Page 2 of The Tower

If this Dreams campaign had even the slightest chance of kicking Lucent’s marketing ass, I’d be all for it. But instead, we’re pushing something tasteless and stale—like poisoned apples wrapped in gold leaf.

I say none of this out loud. Instead, I meet my father’s eyes. “We’ll get their market share, Father.” I say it because that’s what he wants to hear. And I’ll pay the price if I try to tell him anything else.

He grunts, his expression thunderous. My insides tighten, only to loosen when Adam calls out, holding up his camera and gesturing for me to return to his side.

I start to move, but my father’s hand closes around my upper arm. “We need to see that smile of yours, Sasha. That sparkle. This is about making dreams come true.”

I lift my face to his and look deep into those emerald green eyes, so like my own. “I wouldn’t know about dreams coming true,” I say—but only in my head. I gave up on dreams long ago. Now, I have only nightmares. Except for that one lingering dream of escape.

That’s a nightmare, too though, because I know it will never happen.

What I say aloud is, “Yes, Daddy.”

His mouth curves into a saccharine smile as he nods toward the onlookers. “Dreams,” he repeats, his voice booming as he sweeps his arm toward the banner hanging near the catering table. It bears the Reed Cosmetics logo and the campaign slogan: Make your dreams come true. “And aren’t dreams the reason we’re here?”

I want to run, but I know my role in this twisted fairy tale. I rise on tiptoes, then kiss his cheek as the reporters’ cameras flash. When I settle back on solid ground, I aim a simpering smile at the onlookers, then hurry toward Adam so we can start the whole damn performance all over again.

I hit my mark and strike the next pose, following Adam’s direction. For a few minutes, I manage to lose myself in the fantasy that I’m Rapunzel, trapped in a high tower, waiting for my prince.

But too soon, the fantasy dissolves like mist. After all, I know better than to believe in fairy tales. I’m just a girl playing dress-up, and any rescuing will have to be done by me.

Too bad I don’t have a clue how to make that happen.

“A bit to your right,” Adam says, and I force my hesitant feet to move closer to the waist-high railing that separates the roof from the void. My insides go ice-cold as I move, and I wish desperately that I’d taken the damn meds. But I tell myself I’m safe—that I won’t go over. There’s a barrier now, unlike that horrible day when my mother died.

A barrier and concrete firm under my feet. Solid. Sturdy. Safe.

I won’t go over. I won’t fall. I won’t get lost in the vast oblivion.

I gulp air, realizing I’ve forgotten to breathe. I stamp my foot, the heel making a sharp sound against the roof. Solid. All solid.

Except it’s not.

It’s all just atoms. The same atoms that make up the air, and air won’t keep me safe. Air is just something to get lost in. To fall through.

“Tilt your chin up and smile.” I hear the edge in my father’s voice as he approaches from behind me. “Remember, you’re selling fairy tales.”

I want to snap that I’m not. I’m selling makeup by being the frothy, pink, fake image of sanitized tales. Nothing like the stories the Grimm family used to publish centuries ago—dark and dangerous and cautionary.

But since I’d have to be out of my mind to say that aloud, I force my lips into yet another practiced smile. Anything to finish this shoot. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can get back inside.

The thought calms me even as fresh terror rises—the promise of being safe inside clashing with the stark reality that I’m outside, with Central Park spreading below me like a verdant carpet. In this moment, I’m reminded of all the open space around me, and vertigo hits with a vengeance. My head swims, my stomach plummets, and I’m suddenly convinced I might float away untethered, tumbling down, down, down to shatter into a million pieces.

It would be a relief. An escape.

It would be over.

No.

I slow my breathing, settle back on my mark, and force my fear-stiffened body to strike the pose—even as I wish I hadn’t tossed the damn meds.

So that I can cope, I imagine I’m painting this scene rather than living it. Creating depth and perspective on a flat canvas. Or coding sections of Elysium, my private virtual world where everything is under my control, and girls who tumble off buildings fly instead of fall.

“Take three steps closer to the edge,” Adam calls. “I want the skyline rising behind you.”

I glance in that direction. Three steps would put me right there, where even a deep breath could shift my balance and send me hurtling over.

The possibility locks me in place. I can’t move. I’m frozen. Terrified. Ashamed.