Tacita rolled over and slowly opened her eyes to mere slits. The bright sunlight burning her eyes, she quickly closed them again and rolled back onto her side. She made a face; her tongue was dry and scratchy, as though it had been replaced with sandpaper, and she was sure that she felt the start of a hangover. Rolling back over once more and squinting her eyes, she noticed many bottles scattered around the room, along with various articles of clothing. With a sigh, she opened her eyes completely, wincing slightly at the sting of the bright light, and peered at the man snoring beside her.

What’s his name? Brad? Brent? Brett? she thought. Whoever the hell he is, he needs to get up. I was supposed to be at that ceremony in Oakdale yesterday. I guess I should call Ophelia and apologize.

She nudged the man and muttered, “Hey, dude. Wake up. Get up!”

With a grunt and grumble, he awoke, opening his eyes slowly and grinning when he saw her. “Hey, baby,” he greeted her.

“Get dressed, and get out of here,” Tacita said sharply.

“What?”

“Did I stutter? Get dressed and get the hell out of here. I have stuff to do. I can’t sit around on my *** all day, like you can. I have to make money.”

The man scowled and eased himself out of the bed. “You know,” he remarked irritably, stepping into his pants, “you’re a real b***h.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

Tacita watched him dress and storm out, and she flopped back onto the bed, eyes closed. Where did it all go wrong? she thought. Was it always this way?


Ten years before, she and Graham Gibson, along with some of his other music students, had formed a band, Elsinore Revolution, and their first album was wildly successful. Soon, they were playing sold-out shows all over the country and even in many parts of Europe. But then, the accident, as Tacita liked to think about it.

That solo artist… the one who had become very successful around that same time… well, they had always been close, but this time there were consequences. The result was Lisa, Tacita’s seven year old daughter.

I won’t tell her who her father is, Tacita often thought fiercely. Better for her to grow up like this than to know that playboy is her father. I’m just glad she has someone to take care of her while I’m on tour.


Lisa looked up from her little drawing table, a birthday gift from her guardians, and over at the redhead, who was reading a book. With a smile, she rose and walked over to the woman, then sat down beside her. The redhead shut her book and set it aside.

“Yes?”

“Miss C, when’s Mom going to be back?” Lisa asked.

“Not for another month, sweetie. But I know she’s anxious to see you again,” came the response, though the second half was a lie of sorts.

“Mm… I really miss her.”

“Well, I’m sure she misses you, too, sweetheart.”

Lisa smiled a little and whispered, “Miss C, I wish you and Miss Lia were my real parents.”

“Believe me, we do, too.”

Cy, who was the “Miss C” being addressed, watched the child scamper back over to her drawing table and pick up where she left off. You just don’t know how much we do wish you were our child, she thought sadly.

Cy, now known to most of the world as the controversial model Charlotte Cloud, was by outward appearances a very happy and successful person. Yet, if her true thoughts and wishes could be expressed, it would be evident that there was a great deal she desired and regretted.


When I had the surgery, I didn’t think to save any samples or anything for the future. I should have, she often thought, berating herself. It hurt Cy to see Ophelia’s face when she saw a baby or young child; that sad smile of desiring what could never be troubled Cy more than any nightmare. I was selfish… I didn’t think of Lia’s wishes, what she would have wanted. If I hadn’t gotten this surgery, then things would be different.

It was clear to her every day that Ophelia desired children, the way she treated Lisa as lovingly as her own, as well as the children of her friends and coworkers. Her face seemed to glow whenever she held a friend’s new baby, as though for a few minutes she was living vicariously through another’s experiences.

All of the things I can give her, and yet, I can’t give her children. What kind of a partner am I to her?


“Nathaniel, take my calls. I have a lunch appointment,” Ophelia said to her brother. She plucked the magazine from his fingers. “And don’t look at dirty magazines while on duty. What would Emma think? Speaking of which, how’s that going?”

“Her parents hate me, of course,” Nathaniel replied, rolling his eyes. “I think they’re ticked that their two youngest have become such rebels.”

“Well, they can blame me for one of them, but not both,” Ophelia remarked, flipping through the magazine. Her eyes widened a little when she saw a picture. She squinted at the name. “Hey, didn’t you go to school with someone named Delilah Stanton?”

“Yeah. She was pretty cute. Why?”

Ophelia slapped the magazine open on his desk. “Says here she’s employed as a secretary at our main competitor’s local office. I suggest we try to acquire her as a model. She has the look we need. Do whatever you can. I’m counting on you.”

“Yeah, sure, big sis. Whatever you say.”

“Good. Let her know we’re willing to offer a generous salary to her. It should be enough to tempt her away.”

With that said, Ophelia strode away, head held high. Her employees greeted her as she passed, and she responded in kind. Elegant and fashionable in an unconventional way, Ophelia Foley-Cloud’s success as a fashion designer had been practically guaranteed, and now she was head of her own line of fashion.


“What we need to do is attract a broad spectrum of people,” she’d often told her employees. “Too many companies now are designing clothes with the skinny little size zeroes in mind. What we need to do is create clothes that are flattering for all body types. What we want to do is create for everyone. Not just the pretty people. In fact, what I would like to do is have regular, everyday people model our clothes. So, designers, people off the street, friends, relatives… we need to show that our line is for anyone who wants to wear it. For too long has the fashion industry been exclusionary, choosing to focus on one body type or another. A friend of mine, for example, had really extreme measurements-- a twenty-six inch waist and thirty-eight inch hips. She always complained to me about the difficulty in finding jeans that fit her properly everywhere. My goal is to make problems like that a thing of the past.”

And indeed, she had. Her company, Elemental Fashion, was one of the most popular and financially successful, but it was not without controversy. The primary causes of focus were Cy and her relationship with Cy. Somehow, the concept of having a transwoman as a model for the company troubled many people.

“The clothes my company creates is for everyone, regardless of gender identity or appearance,” Ophelia had argued in response. “I have no qualms with anyone wearing my clothes, especially someone so close to me.”

Close, indeed. The pair was one of the best-known couples in the celebrity world, and their relationship had caused them to lose quite a few clients. However, it had given the company a great deal of attention, which had probably caused them, in turn, to gain more clients than they’d lost.

“So, you see, everything works out for the best,” Cy had said to Ophelia.

For the best, Ophelia thought, but not without a twinge of sadness, as she stepped into the restaurant. The closest I’ll ever come to having a child is raising Tacita’s kid. But maybe with some help…