All That Really Matters

document from his briefcase and laid it out flat. Pie graphs and algorithm reports I didn’t have the first clue how to read stared back at me. “Between your campaign photo shoot next week with Hollywood Nights Cosmetics and the endorsement quotes Fashion Emporium is adding to their stores, I estimate your boost will be around twelve to thirteen percent.” He traced a line with his finger, indicating the growth he’d already mapped out. “But that leaves a large gap to fill while I work on getting you some more widespread campaigns. We also need to find the right celebrity collaboration, someone who will take your hand and pull you up to their level—I have a few ideas already in the works. But there’s something else as well.” When he looked up at me, I got that strange woozy feeling I had whenever I glanced down in a glass elevator.
“What?”
“We need to show a different side of you to the public eye, work to expand the reach of the woman behind Makeup Matters with Molly. Which is why item two is so important.”
I slid my focus down the page as his second point assaulted me in an entirely new way.
Partner with a human-interest cause
A burning sensation flared in my lower gut, a premonition I knew all too well. “What kind of human-interest cause?”
“It actually needs to be something quite specific.” Ethan leaned in, as if the discovery he was about to share was too confidential for my living room. “After calling in a lot of favors and piecing together several off-the-record conversations, I was able to figure out the producer’s hook for the show you’d be in the running to host.” He held his breath for a full three seconds. “It’s called Project New You, highlighting America’s underprivileged youth. It will be a more holistic approach to the usual makeover show—not only focused on the physical side of things. The older teens who are featured will be chosen by a nomination system—teachers, mentors, foster parents, etc. The kind of show that leaves you reaching for a tissue and a tub of ice cream by the end of it.”
The buoy keeping my hopes afloat sank inch by inch.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but then closed it tight again. So many thoughts spun inside my head at once, pinging against memories better left undisturbed. Though I “helped and supported” women on the other side of a digital screen several times a week via makeup tutorials and comparables and as-honest-as-I’m-allowed-to-be product reviews, helping people in the outside world was a different beast entirely. A much scarier, much more exposing beast. One I was quite familiar with, considering both my parents and my brother had given their souls to serve in full-time ministry.
Sometimes I wondered just how many prayer teams around the nation—perhaps the world, even—were committed to praying for the McKenzies’ prodigal daughter, the girl who made a living profiting from one of the seven deadly sins: vanity.
Seeing as Ethan and I didn’t share much about our pasts, he didn’t take my silence for the fear that it was, the fear that stepping too close to the humanitarian line would only end in failure and disappointment for everybody involved. There was only one person in my life who would have believed otherwise, but Mimi had died nearly four years ago. Before I’d even hit five thousand subscribers on the channel she’d encouraged me to start. Had she known this day would come? Had she envisioned me hosting an on-demand show? I could almost feel her fingers rake through my hair as she said, “Share your spark with the world, Molly. Stop trying to hide what God created to be seen.” Was this the big break she’d been hoping I’d find?
“The producers are going to need to see more of your empathetic side. More heart. More compassion. More generosity and selflessness. They’re impressed by your charm and wit, and no one would ever question your natural charisma on screen, but for this to move forward, we need to see the host of Makeup Matters with Molly get her hands a bit dirtier in the muck of real life. Because as it is right now, you’re just a pretty face with an addictive personality.”
The sting of his words throbbed in the back of my throat, and I swallowed against the ache. I’d never cried in front of Ethan, and I wasn’t planning to start now. “I’m more than that.”
He glanced up from the paperwork, brows crimped in confusion. “What?”
“I’m more than a pretty face.”
“Oh, babe. I know that. Of course I know that.” He touched my knee, squeezed, smiled. “But it’s my job to assess how you might be perceived by the public eye, even though I know you have the potential to be so much more.”
Only, his use of potential didn’t quite pluck out the insult dart he’d thrown.
“You don’t need to look so worried. I’ve got all this covered for you. It’s not like I’m suggesting you go live in a homeless shelter for a month and serve rice and beans with the kitchen staff.” He chuckled. “We’ll find a good match for you somewhere. Something with older kids that you can pop in to see once a week. Hear some hard stories you can retell, take some heart-jerker pics, and then be done with it. Simple.”
He paused, and I could almost feel the way he redirected the energy buzzing around us. “My assistant is already compiling a list of local charities and nonprofits for us to go through. The closest we can get to the premise of the show, the better. Plus, we’ll need to steer clear from what other influencers in your space have going on right now. Felicity is—”
“Felicity?” Just the sound of her name made my hackles rise. “What does she have to do with this?”
“Have you seen her latest numbers?” he asked, as if I’d missed a presidential election.
“I may have glanced at them once or twice