The Fallen Ugly Girl: Her Epic Comeback

Rain didn't just fall in New York City; it assaulted the pavement, turning the alley behind the gilded velvet ropes of The Sapphire Club into a river of oil and grime. Emely Cohen stood in the center of it, water soaking through the thin fabric of her coat, plastering it to the rolls of flesh she spent every waking moment trying to hide.

She clutched the resume in her hand so tight the paper had turned to pulp. It was a pathetic shield against the elements, and an even worse shield against the woman standing in the doorway.

Yvonne pushed the heavy steel door open with her hip, a cigarette dangling from her perfectly painted red lips. She didn't step out into the rain. She wouldn't dare ruin her blowout. Instead, she leaned against the frame, her eyes scanning Emely's body with a look that was physically painful to endure. It was a look of pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Jesus, Emely," Yvonne said, smoke curling from her mouth. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her clutch and pressed it to her nose, as if Emely's poverty had a scent. "You take up half the alley. You're like a walking mountain."

Emely's stomach twisted, a hard knot of shame tightening behind her ribs. She looked down at her shoes, which were sinking into a puddle of questionable substance. "You said there was a job opening, Yvonne. Assistant manager."

"For a human," Yvonne laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Not for a circus attraction. Do you know what the uniform size limit is? Size eight. You haven't seen a size eight since middle school."

Emely swallowed the lump in her throat. "Please. My dad... the factory lawsuits. We have nothing left."

Yvonne rolled her eyes and flicked the cigarette butt into the puddle near Emely's foot. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pale pink envelope. The paper was thick, expensive. "I don't have a job for you. But I have an errand."

Emely's head snapped up, a flicker of hope warring with suspicion. "An errand?"

"If you want me to keep these photos of your dad's factory being vandalized off Twitter, you'll do it." Yvonne's smile was a slash of red malice as she held up her phone, displaying a picture of the Cohen Pharmaceutical sign spray-painted with the word "KILLER."

Emely flinched as if struck. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." Yvonne extended her arm, holding the envelope out into the rain. "Take it. It's for Christ Collins. He's at a private party tonight. You're going to slip in the back and give it to him."

Christ Collins.

The name hit Emely like a physical blow to the chest. The air in her lungs seemed to vanish, replaced by a vacuum of memory. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and took the envelope. The gold calligraphy on the front shimmered under the security light: Collins.

"Good girl," Yvonne sneered. "Try not to eat the hors d'oeuvres on your way in."

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