Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: Cait| The face to launch a thousand covers

When faced with the firing squad, there was little you could go but close your eyes and get on with it. So, it was no surprise that less than two days after the shoot she'd received a cryptic email from Thea demanding an early morning meeting the following the day.

There'd been no point in responding or asking questions—it hadn't been a request, but a firm command. Be here, or else.

Stepping off the main elevators, that breath seeped out of her in a hissing whine as a cold sweat broke over her skin, and prickling shot through her palms while a chorus of—f*ck, sh!t, f*ck, f*ck—sounded off in her head. Obscuring all other rational thought.

Unlike her first visit to VOGUE's head offices, today the floor was alive with bodies and every set of eyes that whipped in her direction only fueled her nagging anxiety. Moments after stepping into the reception, a runway ready assistant ushered Cait to a boardroom rather than Thea's low-key office from their initial meeting.

Great.

Opening the clear glass door, she stepped inside and the assistant tugged it shut behind her, sealing Cait within her tomb. Alive.

Thea sat on the edge of the conference table, glasses sliding down her nose and an austere expression slashing across her slender face. The air was tinged with smoke and the curling whispers of it hooked around Cait's senses, adding yet another layer of foreboding to this meeting.

"I appreciate you being punctual."

Cait swallowed around the heart lodged at the back of her throat, pressing and beating against the tender point that had her stomach clenching in reflex.

To counter her terrified mood, Cait had dressed in a white-based floral blazer, bright blue slacks and cobalt tie. It was cheerful without being obnoxious and she'd toned down the look with simple accessories and slicked back hair. Sort of the fashion equivalent of tucking her tail between her legs.

At Thea's terse nod, she drew out a seat and slid in, tucking her knees under the table and her hands with them to hide their shaking.

"Goodmo—"

An arm lifted and a finger pointed, the nail blunted and unpainted. "Not another word."

Cait clamped her lips together as Thea rose from her perched at the end of the table, slow and ominous as a thundering tsunami dwarfing the shoreline with its towering shadow.

Blonde hair, messy and tousled, framed a long and very disapproving face tucked behind black framed glasses. Dressed in a baggy off the shoulder t-shirt, braless—considering Thea wasn't developed beyond far beyond early puberty—and half-tucked into the waist of slouching and scuffed leather pants, she shouldn't have been so terrifying. Or intimidating.

But Cait shrank back into her seat, her spine wedging against firm leather. Drawing to her full six-three, Thea's hands flexed at her side, fingers clenching and unclenching. Either in reflex for another cigarette or with a burning desire to reach across the table and circle around Cait's throat.

"We have a serious problem." Those words hung between them, sharp with reproach and sat there. Growing bigger. Louder in the empty space until Cait could hardly breath. It required every ounce of restraint she had to keep those tightly pressed lips firmly together.

"Two days ago," Thea continued after several bracing pauses, "we received an email from the press. Images of you out at some club with Iona. Running rails."

That chorus of f*ck, sh!t, f*ck, f*ck ratcheted up to chipmunk like speed.

"Images that we managed to squash immediately. But the cost—the damages..." Thea shook her head, almost weary. "The Board of Directors are naturally aware of this mess—and I can't begin to tell you the hassle this caused us with securing approval to payout the overblown sum of money just to save the campaign you almost crippled."