Chapter 1

The unceasing drone of the engines permeated Psyche’s ears, like a hive of bees, somehow both grating and soothing simultaneously, but without any sweet reward. Reaching forward, she idly plucked a magazine from the pouch in front of her and thumbed the pages. A sudden snort, reminiscent of a boar in heat, hovered above the ever-present engine hum. Psyche glanced to her right, her eyes departing from an article about finding her perfect mate. Uh-huh. Even in the comfortable first-class seats, Walter annoyed her.

Over his dumpy bulk, a crystal cloudless sky stretched to the northern horizon through the tiny plastic window. Pure white cotton roiled below the aircraft. Frost edged the window.

Walter snuffled in his sleep, snorting once, mumbling incoherent words lost in the drone of the engines. His legs twitched, dangerously close to kicking Psyche’s ankle. Without thought, she shifted her feet further from his. She couldn’t afford bruises, even on her lower extremities. His receding hairline reflected the azure of the sky beyond the window. Acne scarred his battered cheeks. A drop of drool escaped his lips to roll unheeded to his chin. Clearly dreaming, his eyes rapidly moving under his wrinkled lids, he shifted in his wide seat. His head lolled, dropped to his left, and finally rested against Psyche’s shoulder. His breath smelled vaguely of cheese. He continued to mumble in his sleep, only one coherent word emerging: Aglaura.

Idly, Psyche wondered about his dream, reasonably certain of the subject matter from that one grunted name. Purposefully, Psyche avoided dropping her eyes to his lap, preferring ignorance to confirmation. She didn’t believe Aglaura had heard her name uttered from Walter’s lips, not above the engine noise, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. The thought of Walter and her sister together, even in a dream, urged agitation into her midriff. Despite public rumours to the contrary, Psyche and Walter only maintained a professional relationship. Everyone loved a real life Beauty and the Beast. Professionalism, such that it was, did not prevent Walter’s unceasing advances. His were far from the only unsolicited male attentions Psyche received. It came with the territory.

Sadly, Aglaura sleeping with Walter wouldn’t surprise Psyche in the slightest.

Sighing, Psyche guided Walter’s unwelcome head from her shoulder until he returned to his own headrest without waking. Not for the first time, Psyche wished Walter had chartered a private jet. She could easily afford it. Even Walter could afford it, of course. Money never concerned her. Money always concerned Walter, so for this westward flight across the Atlantic, the three of them flew first-class instead. Thankfully, Walter hadn’t insisted on coach.

Psyche regarded Walter for a moment, then reopened the magazine and returned her eyes to the article.

The rag spoke the truth: Walter only managed her life, finances, and contracts. Clearly, he would never prove to be her soulmate.

“Is that you?”

The high-pitched voice cut through the whine of engines, its child-like timbre purely innocent and insatiably curious. Psyche paused reading the depressing soulmate article, casting her eyes tentatively to her left. She preferred solitude, but the tone of this voice captured her attention. Usually, only men sought to engage her in conversation, always with a not-so-hidden agenda. Children rarely entered her sphere.

The child sat dwarfed by the first-class seat, her cerulean eyes wide and questioning, her scuffed sneakered feet swinging lazily. Perhaps eight years old, she possessed straight long blonde hair cascading loosely across her shoulders, a throwback to the carefree sixties. Her face carried an innocent charm, like an angel. When she matured, this girl would break a few hearts. An older woman, bearing a similarity to the child’s facial structure, slumbered in the seat beside the child. Psyche wondered if the sleeping woman was the child’s mother or grandmother. Beside Mom, or Grandma, an older man, presumably the child’s father, watched the plane’s entertainment system with rapt attention.

“Is that you?” the child repeated unabashedly. Her index finger pointed directly at the back cover of the magazine in Psyche’s hands.

Psyche folded the magazine back to glance at the rear cover. An advertisement for Versace perfume graced the cover, the bottle, vaguely phallic, tucked into the corner of the page. Her semi-clothed body draped over a lazy, trained albino tiger. An enigmatic, sultry smile glowed at the lens, flashing a hint of perfect teeth. Psyche’s arm, in the photo, positioned perfectly to obscure her bared breasts, her toned legs crossed demurely at the ankle. Psyche still wore her hair in straight fashion, like the child across the aisle, and the woman in the advertisement. She idly wondered how many women and girls mimicked her hairstyle. Likely more than should. Perhaps that style had attracted this girl’s attention, both because it had not changed since the photographer captured her image and because the girl wore a similar cut herself. Truthfully, Psyche didn’t control her hairstyle.

Psyche considered her usual response: I get that a lot. I’m flattered, but I only slightly resemble the supermodel lying half-naked with that tiger.

She doubted her normal dismissive response always worked, but sometimes it dissuaded less pushy members of the public. Not everyone failed to accept a hint. Eight-year-old girls wearing her hairstyle, however, seemed less likely than average to accept the ivory deflection.

Psyche closed the magazine and set it across her designer jeans with her own face smiling towards the cabin ceiling. She leaned on the armrest and smiled at the girl across the aisle. With a wink, she nodded. Some eight-year-olds might know her name, but somehow, she didn’t think this one did.

“I’m Psyche,” she responded. “What’s your name?”

The girl considered, perhaps recalling her lessons on stranger-danger. Of course, her curiosity had already danced across that line between politeness and familiarity. Biting at her lower lip, the girl met Psyche’s icy blue eyes with her own.

“Madeline,” she finally answered. “Everyone calls me Maddie.” She glanced guiltily at her seatmate, the woman mirroring her features, who slept blissfully through the stranger conversation. The father remained engrossed in his movie, oblivious. For now. “Were you afraid?”

Afraid of the dark? Afraid of falling asleep? Afraid of nightmares? Afraid of growing old? Afraid of growing old alone? Afraid of never finding her soulmate?

Of course, she was afraid.

“Afraid? Of what?”

Madeline pointed again at the closed magazine in Psyche’s lap. Her ragged nails shone with chipped pale pink polish.

Afraid of parading mostly naked in a room full of photographers? Afraid of cameras? Afraid of losing it all in a blink of an eye?

“Was he friendly?”

Puzzled, Psyche blinked, unable to follow. For a crazy second, her mind jumped to Walter, snoring beside her, occupying the window seat. Friendly wouldn’t be the first adjective to flood her mind. Brow furrowing, Psyche asked, “Who?”

Madeline giggled, the sound pure and girlish in Psyche’s ears. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d actually giggled.

“The tiger, silly. Was he friendly?”

Psyche recovered quickly. The albino tiger in the Versace advertisement. Of course. What would eight-year-old Madeline know about growing old, or soulmates, or parading naked for cameras, or losing it all in a blink of an eye? Perhaps, in a decade from now.

Her mind wandered to Paris, six months ago, the Versace campaign. The paycheque made everything worthwhile: bared skin, the flashes of the camera, the gawking spectators, the long days and nights. And, of course, Panthera.

Psyche nodded, lost in memories.

“She was quite friendly,” Psyche assured Madeline. “Her name was Panthera.”

At first, the tiger’s presence had deeply concerned Psyche; one easy swipe of those paws against her undefended bare skin, and everything would disappear, possibly even her life. Steeling herself, she padded barefoot into the studio and settled against the animal, the tiger’s ivory fur as velvety as a kitten’s against her bare skin. For a brief moment, Panthera glanced disinterestedly at Psyche, decided she posed no immediate threat, and returned her massive head to her paws, like a reposing child. After the initial butterflies, the shoot had proceeded as any other, except that in the end, even Psyche admitted the quality of the spread.

“Panthera and I became good friends,” Psyche continued wistfully. Truthfully, given a choice, she would gladly have talked to Panthera instead of attending the after-shoot gala.

“I wish I knew Panthera,” Madeline whispered conspiratorially.

“Madeline? Next time you’re in Paris, you look me up and we’ll visit Panthera together.”

Madeline giggled again, smart for an eight-year-old, knowing the unlikelihood of this ever occurring. She appeared unconcerned. Psyche smiled genuinely for the first time in months. Despite the odds against ever seeing Madeline again, if the girl ever circumvented security and reached her in Paris, Psyche would keep her word.

The man two seats to Madeline’s left roused, pulling earbuds from his ears. He glanced at Madeline.

“Maddie? Who are you bothering now?” His eyes fell across the aisle and widened in surprise as he noted Psyche. She cringed inside as his eyes briefly unfocused, then returned with unbridled interest. “Hey! Aren’t you Psyche, the supermodel?”

Before Psyche could provide her usual reply, Madeline turned to her father.

“Don’t be silly, Daddy. She only looks a little like Psyche. I already asked. She gets that a lot.”

Madeline’s father squinted disbelievingly for a long time.

“Okay,” he said. “Let the nice lady enjoy her flight.”

He reluctantly replaced his ear buds and returned his eyes to the small video screen in front of him, but often glanced over at Psyche. His demeanour screamed an unwillingness to follow his own advice.

Madeline winked at Psyche and picked up her iPad, flipping to a word game.

“Thank you for not calling me Maddie,” she said before she began searching for words.

Thank you for not calling me Psyche.

Psyche glanced over at Walter, who remained in reluctant slumber, then closed her own eyes, her thoughts wandering aimlessly between Panthera and absent soulmates.

“You shouldn’t be talking to kids.”

Psyche wearily opened her eyes. Aglaura’s striking face loomed ominously above the seat ahead of Psyche, her forehead furrowed in deep thought or concern. Five years older than she, Aglaura possessed wavy chestnut hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, piercing brown eyes, strong cheekbones and olive skin as flawless as Psyche’s. Overall, Aglaura tended towards beautiful, even glamorous. Psyche, even as a child, inclined towards gorgeous. Both women benefitted from a generous gene pool. Despite their differences in demeanour and their more subtle physical assets, no one could ever mistake their sisterhood.

Psyche blinked sandpaper from her eyes and glanced to her left. Madeline and her father no longer occupied their seats.

“Who? Madeline?”

Aglaura pushed herself higher above the back of her seat. She glanced at Walter, still fast asleep in his chair. Her eyes refused to reveal any secrets.

“Listen, Maddie isn’t old enough to buy perfume, or even magazines, or offer you contracts, right?”

Don’t call her Maddie...

Psyche pursed her lips and inhaled deeply.

“Your point?”

“You shouldn’t consort with kid fan-girls. Concentrate on the bigger fish.”

Psyche blinked, confused. Bigger fish? The advertisement executives likely flew private charters. Even if Aglaura’s words rang true, where were the bigger fish on this plane?

“She only wanted to know about Panthera.”

And besides, Madeline cared nothing about fucking her, either physically or metaphorically. Unlike her unsubtle father, or sleep-talking Walter, or private-flying advertisement executives.

“Panthera?”

“The white tiger from Versace?”

“Fuck the tiger. Fuck Versace. Are you ready for the gala tonight?”

The gala. Dodging handsy executives in expensive Armani tailored suits and small talk. God, she detested small talk. And every single one of them wanted something from her. She’d rather converse with eight-year-old Madeline or Panthera, or retire alone to her hotel bed, any day of the week.

A tiny irritation announced itself behind Psyche’s right eye. The pain pulsed with the drone of the engine, expanding with Aglaura’s shrill voice.

“Ugh. My head is killing me. And the jet lag. I think I’m going to skip the gala tonight, Aglaura.”

Horror settled into Aglaura’s brown irises.

“You can’t! All the execs will be there! It’s practically in your honour. You have to go.”

Psyche hated when Aglaura spoke the truth. Unless death knocked at her door, she couldn’t avoid the gala. Walter would remove her head. She’d simply swallow a Tylenol or three, maybe drink a few cups of cappuccino. Resignedly, she nodded. Her life controlled her, not the reverse.

“I’ll be ready, Aglaura,” Psyche sighed.

Beside her, Walter snorted in his sleep, murmuring her sister’s name again. Aglaura.

Aglaura glanced at the agent, seemingly unsurprised by her name emerging from his lips, then disapprovingly frowned at Psyche.

“You would do well to pay attention to me and those who can help your career. Unlike Maddie, we sacrifice a lot for you.”

Uh-huh.

Psyche nodded wearily and closed her eyes, mostly to dismiss the image of her sister. She loved Aglaura, but her voice could grate on one’s nerves. For a long while, Psyche sensed her sister’s judgmental eyes scrutinizing her face, perhaps formulating other suggestions.

When she finally heard Aglaura twist in her seat, returning to face the front of the aircraft, Psyche opened her eyes in time to spot Madeline prancing up the aisle, hand-in-hand with her father, likely returning from exploring or the lavatory. Madeline smiled conspiratorially and waved as she settled into her seat.

Yes, her brief conversation with the girl and that furtive flutter of Madeline’s fingers had lifted her spirits, reminded her of simple humanity and elusive innocence. Her headache receded a touch.

The gala would be hell. And it would forever alter her life.

Psyche pinched the bridge of her nose, willing the exhausted ache behind her eyes to retreat. The gesture failed. Even three bitter Tylenol capsules washed down with champagne lacked enough fortitude to repel the stubborn jet lag and irritation of this gala. Her feet ached in the designer heels and she struggled to breathe, trapped in the tight Armani cocktail dress. She wore makeup sparingly; her flawless skin, long lashes and strong Scandinavian cheekbones required little enhancement. As Aglaura constantly reminded her: Image is everything. She fervently wished stilettos fascinated men less.