The Fates (Book II)

8.10 - Flawless

Let's check in with Lacey on Mykonos - where she might be set to cross paths with somebody significant, for the first time in the modern-day storyline ;) ...

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Scene 10: Flawless

A.D. 2015

In all honesty — setting aside the fact that she was very rarely honest with herself, but if she ever were to be, in theory — Lacey Weaver Campion hated beaches. But she habitually pretended to be fond of them, of course, because society expected it, especially when she'd been 'blessed' with a body that lent itself well to a teensy bikini. There were prominent quotes around 'blessed' in her head. Firstly because this supposed 'blessing' had come at the great cost of sacrificing carbs and sugars, and secondly because in effect, it usually felt like more of a curse.

Thanks to her looks and the life they had afforded her, every light in the world struck her like a spotlight on a runway or a floodlight at a photo shoot: invasively bright, unforgiving of all flaws, no matter how few or how slight. The shadow of every shortcoming was starker, the brighter the light. Even when the lights were off she found no solace in the dark. For no light was needed to see, to feel, the flaws beneath the often flawless skin, within, where every lie and every sin had left its mark.

In any case, Lacey inwardly grumbled — while lounging on the sun-soaked coast of Mykonos with her beloved husband and pretending to be comfortable — she seriously hated beaches. Always had. The way the ocean spray and briny air mussed up her well-conditioned hair. The specks of sand that never failed to get stuck everywhere. She hated how every other model she had ever met was essentially a mermaid with legs — able to frolic on the shoreline, even venture out into the waves and magically emerge from them looking more gorgeous. And to manage this as if it were effortless. Which for Lacey it never was. Those bıtches.

It didn't matter if professional photographers effused praises whenever they snapped pictures of her on the beach, insisting that she looked perfectly fine; she knew it was a lie. The only reason these photos came out half-decent was due to a certain form of sorcery known as the airbrush. Proof of this pathetic fact was in the tabloids, in which she'd appeared a few times — much to her mother's chagrin, albeit for nothing scandalous. The problem was that these candids, of course, were not airbrushed. And they tended to cast Lacey in an unflattering light that made her look like something of a platypus.

Not that she looked flawless when she was anywhere other than the beach, by any means — even if others sometimes described her that way, she knew better herself. Whether on the beach or not, she never actually looked perfect. At best, just less platypus-esque. But all the stray sand and saltwater definitely did not help.

And the only soul on earth beneath whose grey-blue gaze she had always felt truly beautiful was... lost to her, and thus not worth thinking about anymore.

Well, at least now her modeling days were behind her, and she was finally married to Matthew. Er, Ryder. Once in a while she still slipped, which always irked her. But whatever she called him, their matrimonially bound togetherness was all that mattered—

"Lacey — Lacey Weaver?"

She looked up to see the man who had greeted her, figuring that he was probably a stranger, one of the admirers who occasionally approached her even after the abrupt failure of her career, and — oh. Far from an admirer. Rather, her former agent. Emphasis on 'former'.