Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I hate to admit it, because I truly do love Sloane and her designs, but Hailey’s jewelry is much more my style. It’s gothic in nature. Collars, chokers, metal and raw. It’s a blend of BDSM club and Victorian elegance that speaks to my soul in a way Moth to the Flame’s more mainstream pieces never quite manage. Her jewelry feeds the alter ego inside of me. It fuels the “Chlo” as I like to call her.
“Thanks. I really poured my heart into this collection. It’s inspired by ancient myths and legends—you know, the dark, twisted ones that nobody talks about anymore.”
I nod, understanding completely. Hailey has always been drawn to the shadows, finding beauty in the things most people overlook or shy away from. It’s one of the reasons we clicked when we first met at an underground art show two years ago.
“So, are you ready to channel your inner dark goddess for the shoot?” Hailey asks, wiggling her eyebrows mischievously. “Dark, gothic Christmas?”
I grin, feeling a surge of excitement. “You know I am. Let’s bring out Chlo.”
Hailey claps her hands together. “Yes! I’ve got the perfect backdrop set up in the back room. It’s all black velvet and twinkling lights—like a starry night sky.”
As we move to the makeshift studio, I start to shed my professional persona. I change into my favorite little black dress, fishnets, and sexy black pumps. Gone is the polished influencer in her secondhand blazer and knock-off heels. In her place emerges Chlo—edgy, daring, and unapologetically herself.
Hailey helps me into the first piece—an intricate silver collar adorned with black opals and razor-thin chains that drape across my collarbone. It’s heavy and cold against my skin, but it feels right. Like armor.
“You look fierce,” Hailey says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Like some kind of warrior queen from another dimension.”
I turn to the full-length mirror and barely recognize myself. My eyes seem darker, my cheekbones sharper. The collar transforms me, bringing out a side of myself I usually keep hidden.
“All right, Chlo,” I whisper to my reflection. “Time to shine.”
The photoshoot flies by in a blur of flashing lights and costume changes. Each piece Hailey puts on me feels like it’s unlocking a different facet of my personality. The moonbeam necklace makes me feel ethereal and mysterious. The rough-hewn cuffs make me feel powerful and untamed.
As we wrap up the final shots, I feel a twinge of regret. I don’t want to take off these pieces and go back to being regular Chloe.
“You know,” Hailey says, as if reading my thoughts, “you could keep that look if you wanted. The world could use a little more Chlo.”
I laugh, but there’s a part of me that’s tempted. “Maybe someday. For now, I think Chloe needs to stay in charge.”
As I change back into my work clothes, I wonder what Tyler or Sloane would think if they saw me dressed like a dark vixen rather than the sweet girl next door. Would they even recognize me? Would they understand this part of me?
I say goodbye to Hailey with a promise to have the edited photos to her by the end of the week. As I step out into the fading afternoon light, it’s like I’m straddling two worlds—the sleek, corporate world of Moth to the Flame Designs, and the raw, creative chaos of independent designers like Hailey.
For now, I need to find a way to balance both. But someday, I think, Chlo might be ready to step into the spotlight.
As I walk toward the subway station, my mind is still reeling from the contrast of my day. The weight of Moth to the Flame’s elegant pieces in my bag seems to pull me in one direction, while the lingering sensation of Hailey’s edgy creations tugs me in another. I’m split, torn between two versions of myself.
The subway car is crowded, and I find myself wedged between a suited businessman and a tattooed artist type. It feels oddly fitting, given my current state of mind. As the train lurches forward, I close my eyes and let the rhythmic rumbling settle my thoughts.
When I finally reach my stop in Manhattan and emerge onto the street, I fish out my phone with one more task for the day while I wait for the next ferry home. I call my landlord to complain about him shoveling my walkway but failing to shovel Mr. Haven’s.
I dial the familiar number, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. My landlord, Mr. Grayson, picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?” His gruff voice comes through the speaker.
“Hi, Mr. Grayson. It’s Chloe Hallman from 1004 Brennan,” I say, trying to keep my tone light and friendly. I also am not sure if he’ll remember who I am. It was my parents who were long time tenants of him, and I merely took over the lease—the very expensive lease—when they passed.