The "Stylist" | Book I in a Series of Mistaken Identities

Valerie

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, arm slicing through the air as I flag down a cab like my life depends on it.

I’m late. I’m never late. I’m never early either—I live in the sacred, untouchable land of on time. Always. Except today. Today, my loyal Mini Cooper S chooses violence and dies in the middle of the city, on the single most important shoot of the year. Of course it does. It strands me curbside with a suitcase the size of a small child, packed with things my boss will probably decide she hates on sight and won’t use. I need a cigarette.

Cindy LaRoux—my boss, fashion tyrant, and stylist royalty—is styling the cover for next month’s Forbes. Yes, the notice was criminally late, but when the subject is a man wanted by everyone, everywhere, and whose time is apparently more sacred than God’s, you don’t argue. You adjust. Or you get fired, which is exactly what’s about to happen to me.

Ten months—that’s how long I’ve survived as Cindy’s assistant, which might be a record considering she burns through six a year on average. Everyone wants this job. Everyone thinks they can handle her. Everyone is wrong. The standards are brutal, the margin for error microscopic—and reputation is everything. Mine is spotless. Or it was, until today. Fantastic timing.

I stomp the suitcase into the back of the cab and rattle off the address, breathless.

Fishing a crisp bill from my purse, I lean forward until I catch the driver’s eye. “A hundred-dollar tip if you get me there in under ten minutes.”

That’s all it takes.

The cab launches into traffic, and adrenaline replaces panic as the city blurs past. My gaze stays locked on my watch, counting down each second, willing the universe not to screw me this hard.

We screech to a stop outside the old warehouse turned photography studio with seconds to spare.

“Suck it, New York!” the cabbie shouts, hopping out like he just won the Indy 500.

Chris. Barbados-born, thick Caribbean accent, and somehow both impossible to understand and impossible not to like. We bonded fast—shared trauma will do that. I laugh, breathless, hauling my suitcase onto the sidewalk as relief crashes through me.

Chris drags my oversized suitcase from the back seat and rolls it over to me on the sidewalk.

“You’re a legend,” I say, holding up the cash—fare plus the obscene tip I promised. “I’ll need a ride home from here around two, if you’re still on.”

He grins, takes the money, and tucks it neatly into his Kangol hat before settling it back on his head. “You can count on me, Miss Valerie. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you.” I fish a lollipop from my purse as he pulls away.

The moment the artificially red candy hits my tongue, I moan. Ever since I quit smoking, my purse has become a portable candy store. I’m jogging more, brushing more, flossing like my life depends on it, but it has to be better than cancer. Ugh. Coffee. Must find coffee.

Grabbing the suitcase handle, I feel it before I see it—that prickle between the shoulders. Someone’s watching me.

When our eyes meet, recognition hits instantly.

Charles Knight.

The jolly fellow we’re shooting for the cover. Billionaire. Philanthropist. Sex on a stick. And by jolly, I mean the exact opposite. The man is legendary for his uncompromising nature, with a clinical case of stick-up-the-butt syndrome. In his world, where millions change hands before lunch, that kind of severity might be required—but he seems to carry the stick everywhere. He’s scowling at me like I just keyed his car.

Maybe he needs a cigarette, too. You can do it, Charlie—I believe in you!

He’s leaning against his car, hands stuffed in his pockets, still watching me. And somehow he’s pulling off a black-and-pink floral shirt with a blush pink velvet suit jacket.

Wait up.

Blush pink velvet? What kind of man leaves the house wearing something like that? Charles goddamn Knight, apparently. And damn if he doesn’t look incredible.

The car his perfectly sculpted ass is leaning against doesn’t help me like him more. Bugatti La Voiture Noire. One of my favorite feats of human engineering, and at the top of my car wish list.

He’s so hot it almost pisses me off. And he has my dream car? Prick. The thought makes me want to punish him, and my brain offers up a solution entirely unhelpful for a workday: strip him naked and sit on his face. Hah, that’ll teach him.

I’m around models constantly—beautiful men are practically background noise—but this one is different. What clicks, as I blatantly gawk while sucking on my lollipop, is that he has something few men do: validated confidence. Most men fake it. His is earned and genuine.

Charles Knight started with nothing, and at twenty-nine, he’s one of the richest men on the planet. I respect that.

No idea why he’s still staring at me, though.

No idea why I’m still staring at him.

I shift the candy to the side of my mouth, tucking it into my cheek. “Why don’t you take a picture?” I say. “It’ll last longer.”

A spark of fear flickers low in my gut when Knight’s already intimidating brows draw together even more. Then—because today apparently runs on chaos—he pulls his phone from his pocket and actually takes the picture.

I flash a big, obnoxious smile and throw up a peace sign. The second I’m sure he’s done, I grab my suitcase and make my escape, wheels rattling behind me as I head for the entrance. As I turn away, I catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

A hallucination, I decide. Stress and sugar delirium. Nothing more. But of course, me being me, I can’t just leave it alone.

“Oh—and by the way,” I call over my shoulder, unable to stop myself, “what you’ve done to that car is a travesty. They named it Noir for a reason.”

Every single one of those cars comes off the line black, and he’s had his painted some strange pearlescent silver. It’s not ugly, exactly—but it’s definitely not Noir. At least it’s not pink to match that whack suit.

Replaying the entire interaction on a loop as the elevator carries me to the top floor, I can’t help but focus on those unreal, fierce blue eyes of his. They’re like something ripped straight out of a vampire anime—eyes that look like they could burn your clothes off if he narrowed them just right. Knight’s mother is Japanese, so he must’ve inherited them from his father. I always do a little light research when we’re shooting a celebrity.

If I’m being honest, I might’ve done more research on him than I do for the average celebrity. I fell down a late-night rabbit hole of image searches that ended with me ogling photos no one had any right to take. Once you cross into celebrity status, you crack open a pretty big window into your life for the world to peer through—and after a few beers, I was mildly disappointed to discover there were no shirtless shots waiting for me at the bottom of the hole.

Cindy’s eyes snap to me the second I step into the studio. I check my watch. Dammit. That little impromptu photo shoot outside made me a minute late. One whole, unforgivable minute. She won’t make a scene—not now. Cindy prefers to simmer. The punishment will come later, when we’re alone, and it will involve metaphorical eye-gouging with a rusty spoon. And yes, a minute late is still late. I believe that just as fiercely as she does, which is why I don’t even consider an excuse.

“Sorry,” I mouth, already moving as I hustle toward our designated stylist area.

When we work in this studio, we usually set up on the opposite side of the room, well away from hair and makeup. The powders they use are so fine—and so aggressively sparkly—they can stain clothing. Not much risk of that today, though. We’re only shooting one guy, and something tells me he’s going to reject makeup entirely.

I start laying everything out on my trays: belts, pocket squares, watches, an obscene spread of very expensive accessories. As I work, Jimmy’s voice carries over from behind me. He’s talking to the photographer, and he sounds… nervous.

Not shocking, there’s a lot riding on this. Charlie Knight’s time is worth more than everyone in this room combined, and we have him for exactly thirty minutes. That’s everything—hair, makeup, lighting, the cover shot, plus a couple of candid images for the feature. Thirty minutes. No pressure.

Honestly, after seeing him, he could skip hair and makeup altogether, and the first shot would probably be flawless. Then again, some people are devastating in real life and photograph like absolute trash.

For the good of humanity, I hope that’s him. Let him look terrible in 2D.

“I hope he’s here soon,” Jimmy says, staring down at what I assume is the cover mockup.

“Calm your tits, Jimbo,” I say, shifting my lollipop from one side of my mouth to the other. “He’s downstairs.”

Jimmy drifts closer, trying—and failing—to look casual. “You saw him?”

With his arms crossed, he bites the tip of his thumb, his tell when he’s nervous. Jimmy doesn’t get rattled often, but shooting someone with that much money and on a time limit tends to send tremors through the system.

“M-hm,” sliding another tray of pocket squares onto the table.

Why Cindy wanted me to bring this many options is beyond me.

Jimmy lowers his voice. “How did he look? Like was he in a good mood? Bad mood? Did he look well rested?”

I glance at him, barely holding back a laugh. Normally, I’d stir the pot a little, but he’s already wound tight. “Jesus, calm down, Jimmy. Go smoke a joint or something.”

“I can’t.” He sighs, drifting closer. “I’m all out.”

I intercept him before his ass gets anywhere near the fifty-thousand-dollar Tag Hauger watch we’re borrowing and shoo him away with a sharp flick of my hand. “Try Amanda. She usually has some.”

He nods and wanders off. A moment later, I catch Amanda discreetly slipping him something small, and I snort to myself before refocusing on the table.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?” Cindy materializes beside me, already rearranging the accessories. Of course she is—OCD isn’t a tendency for her—it’s a religion. That’s what makes her so good at her job.

“It won’t happen again,” I say quickly. “So, what’s your vision for today? We’ve got a lot to work with.”

She stills for half a second. Hook, line, sinker. Talking about her work is Cindy’s favorite thing in the world, and redirecting her there has always been my most reliable survival tactic.

“We’ll see what Mr. Knight allows, what he’s wearing, and go from there,” she says, adjusting a Cartier tie pin.

“Pink florals on black,” I mutter. “Pink velvet jacket.”

Cindy’s gaze drills into the side of my head. I bite my lip and wisely choose silence, pretending intense focus on literally anything else.

“I want you to keep your distance from Mr. Knight and leave everything to me,” she says coldly.

That’s when it hits me—she’s trying today. Cindy always looks good, but this is different. The Chanel is out, which she only wears when she’s aiming to impress. Someone wants into Mr. Knight’s pink pants. That makes two of us.

I slap myself lightly in the face. Cindy barely blinks—she’s long since acclimated to my brand of insanity—and rolls her eyes before striding off.

Jimmy’s cover mockup catches my attention. I pick it up, scanning the layout. They’ve pulled a photo of Charles Knight from the internet and Photoshopped him onto our backdrop, the 30 Under 30 tagline splashed across the top. Those electric eyes get me again.

Someone throw me a life preserver. I’m drowning.

The doors open.

The mockup slips from my fingers and into the bin just as the devil himself strolls in like he owns the building. Which—statistically—he probably does. The energy in the room shifts instantly. Everyone goes alert, movements careful, like we’re suddenly walking on glass.

The woman trailing behind him has to be his assistant. The tablet, the pencil skirt, the glasses perched on her nose—classic. Professional. Efficient.Shy librarian vibes on the outside, probably more terrifying than Charles Knight himself—a man like that needs a savage for an assistant.

Time to be invisible and watch from a safe distance as Cindy tries to seduce Mr. One-out-of-thirty.

Uff, wait, coffee first, then the invisibility cloak.