The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

The diner smelled of stale coffee and bleach. It was 2:00 AM. Cristina sat in a booth in the back, the sketchbook on the table in front of her. On the small TV mounted in the corner, a news anchor was talking about New York Fashion Week. ...and rumors are swirling that Floyd Enterprises will finally reveal the face behind the mysterious brand 'Sunny'. Cristina took a sip of water. Her hand was trembling. She couldn't do this alone. Jackson had the lawyers, the money, the security. She had a book and a frozen bank account. She reached into her wallet. Hidden behind her ID was a card. It was thick, matte black, with no name. Just a number and an embossed symbol of a scalpel. The Surgeon. Five years ago, Jackson needed a kidney. He was dying. They were on a waitlist that was too long. Cristina had gone to the underground. She had met a man who said he could fix anything for a price. She had offered her own kidney, but she wasn't a match. The man-Columbus Mcleod-had found one anyway. He hadn't asked for money. He had asked for something far more personal. A genetic sample. A part of her future. She remembered the cold clinic, the procedure she had hidden from Jackson, the ache in her lower abdomen that lasted for weeks. She had never called him since. Until now. She walked to the payphone near the restrooms. She dialed the number. It rang once. "Speak," a deep, distorted voice answered. "This is Origami," Cristina said. It was the code name he gave her because she was folding paper cranes in the waiting room that night. Silence. Then, the voice cleared, the distortion gone. It was a rich, baritone voice. "It's been a long time, little bird." "I need help," Cristina said. "I need into Fashion Week. The Floyd Gala. And I need protection." "Jackson Floyd is a powerful man," the voice said. "Crossing him is expensive." "I don't have money," Cristina said. "But I have the truth. He's stealing my life." "I know," the man said. "I've been watching." Cristina gripped the phone receiver. "Will you help me?" "The price is high, Origami. If I step in, you belong to the organization. Your talent. Your future. You become mine." Cristina looked at her reflection in the dirty mirror of the cigarette machine. She looked tired. Broken. "Deal," she said. "Go back to your booth," he said. "Wait." The line went dead. Ten minutes later, a man in a dark suit walked into the diner. He carried a silver box. He placed it on her table and left without a word. Cristina opened it. Inside was a black credit card with no limit, a burner phone, and an invitation to the Gala. The name on the invite was Sunny. Beneath the invite lay a sleek digital tablet. Cristina turned it on. It displayed a detailed dossier of the Gala's guest list. One name was highlighted in red: Marcus Thorne, Editor-in-Chief of TechDaily. A note attached read: He is incorruptible. He will verify the metadata. Use him. A text message appeared on the phone. 8:00 PM. Don't be late. A car will collect you. Cristina closed the box. She stood up. She left the diner and hailed a cab. She went to a salon in Chelsea that stayed open late for VIPs. She slapped the black card on the counter. "Cut it," she told the stylist. "How short?" "Short enough that I can't hide behind it anymore." Two hours later, the long, mousy brown hair was gone. In its place was a sharp, angled bob, dyed a deep, raven black. Her eyes, usually soft, looked striking and fierce against the dark hair. She went to a boutique she knew held private stock. She bought the dress she had designed three years ago but Jackson forbade her from releasing because it was "too provocative." It was gold. Liquid gold. Named Nirvana. By 7:55 PM, she was standing on the curb. A long black sedan with tinted windows pulled up. The driver opened the door. Cristina slid into the leather seat. She smoothed the sketchbook on her lap. "To Lincoln Center," she said.