

By eleven, Megan and Priya had finally returned to their respective departments, and I was staring at the article I'd been trying to finish all morning.

ISABELLA MARTINEZ — THE PERFECT MODERN HOUSEHOLD

Six pages. Three interviews. Two weeks of research.

And apparently the dullest thing I'd written in years.

My editor's latest note waited in the corner of the screen.

Beautifully written, Naomi. Excellent research and structure. But where's the fire? These women are living extraordinary lives. Make us feel something.

I hated how right he was.

I could research, interview, structure, and polish a feature faster than nearly anyone in the department. But somewhere along the way, I'd started producing stories that were technically excellent and emotionally forgettable.

I glanced at Victoria's wedding cover.

That photograph had made me feel more in thirty seconds than my own article managed in six pages.

What did Victoria feel when she looked at Christopher? What had made her certain enough to abandon her career? What had she been afraid of before the wedding?

Those were the questions I should have been asking.

I wanted to write stories people remembered, not produce another decade of perfectly respectable copy.

A notification interrupted my thoughts.

FEDERAL OWNERSHIP REGISTRY — ANNUAL ASSIGNMENT REVIEW PENDING

I dismissed it. Crown Living provided excellent housing, professional privileges, and opportunities most state-owned women could only dream about. I had no intention of being reassigned somewhere else.

Then another notification appeared.

OFFICE OF ALEXANDER CROWN JR.

I frowned and opened it.

Ms. Brooks,

Mr. Crown requests your presence tomorrow morning at 10:00 for a confidential discussion regarding a new editorial initiative.

Please confirm your attendance.

I stared at the message.

Alexander Crown Jr. Thirty-two years old, recently appointed CEO of Crown Living Industries, heir to one of the most influential corporate empires in America.

And he wanted to see me personally.

"Megan?"

Her head appeared above the partition. "What?"

I turned my monitor toward her.

Her eyes widened. "Oh my God."

"Exactly."

"Naomi! Maybe you're getting promoted!"

"Maybe."

"Or it's a new project!"

I looked at the invitation again, feeling a familiar excitement stir in my chest.

A new project. A real opportunity. Perhaps even the chance to write something extraordinary.

Whatever Alexander Crown wanted, I intended to make sure he remembered the name Naomi Brooks.