Page 138 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

I was going to be the princess.

“Sofia, you’re gorgeous.” Malcom kept the camera pressed to his face as he moved behind me to shoot at a different angle.

I held my pose, keeping the pensive look frozen on my face, though I was smiling on the inside. Malcom didn’t need to tell me how beautiful I looked today. I felt it.

My hair was pinned up in a billowing crown of espresso curls that had taken my stylist nearly two hours to perfect. My makeup had been applied by two artists who’d contoured and highlighted me so expertly I wouldn’t need Photoshop touch-ups. And the outfit the magazine had chosen for me was straight off the runway.

My dress was a white strapless piece that fit snuggly to my chest. The sweetheart neckline plunged deep, giving me the illusion of cleavage. The A-line, tulle skirt poofed wide at my hips, making my waist look impossibly tiny.

It was freezing now that the sun was setting on this deserted

corner of Central Park. We’d gotten an early snowfall this November, and the trees around us glittered with ice crystals and tufts of snow.

But I was surprisingly warm thanks to the white fur wrap looped over my arms and strung across the middle of my back. My bare shoulders were still exposed to the cold, but excitement and anticipation kept the chill from soaking in.

I was going to be in a magazine. Me. Sofia Kendrick.

I’d made the society columns countless times. My name graced their pages whenever my family made a sizeable donation to a local charity or whenever one of my relationships failed. The press had spent weeks speculating why both of my marriages had ended. But this magazine article wasn’t about my family or my failures. It was a feature about me and four other New York socialites, showcasing our unique lifestyle.

The reporter had already interviewed me for the piece, and after the photo shoot was complete, I’d only have to wait six short weeks until I could show off my magazine.

“Tilt your head down and to the left just slightly.”

I did as Malcom ordered, the clicks from his camera telling me I’d gotten it right.

“Damn.” He came to my side, showing me the display screen on the back of his camera.

This time my smile couldn’t be contained.

He’d nailed it.

Malcom had captured me in profile, finding just the right angle so my face was in shadow compared to the bare skin on my shoulders. The late-afternoon light cast a golden glow on my already flawless complexion, accentuating the long lines of my neck. My Harry Winston earrings dangled from my ears and matched the ring on my right hand, which Malcom had delicately positioned in front of my chin.

Malcom’s assistant nosed in next to him to see the camera. “That’s your cover.”

“The cover?” My mouth fell open.

“Ultimately the magazine has final say,” Malcom said. “But this is the best picture I’ve shot for this project. Once I do some minor edits, it’ll be the clear choice.”

A feature in the magazine’s interior was definitely worth boasting about. But the cover? That was on par with my sister’s accolades.

Aubrey was always being mentioned and discussed in Fortune 500 magazines or in periodicals like the Wall Street Journal. This feature would be in NY Scene magazine, and though it was a lesser-known publication, it had been gaining a lot of popularity lately. People were calling NY Scene the next New Yorker.

And I was going to be on the cover for their New Year’s edition.

Maybe the lifestyle I’d chosen wasn’t such a mockery after all.

Maybe I’d finally be seen as something more than the other Kendrick child, the pretty one who hadn’t amounted to much.

“Sofia, how could you not tell me about the article? You know we have to be careful around the press.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. And I didn’t say anything bad. She took everything I said and twisted it around!” I wailed into the phone as I sat in a crumpled heap on my living room floor.

Tears coated my cheeks. Snot dripped from my nostrils. My normally tan and bright skin was a blotchy mess, and my eyes were too puffy. I was the definition of an ugly cry.

All because of that miserable magazine.

I’d been so excited an hour ago when my doorman had brought up ten copies of NY Scene. I’d ordered extra so I’d have some to give to my parents and some to get framed.