The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

t was 2:00 AM. Cristina sat in a booth in the b

corner, a news anchor was talki

Enterprises will finally reveal the fa

couldn't do this alone. Jackson had the lawyers, the mon

as a card. It was thick, matte black, with no name.

Surg

hing for a price. She had offered her own kidney, but she wasn't a match. The man-Columbus Mcleod-had found one anyway. He hadn't asked for money. He had asked for something far mo

called him sin

one near the restrooms.

ang

p, distorted v

code name he gave her because she was folding

tortion gone. It was a rich, baritone voi

need into Fashion Week. The Flo

ul man," the voice said. "

ina said. "But I have the t

an said. "I've

he phone receiver.

in, you belong to the organization. You

n the dirty mirror of the cigarette

," sh

our booth," h

ne wen

into the diner. He carried a silver box. He p

rd with no limit, a burner phone, and an invitat

ossier of the Gala's guest list. One name was highlighted in red: Marcus Thorne, Editor-in-Chie

ge appeared

be late. A car

sed the box.

o a salon in Chelsea that stayed open late for

she told t

sho

t I can't hide be

ace was a sharp, angled bob, dyed a deep, raven black. Her eyes

ght the dress she had designed three years ago but Jackson

Liquid gold.

b. A long black sedan with tinted windo

ather seat. She smoothed

n Center,"