Heir of Deception | (for mature audience)

Chapter 2: Alexandria

Alexandria

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Tonight is my last show in Paris for Fashion Week, and I'm filled with a mix of excitement and relief. Once this is over, I'll be back in New York, slipping into my usual life as a model. I love my job and wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. The thrill of the runway, the buzz of the crowd, the artistry of fashion—it all calls to me. My passion for this industry was ignited when my mother dragged me and my older sister Anastasia along to major fashion shows in Paris and Milan when I was just fourteen years old.

Anastasia was never interested in the glitz and glamour; she wanted to follow in our parents' footsteps, running the family business and climbing the corporate ladder. I wanted something different. When my mother retired, Anastasia took over as COO, while I dove headfirst into the world of modeling. Now, she’s married to Lorenzo Davenport, a man from a high-society family and is expecting their first child. With her settled down, the pressure on me to find a suitable husband has only intensified, and I can feel the weight of unspoken expectations hanging over me.

As I prepare for the show, I remind myself that tonight is about celebrating my hard work. It’s go-time.

I’m opening the show, which means I’ll be the first to walk the runway. As I step out, every major celebrity is seated front row, where I often find myself when I’m not modeling. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and begin my walk, showcasing the stunning piece of clothing that hugs my body perfectly. Some people record the moment, while others watch in awe, their eyes glued to me. I feel powerful, alive.

After the show, we congregate in the changing room, peeling off the extravagant outfits and slipping back into our comfortable clothes. A few friends and I are planning to go out for drinks and dinner to celebrate the success of our show. Just as I’m busy getting dressed, my phone rings. It’s my father.

“Hello, Father,” I say, forcing a bright tone into my voice despite the swirl of emotions within me.

“Hello, honey! How are you?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically sweet.

“I’m good; I just finished my last show for Paris,” I reply, excitement creeping into my words.

“When will you be home?” he questions, a hint of urgency in his tone.

“A couple of friends and I are going out for dinner, and I’ll be on a flight first thing in the morning,” I respond, hoping to keep the conversation light.

“Be home before dinner. We have important news to share with you,” he insists, his tone turning serious.

My father used to be the most humble man on earth, but after making a billion and appearing on the Forbes Billionaires List, everything changed. Now, it feels like everything I do is scrutinized. I once did a campaign shoot for a well-known fashion brand and got scolded like a child. I was wearing only jeans and a thong underneath, but he acted as if I had posed naked on a billboard in Times Square when my breasts were completely covered.

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I say, ending the call with a mix of apprehension and irritation.

I finish getting dressed and pack my things into my backpack. As I zip it up, I hear some rumbling among the models. I turn around to see the designer Aliyah Monet walk in, accompanied by a handsome man.

“Girls, you did wonderfully!” Aliyah exclaims, clapping her hands together. “I’m proud of you all; you made my debut at Fashion Week a major success.”

Aliyah made her first appearance as a fashion designer today, and I was honored to be part of it. I opened her very first show.

“This is my friend Christian Calloway; he wanted to congratulate you, lovely ladies,” she smiles, gesturing towards the man beside her.

He looks around the room, his presence commanding immediate attention. “You ladies did a marvelous job. Ali did an amazing job hiring you all.”

Christian Calloway is one of the world’s youngest billionaires and the CEO of Calloway Property Group, a real estate development company known for its stunning architectural feats. He owns half of New York, and it’s rare to see him at any event that isn’t hosted by himself or his friends and family.

“Congratulations, Aliyah,” I say, giving her a quick hug before leaving the room with two of my friends.

We spend the night at a restaurant, having dinner to celebrate our success, then head out to a club for a few drinks. The night is fun; we dance and let loose, celebrating the end of another successful fashion week. I don’t overdo it, though; I have a flight in the morning, and I certainly don’t want to be hungover when I get home.

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I land in Los Angeles, and a driver is waiting for me to take me home. Dinner at the Carter house starts at seven, which gives me just two hours to take a nap and prepare for the evening. Dinner isn’t just dinner; it’s a three-course meal that feels more like a formal affair than a family gathering.

When we arrive at the family home, the car stops, and I step out, the familiar sight of the house greeting me. The front door opens just as I approach. I haven’t been home in a month, and now that I’m finally back, I can’t shake the mix of emotions swirling inside me. The house looks like something out of an architectural magazine, having graced the pages of Architectural Digest a couple of years ago. My mother had the place redesigned last year after firing five interior designers, and a friend recommended Isabella Throne.

“Hello, Mother. Hello, Father,” I greet my parents, who are sitting in the living area dressed to the nines.

They are always so bloody extra.

“Hello, darling!” My mother jumps up, placing her cup of tea down before running over to embrace me. She inspects me like I’m a prized possession. “You look tired. I have the perfect face mask to get rid of those dark circles. Oh, and you look like you’ve gained some weight too,” she adds, her eyes scanning my body with a critical gaze.

“She just needs some rest, Liz. She just got off a seven-hour flight,” my father interjects, hugging me tightly.

My mother is obsessed with perfection, and my father is obsessed with status. That’s why he doesn’t approve of most of the men I date. He even paid my last boyfriend, Fletcher, to leave me alone, and he accepted the money without hesitation.

“I’m going to get some rest,” I say, forcing a straight smile on my face, trying to hide the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

“Be down before six-thirty and dress appropriately; we have guests coming,” my father commands as I leave the room. The pressure to conform to their expectations weighs heavily on me, and I can’t help but wonder how much longer I can keep up this façade.