Chapter 5

August 10^th, 1628. Dangerously unstable, top heavy, the huge warship encountered a crosswind slightly stronger than a breeze. Vasa, the pride of the Swedish navy, immediately foundered and sank beneath the waves, a mere kilometre into its maiden voyage. The failure stained the engineering pride of the navy for centuries.

Psyche stood alone at the protective railing, marvelling at the ancient preserved wood, absorbing history. The ship’s fate seemed to mirror her own, top heavy and foundering, control over her destiny a distant memory.

Drowning.

She turned away from the display of tragic history and walked towards the exit. Even here, in one of the most polite cities in the world, people stared at her, her face and figure instantly recognizable. At least here, in the museum, other patrons respected her privacy enough to avert constant selfie requests.

She would have liked to stay longer, but security teams hated public places. One did not visit Stockholm without visiting the Vasa Museum, despite Walter’s and Aglaura’s protests, and so she had insisted. But commitments beckoned.

Galas. God, how she hated them.

June breezes warmed her skin as she stepped into the bright early evening sunshine. Sun rays sparkled off the diamond gracing her left ring finger. The lavish ring and stone should have made any woman deliriously happy, but the prismatic colours only depressed her. Walter waited for her outside the museum, clearly discontented, in the shade of an elm.

“Finally,” he groused as he pushed his bulk to his feet, joining Psyche at the base of the museum stairs. “Fucking useless old ships.”

Psyche merely held her tongue.

“Spare change?”

Psyche glanced down. The scraggly girl spoke with a Swedish accent, her hair dirty and tangled, a yellow bruise decorating her forearm. She sat forlornly at the base of the stairs, holding a ratty cup with a few coins jingling within. Despite the tepid warmth of the evening, she looked cold, only a thin, tattered blanket across her thighs.

Walter grunted, “Fuck off,” as he passed without looking at the girl.

Psyche paused until Walter looked back questioningly.

“Leave her. We’re going to be late.”

Ignoring him, Psyche crouched.

“What’s your name?” Psyche asked.

The girl hesitated, glancing nervously at Walter, who stood a few metres towards the roadway.

“Agnetha,” the girl replied. “Like the singer.”

Psyche nodded. She might meet the other Agnetha at the gala tonight.

Psyche motioned for Daniel, who stood watching the interaction carefully. Daniel wandered over.

“Miss?”

“They don’t allow me to carry cash. Do you have any coins I can borrow?”

“Of course, Miss Psyche.” He fished a twenty-dollar bill from his billfold and handed it to her before retreating.

“Well, Agnetha, I want you to buy some food with this, and perhaps a blanket?”

Psyche dropped the money into Agnetha’s cup.

“Bless you,” the girl murmured.

“It was nice meeting you, Agnetha. Stay warm.”

As she approached Walter, he scowled. “She’s only going to drink that,” he irritably blustered.

“She won’t,” Psyche assured him. Somehow, she knew.

Walter walked to the waiting limo, opened the rear door, and climbed in. Psyche watched, unmoving.

“I’ll walk,” Psyche said. She could use the fresh air before the gala.

“Don’t fucking be late,” Walter replied before slamming the door.

She watched the limo merge into traffic, aiming towards the hotel. Cyclists dodged between cars and pedestrians in magnificent chaos. With a sigh, she turned to her right and sedately sauntered along the sidewalk, ignoring the stares of other pedestrians as she moved, following the limo’s direction. Behind her, the security team nervously scrambled to keep up.

As she walked, her mind reflected. Six long weeks ago.

“Stockholm?”

“Some new Scandinavian scent. Probably smells like sardines. The advert requires obscured nudity,” Walter said.

Don’t they all?

She doubted if Walter understood or cared how she modelled, as long as the contracts rolled in. Truthfully, her world demanded such sacrifices: whatever sells more product. If her breasts tantalized millions of women to buy mackerel-scented body spray, Walter would rejoice.

She shrugged. Perhaps she might find a museum to visit between sessions. Stockholm, or so she’d heard, compared to none for sheer Scandinavian culture. And didn’t the country embrace a crown princess despite a younger brother?

In the end, she controlled none of her life. If the contract specified a Stockholm studio, she would fly across the Atlantic.

“Psyche?”

She paused, her hand resting on the office doorknob.

“Is there anything else?”

Walter rose from behind the desk. For a panicked moment, Psyche quailed, remembering his hands on her body. For nearly three months, Walter had leered, but never again touched.

He grasped a small velvet box in his left hand.

“You know what they say about us,” he murmured.

They’re wrong. I don’t share my bed with you.

He seemed almost proud of the rumours.

Ugly duckling lands cheerleader.

Except Walter fell short of duckling and firmly into leech territory.

“I do,” Psyche replied noncommittally.

“The public eats this stuff up. Everyone loves a good tabloid story,” Walter continued. “And let’s face it, even the ad execs love the attention.”

Rumours? Or the trips to her suite? Or both?

She’d wager that many of her bedmates experienced an alpha complex, perhaps believing the persistent rumours.

“Uh-huh.”

“And there’s this undeniable attraction. I want you. You want me.”

Psyche raised her eyebrows. Truth perhaps graced one out of his three thoughts. Not wonderful odds.

“Let’s make this official,” he said.

In horror, Psyche watched as the man lowered himself to one knee and held out the box, now opened to refract the artificial office lighting in rainbow shimmers. Even compared to the extravagant borrowed jewellery she regularly donned for shoots and galas, this ring sparkled.

“Will you marry me?” Walter murmured.

What. The. Fuck?

She simply stared at the man, her skin crawling, her heart hammering.

“Well?” he pressed impatiently.

She bit her lip, totally unprepared for this. For a very brief moment, her loneliness crashing over her, she considered his proposal. While she rejected the notion of any attraction, her world embraced the man. And business-wise, the union might bear fruit.

“Of course not,” she answered. Without waiting for a reaction, she twisted the doorknob and left him kneeling there.

Aglaura’s voice echoed through the narrow corridor.

“You said what?”

“I said no,” Psyche said with a heavy sigh.

A flush rose into Aglaura’s cheeks. Behind her eyes, a fire burned.

“He’s crazy about you.”

Psyche shook her head. “Even if that were true...”

“He cries out your name,” Aglaura said. The fact didn’t appear to bother her.

That the man fucked her sister regularly certainly discouraged a successful proposal. Psyche prudently refrained from pointing this out. Regardless, the thought of her sister in bed with that man in the office made her skin crawl. People acted irrationally when loneliness encroached.

Psyche sighed and touched her sister’s shoulder.

“I don’t love him,” Psyche explained simply, as if it were enough of a reason.

And nobody loves me. Not really. The only person who might? She’s gone. Forever.

Was Walter’s proposal truly the only route from loneliness? At least he understood her world.

“What the hell does love have to do with it?”

Perhaps, Ms. Turner knew of what she sang?

Aglaura reached forward and grasped Psyche’s shoulders. The human contact comforted her.

“Listen to me, Sister. How many proposals have you had? Do you want to grow old alone? This business is only skin deep. You know that. You’re gorgeous now, but what about tomorrow? Time marches onward. We came from fucking nothing,” she hissed. “You and I. Clawed our way up, fighting for everything. Nothing handed to us. And we’re here, now, in this crazy world. Flying to Stockholm. Fame. Fortune. If you pass this up, think of the consequences for both of us. You might lose everything. Everything. I’ll lose everything. He loves you, and you can grow to love him.”

Psyche bit her lip, nearly hard enough to bleed.

“I don’t love him,” she objected weakly. And without bias, while Walter certainly wanted her, loving her seemed unlikely.

“You can make arrangements,” Aglaura assured her. “It’s good for you. It’s good for us.”

“I’ve already answered him, no,” Psyche protested. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded uncertain, weak, and frightened.

“Sister, this is the best thing that ever happened to you. To us. You have to go back. Tell him you reconsidered.”

Psyche paused. The hesitation spoke volumes.

“I don’t love him, and I never will.”

I think I love someone else. But she’s gone and I miss her.

“Love has nothing to do with this,” Aglaura reassured her.

Loneliness. Insecurity.

Fame. Fortune.

Her world.

Tears brimmed in Psyche’s eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall.

Aglaura pulled her into an embrace.

“That’s my wonderful sister,” she murmured into Psyche’s ear. “We’ll be fine. I promise.”

Promises consist of fragility.

Excitedly, Aglaura pulled Psyche into the opulent chamber by her fingers. The ceilings floated insanely high above, decorated in inspiring murals of angels and cherubs. Elegant furniture abounded. Servants mingled, carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and Dom Perignon. Royalty mixed with celebrities mixed with executives, all wearing various designers: Prada, Armani, Gucci, Versace.

Her feet already ached from the Blahniks encasing her toes. Psyche grabbed a passing champagne and drank half of it in one gulp.

“You really must meet the Princess!” Aglaura said, pulling Psyche further into the room.

The evening promised to stretch into eternity.

Psyche glimpsed golden hair across the room. Her heart accelerated in her chest, her breath catching in her lungs.

“Excuse me,” she murmured to the Swedish princess. Beside the royal woman, Aglaura frowned.

Disengaging from the small group, Psyche strode purposefully across the room, past Walter, dodging servers and other patrons alike. The golden hair beckoned her.

“Cupid?”

She touched the woman’s shoulder.

The woman turned, puzzled, her chestnut eyes flashing.

“You’re Psyche, the supermodel, right?”

Psyche’s heart plummeted. Not Cupid. Facing her, the woman barely resembled the barista she’d only known for one day and one night, four months ago. Foolish to think Cupid might appear halfway across the globe at a gala to which she did not belong.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“Quite all right.” The woman peered at Psyche. “Can I get a selfie?”

Psyche bit at her lip and nodded.

“Of course.”

“You look like you could use a drink,” Psyche said as she handed the tall blonde executive a Waterford containing two fingers of Courvoisier. Sven sat alone on the sofa, nervously watching her float from the minibar. The clear fluid in her own glass exuded the scent of McGillicuddy summer peaches. She closed her eyes, her mind wandering to Valentine’s Day, the smell of the schnapps reviving wandering fingers and yielding lips.

Standing on tiptoes, fingers gripping her hair, nails scratching at the wall.

She finally settled into an overstuffed chair across from Sven, tucking her legs under her comfortably. The torturous Blahniks observed from the marble-encased foyer.

“You are betrothed, no?” His eyes fixated on the large sparkling stone mounted on her left finger.

His phrasing seemed odd. Formal. However, his observation hit the mark.

She shrugged noncommittally. Technically, she had reconsidered.

I didn’t want to grow old alone. I didn’t want to lose everything. I didn’t want Aglaura to lose everything.

I chose this world.

“Walter and I have an arrangement,” she answered truthfully. Since Sven controlled the possibility of her endorsing La Belle Fille, the new Parisian scent, a contract Walter desperately desired, Walter had paired them during the evening at the Swedish Royal Palace. She knew Walter would not sleep alone either tonight. Likely with Aglaura. The thought failed to concern her.

Despite appearances, and Walter’s designs, and the ring on her finger, Psyche still hadn’t fucked the man, or even kissed him. Of course, after the ceremony, this would inevitably change, though she doubted the arrangements with these useful minions of her world would cease.

She felt dirty.

Psyche glanced at Sven’s left hand, nervously tapping the arm of the sofa. A band of gold or platinum encircled his left ring finger. Idly, she wondered if Sven followed his own arrangements, but she didn’t ask.

“Did you want me to take it off?” she asked demurely. Some wanted the diamond prominent, likely as a symbol of masculine conquest. Some wanted it hidden, perhaps to assuage guilt. In advance, she failed to read Sven, his face playing poker with the situation.

Eventually, Sven simply shook his head. So, masculine conquest. Overall, she didn’t care. This tryst occurred often enough for routine to dull any self-reproach.

Psyche glanced at the foyer, so similar to the suite entrance four months ago. She pictured herself passionately kissing, her hands wandering, cupping perfect breasts. But she had run. Gone. Forever. With a conscious effort, Psyche pushed away the image, even as her soul ached with the memory.

Sighing, Psyche swallowed the remainder of her schnapps and observed as Sven tilted his head back and gulped the cognac as if it were a common shooter. She supposed, given the circumstances, it might calm his nerves. Not unusual. Most men fought nerves when they entered her suite.

She uncurled from the seat and padded to where Sven sat gazing up at her, mouth slightly agape.

Reaching for his hand, she drew him to his feet, careful that her bare toes didn’t wander under his leather Gucci shoes.

When he attempted to kiss her, she raised a hand and pressed it against his lips, regretfully shaking her head. She would fuck them senseless, but she wouldn’t kiss them. Never, ever, kiss them.

“I’m yours tonight,” she murmured, her voice husky and low. “But I don’t kiss. Ever.”

Except once.

She forced the thought from her head. On that snowy February day, Cupid left and never returned.

Our world betrayed Cupid.

Gone.

Sven appeared slightly disappointed, but abandoned his advance.

With reassuring pressure to his fingers, Psyche guided him towards the bedroom. Soon, he would forget completely about touching his lips to hers.

The Swedish Royal Palace glimmered in the distance, a bastion of pliable tradition. A full moon gazed upon nearly deserted city streets below, elms and oaks gleaming in its wan illumination. Sporadic lovers walked hand-in-hand along the canals, oblivious to Psyche’s observation far above the streets. Overall, the scene exuded peace, in significant contrast with Psyche’s emotions.

The moonlight grasped at the diamond nestled upon her finger. Idly, she twisted the ring around, the facets of the stone scratching at her palm on each rotation. Every time the stone dispersed the moonlight, fireflies danced on the ceiling above her.

Behind her, in the bedroom, Sven snored, exhausted.

A glimpse of golden hair across a crowded room.

Her mind wandered to a hotel room far from here. Fireflies. Foyer. Tiptoes. The bruises had healed months ago, but her heart still ached. Throughout Sven’s fumbling and inadequate attention, her mind retreated to a hand entwined with her hair, teasing fingers, insistent breath between her legs. Her gasps undoubtedly encouraged Sven, but Psyche remained doomed to dissatisfaction.

You ruined me.

She wanted to forget her. How could she forget?

The ring mocked her, twinkling in the moonlight. A couple’s contented laughter penetrated the glass.

We’ll be fine. I promise.

But promises consisted of fragility. Destiny undeniable.

Her world refused to yield.

The moonlight bathed her naked skin, a sapphire aura glowing imperceptibly.

If her world refused to yield, perhaps she must.

Barefoot, she padded away from the window. The moon winked in satisfaction.

She shook Sven’s shoulder until he snorted and awakened, disoriented. He mumbled another name as he roused from a dream: Lise. A pang descended into the pit of her stomach at the murmur, but it failed to break her resolve.

“What’s wrong?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.

“Time to go home to Lise,” Psyche replied firmly. “Get dressed.”

Psyche watched impassively, her bare shoulder resting against the foyer wall. Sven yawned and rubbed at his eyes, his clothing in disarray, shirt cross-buttoned, untucked and wrinkled, his Armani suit rumpled and likely requiring the services of a dry cleaner. The man looked forlorn and confused as he knelt to lace his patent shoes. As he straightened, his eyes sought her, perhaps hunting for an explanation for his unexpected wakening and unanticipated banishment.

She owed him no rationale. Psyche neither required nor expected his understanding.

A stray moonbeam illuminated her bare toes in a bright stripe. Sven’s eyes travelled from the beam, up her shadowed skin, until they rested comfortably upon her still bare breasts. Psyche accepted his gaze stoically, without attempting to cover her nudity, such ogling simply a facet of her world. Her beauty harboured a thrall, an undeniable power. Her beauty provided comfort. Even for a banished man, her beauty provided a constant anchor.

She shifted her weight and brushed past him, her feet silent on the marble.

As she opened the door, bright artificial illumination spilled inwards, drowning the moonlight.

“Thank you for tonight, Sven,” she murmured politely. It costs nothing to be polite. Despite the circumstances, she bore him no ill-will. Both of them existed as denizens of this bizarre world, products of profit and celebrity.

He hesitated a moment, visibly unsure, disoriented.

“W-why?” he stammered.

He could never understand. Uncertainty dominated her own thoughts; how could she rationalize to him what she failed to fully comprehend herself?

Everything changes.

“Go home. To Lise,” she murmured.

With a confused, tired and guilty look, Sven stepped out into the corridor, his eyes tracking her bared breasts as if he needed to drink in the sight of her to believe he had ever graced her suite. The harsh hallway lighting revealed his thinning hair, his lined cheeks, his rumpled clothes.

Whatever gain Walter had hoped from Sven, it vanished as surely as the moonlight against the artificial hallway fluorescence.

Psyche no longer cared.

“Goodbye, Sven.”

She allowed the door to swing shut, blocking her view of her final bedmate.

The latch engaged with a harsh click, echoing with a note of finality.

Without glancing back at the entranceway, Psyche sighed and returned to the empty suite, her bare toes whispering upon luxurious white marble. The moon greeted her through the glass, creating wan shadows throughout the space.