The Prada Paradox

by Julie Kenner

I laugh. “Isn’t there an old saying about gift horses and mouths and such?”

  “What can I say? I’m a chocolate connoisseur.”

  “You’re a perfectionist,” I shoot back. Which is true. It’s also one of the things that both attracted me to him…and drove me absolutely nuts.

  “Probably true. Right now, all I’m concerned about is the movie.”

  “The buzz,” I say. “I never expected you to be a promo whore.” He’d always told me he didn’t like the limelight, but I suspect his attitude is changing.

  The expression on his face shifts from bland to guarded. “Screw the buzz. I’m not interested in being a star because of who I’m dating.” He pauses, then looks me straight in the eye. “Or not dating.”

  I look away, not sure what to say. Because even though he caused our breakup (and nothing’s going to convince me otherwise), I can’t argue with the fact that I was the one who said the actual words. And to now hear the regret in his voice…

  Honestly, it’s all a bit too much too fast. And having him standing so close to me is making thinking difficult.

  I take another swig of my Diet Coke and try to act casual. “So if you aren’t here about Tobias’s PR mandate, then why did you come?”

  “We’ve got a scene tomorrow,” he says. “I thought maybe we could run lines.”

  “Oh. Right. Okay.” Considering how much I didn’t want to discuss characters and scenes with him earlier today, the anticipation I’m now feeling is a little disconcerting. I need to get my emotions back on track. Hell, I need to take control of the whole conversation.

  “The whole scene?” I ask with a smile. “Or just the part where I hit and kick you?”

  “Looking for a little catharsis?”

  He says it with such an easy confidence, that I can’t help but grin. “Maybe I am.”

  “Well, all right then,” he says, then spreads his arms wide, scrunches up his face, and closes his eyes. “Have at me.”

  I am not going to laugh. He’s my ex. He broke my heart. And I am so not laughing.

  He opens one eye. “Come on, already. Don’t be a girlie-girl.”

  Damn it. I start laughing.

  “See?” Blake says. “I’m not the spawn of Satan.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” I counter. “I have a feeling Satan has a very wry sense of humor.”

  “You wound me.”

  “Not as much as you wounded me.”

  The pain cuts across his face with as much intensity as if I’d slashed him with a Ginsu, and I feel myself crumple inside.

  “Devi,” he says, his voice as raw as my heart. “I am truly sorry.” He reaches out and strokes my cheek, and I want to melt under his touch. I want to press my body up against him and put my arms around him. I want to pull him close and ask him if it can still work between us.

  And even while all those thoughts swirl through my head, I want to kick myself for being so insecure and vulnerable that I fall back into the arms of the man who wounded me mere minutes after he walk back through my door.

  It’s one of those awkward moments. The touch between us, so sweet and gentle. And me chastising myself and dredging up harsh reality. I don’t know if I should kiss him or run from him, but the question is thankfully brushed off the table by the buzz of the intercom. “Ms. Taylor?”

  This time, I know it’s Andy.

  “Andrew Garrison, right?” I say, having leaped toward the intercom and away from Blake at the first possible moment. “You can send him on in.”

  “Federal Express, actually. I signed for it. Shall I bring it up to the house?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Saved by the courier.

  I turn back to Blake and shrug. “Probably something from the studio,” I say. “We can get down to the script as soon as Lucas drops it off.”

  What I don’t say is how grateful I am to the anonymous sender for timing the package so well. Another minute or two, and I might have actually forgotten that I hate this man. And how awkward would that be?

  Two minutes later, though, I’m not grateful at all. I’m confused.

  Because the envelope that Lucas just gave me has my address as the return. But it doesn’t have my name.

  Instead, it lists the sender as Play.Survive.Win.

  Chapter 13

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I demand, but I can see right away that it’s not. Blake’s face is too pale, and he’s eyeing the envelope with just a bit too much trepidation. “You didn’t send this,” I say, and it’s a statement, not a question.

  “No,” he confirms, “I didn’t.”

  “Publicity stunt?” I ask. “Something Tobias cooked up to keep me in character?”

  “Could be,” he says, but I can tell from his expression he doesn’t really believe it. This isn’t Tobias’s style.

  “Maybe I should just throw it away,” I say. I’m holding the package in both hands, and I see that they are shaking. I’ve lived in Melanie Prescott’s head for too long. I know that what’s in this envelope is Bad News.

  Worse, I know that throwing it away won’t make it go away.

  I look up and meet Blake’s eyes. He knows it, too.

  “Give it to me,” he demands.

  I start to, then shake my head. “No. It’s addressed to me.” I take a deep breath, then swallow, my throat dry. “It’s my problem.”

  “Our problem,” he says. “I’m in this with you.”

  Considering I’m the one holding the ticking FedEx package, that point is debatable. But it’s a sweet thought, so I don’t call him on it. Instead, I just pull the little cardboard strip to open the envelope. As I do, I step back a bit, holding it away from my body as if the thing might explode. It doesn’t, of course, and so I cautiously bring it closer, then slide my finger into the opening.

  “What is it?” Blake asks.

  “Another envelope.” I pull it out. This one is standard letter size, with no return address. The only writing is my name printed in block letters across the middle: Devilla Marigold Taylor. (You can see why my mom shortened it for professional purposes all those years ago. What I’ve never understood is why she saddled me with it in the first place. But when I ask her, all she says is, “Your father.” And then she shakes her head and changes the subject.)

  As I hold on to this smaller envelope, Blake takes the larger FedEx one. I watch as he slides his hand inside, then pulls the edges apart and inspects it visually.

  “I know how to empty an envelope,” I say testily.

  “Can’t hurt to double-check.” And since that’s just so damn reasonable, I don’t even argue. He nods toward my hands. I’m gripping the envelope so tightly that my fingers ache. “Do you want me to do it?”

  I shake my head, mentally chastising myself for getting all worked up over nothing. This has to be a joke, right? Maybe Tobias hired a new PR firm. Maybe one of the producers has a sick sense of humor.

  I don’t know, but there has to be some explanation. So I quash my fear, then slide my fingernail under the edge of the sealed flap. I’m just about to rip when Blake reaches out. “Wait!”

  “Are you nuts?” I say, jerking the envelope back toward me and away from his grasp. “It’s not a bomb!”

  “DNA,” he says, and I gape stupidly at him. “On the flap,” he clarifies. “From where whoever sent this licked it.”

  “Oh.” I lick my own lips. “Right.” I look up at him, my little bubble of manufactured comfort rupturing with a pop. “So you don’t think this is just some goofball stunt?”

  He doesn’t answer. After a moment, I nod. The truth is, I don’t think so either.

  “Just open it, Devi. We won’t know for certain until you open it.”

  Sometimes that man is far too pragmatic. But he’s right, and I do. I rip a tiny bit of the corner and then open the envelope from the end, leaving the flap—and all that lovely DNA—perfectly intact.

  I squeeze the edges and peer inside to see a single folded sheet of pape
r. “Here we go,” I say, then pull the paper out. I open it, and then—even though I’m expecting the worst—I gasp at what I see:

  PLAY OR DIE

  My daughter, my sister, and a crazy old man.

  The clue’s where he lost it and Jack found it again.

  But where to look to find the key?

  A house not a home, though used for a fee,

  A reflection of grandeur, of good times once seen,

  And many have seen her upon the grand screen.

  Play or don’t play—it’s all up to you.

  But if you decline, Death will Become You.

  Chapter 14

  “No,” I say. “No way. No fucking way.” I’m on my feet, pacing, when Blake snags the paper from my hand.

  By the time I calm down enough to face him, he’s already read it, and I see my own confusion and fear etched in his expression.

  “This has to be a joke,” I say. “Somebody in Tobias’s office has a sick sense of humor. This is a publicity stunt. It has to be.”

  “Does it?” he asks, sounding a little shell-shocked. “I hope you’re right. And if it is, someone is getting their ass fired in the morning.”

  “I’m calling Tobias,” I say, heading toward the phone.

  “Wait.” He’s beside me in an instant, his hand tight on my arm. “What if it’s not?”

  I shake my head slowly, my brain really not ready to process the what-if-it’s-not line of thinking. “It has to be,” I say.

  “I know. I agree.” He hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my head up until he’s looking me straight in the eye. “But what if it’s not?”

  His voice is strong, and firm, and I hate him for being right. “It can’t be real,” I say, but weakly this time. “But you’re right. We can’t call anyone until we know for sure.” I’ve spent enough time with the script and with Mel to know that if this really is PSW, then the rules are clear: no outside help. If I call Tobias to ask if he’s pulling a prank on me, he might fess up, and all will be well. But if he says no…

  Well, no matter how hard I try to explain away the reason for my call, he’s going to know something is up. And if he gets worried…if he calls the cops…if he calls Mel…

  I shudder, because the ramifications are just too horrible.

  “There has to be a way to prove it’s just a PR stunt,” I say, clinging desperately to the hope that it is just a PR stunt, even though a tiny part of me keeps whispering that no one I know would be so cruel as to pull that kind of crap. Not knowing what I went through with Janus. That would just be evil, and the people I work with aren’t evil. Are they?

  “There’s one way to know for sure,” Blake says, holding up the clue. “We follow the trail.”

  I shake my head. “No. No.” I can’t explain why that’s so horrible, but, “No. That would make it real. And I can’t deal with—”

  “You have to deal with it,” he says. “We both do.”

  He steers me toward the couch, and we both sit down. And when he takes my hand so intimately, I don’t pull away. I’m confused and scared, and I want the comfort, and I’m not too proud to take it. Even from Blake.

  “What do we know?” he asks, but gently.

  “That I got a weird message from PSW.”

  “It says it’s from PSW,” he clarifies. “But we both think it’s a publicity stunt.”

  I nod. I’m not entirely sure that think is correct. But I’m definitely hoping it’s a stunt. Because right then, that little shred of hope is like a thin red thread on which my hold on reality depends. Snap the thread, and I snap with it.

  “We can’t call anyone and ask,” he goes on. “So the only way to know for sure is to start playing.”

  I look up, my heart pounding, as I suddenly realize that there is another way. “We can check the game,” I say. “The real game.”

  Now it was Blake’s turn to look confused.

  “We log in,” I say. “Remember the script? When Mel played, there was at least one message for her in the real PSW’s message center.”

  He considers that for a moment, then nods. “All right. Let’s check. But Devi,” he adds, looking at me intently, “if there’s something there, it proves the worst. But if you’ve got no messages, that doesn’t prove anything.”

  I nod, quick and sharp. I know he’s right. All that the lack of a message would prove is that I have no messages. But it would calm me down. Give me one more thread to grasp throughout the night. Because I’m certain that if it is a PR stunt, we’ll find out in the morning when we go to the set. All I have to do is keep my head on straight until then.

  My laptop is in my new bag, and we haul it out and set it up on the coffee table in front of the sofa. And even as Blake urges me on, I enter the address in my Web browser, head over to the game, and log in with my user ID. It’s been years since I played, but I use the same ID and password for everything I do online. It’s not safe, but it makes my life easier.

  Sure enough, the information is accepted and access is granted. Seconds later, the message center portal page pops up, and I click over to the one message that’s waiting for me.

  >>>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<

  PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

  …please wait

  …please wait

  …please wait

  Password approved

  >>>Read New Messages<<<>>>Create New Message<<<…please wait

  WELCOME TO MESSAGE CENTER

  You have one new message.

  New Message:

  Report:

  Toxin delivered as per instructions. Awaiting confirmation of infection.

  Delivery of additional systems established and scheduled as per introductory instructions.

  Game currently proceeding on schedule.

  >>>>End Report<<<<

  I stare at the computer, not quite able to process the words on the screen. Only two stand out: Toxin delivered.

  The words seem to pulsate on the screen, mocking me. No way. It’s not possible.

  And yet there it is, in black and white.

  Toxin delivered.

  Dear God in heaven…it’s real.

  Chapter 15

  I can’t stop shaking. My hands. My arms. My teeth.

  My entire body seems to tremble from within, and it’s all I can do to crumple the note in my fist, then collapse onto the couch.

  Dear God, this is real. Someone is after me. Again.

  The thought is too much to bear, and I pull my knees up against my chest and press my forehead to my knees. My back is pressed hard against the plush sofa cushions, and I feel like—if I just try a little harder—I can make myself so small that I’ll completely disappear.

  No one can find me then. I’ll just be gone.

  Gone.

  At the moment, I want nothing more.

  An eternity passes, and then I hear a whimper. I’ve been lost, zoned out in some hidden place in my mind, and it takes me a while to realize the sound is coming from me. I’m rocking, too, hugging myself and moving on the couch. I know I should stop. That I should get up and hold my chin high and say, “Fuck you,” to the world or to the bad guy or to whatever asshole thought that sending that note was a good idea.

  I can’t do that, though. I remember too clearly the press of metal against my neck. The sound of the buttons popping off my shirt as Janus had so casually flipped the tip of his blade against the flimsy threads. The sting on my breasts where his blade drew blood.

  And the ultimate horror of his hands on my body.

  I feel those hands now, and I thrash, screaming, even though some part of me knows that Janus isn’t here. It’s only Blake, trying to hold me. Trying to comfort me.

  But there really is no comfort to be had.

  I’d finally gotten my head back on straight. Surely fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to push me back down.

  Not again. Please, God, not again.

  My whole body seems to tense, each pore seething with longing. With a
desperate need to escape into a sweet oblivion. I can imagine the feel of the pills in my hand, their negligible weight ironic when compared to the punch they pack. So easy.

  No, no, NO!

  I’d flushed every last Valium, Vicodin, Xanax, and Percocet down the toilet months ago. I was clean, and I was staying clean.

  Except…

  I can’t do this. I can’t survive this without the drugs…and at the same time, once I take another pill, I know in my heart there’s no turning back. I beat addiction once. I don’t think I can do it again.

  A hysterical bubble rises in my throat, and I squeeze my eyes tight. I’m losing it, and I don’t want to be losing it. I’m strong. Isn’t that what my therapist has been telling me for years? I survived Janus. I beat the drugs. I. Am. Strong.

  And yet a few little words send me whimpering to my couch.

  Clearly, my therapist is wrong. Which begs the question of why I pay her such an obscene hourly rate.

  There it is again, that perverse sense of humor. I tell myself I’m calming down. That humor is my way of taking control. But I don’t believe it.

  I don’t have any control here. None at all.

  I close my eyes and try to hide inside myself again. Because that, I think, is the scariest part of all.

  Chapter 16

  Blake had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

  He’d watched as she read the message. Watched as her face went white and terror filled her eyes. Watched as she’d curled up on the couch, whimpering like a frightened child.

  And then he’d watched, helpless and terrified, as Devi slipped inside herself. He felt lost, impotent, and all he wanted to do was hunt down and kill the bastard who’d done this to her. Since that hardly seemed an option at the moment, he wanted to hold Devi herself. Hold her and comfort her and tell her that it would be okay. That he would never let anything happen to her. That he loved her and that he’d protect her and that if he could erase all the bad stuff between them, he’d do it in a heartbeat.