Samuel and I exchanged a glance, both of us now watching Sasha intently. Her eyes remained fixed on the magazine, wide and unblinking, as if she'd just seen a ghost staring back at her from the glossy pages.
I took another sip of my coffee, the heat warming my throat, and crushed the cigarette butt into the ashtray with deliberate slowness.
"What's with her?" I asked, a faint smirk playing on my lips.
Samuel leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a look of feigned wisdom. "Don't worry, I know exactly what's going on."
I raised an eyebrow, mildly intrigued. "Oh? Enlighten me."
"It's simple," Samuel said with mock gravity. "She must've stumbled across the price of some high-end luxury bag being sold for a million dollars even it deserved to be for two bucks."
I couldn't hold back the chuckle that escaped me, quickly covering my mouth with my hand. "Women," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head. "They really are the funniest creatures. Who takes bags that seriously?"
Samuel leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was sharing state secrets. "Anne was complaining to me earlier about some potato bag—an actual potato bag—selling for a million dollars because it had a fancy brand name slapped on it. She hated the design, said it looked like it came straight from a farm supply store."
I snorted, leaning back in my chair. "A million dollars for a potato bag? Makes perfect sense. Nothing screams high fashion like burlap."
Samuel nodded solemnly, as though we were discussing a world-shifting event.
"Maybe the trauma hit Sasha harder than Anne. It's understandable. Even I'd have mental breakdown if Pavel Nedvěd sold one of his old socks for a million bucks. Can you imagine?"
That did it—I burst out laughing, the absurdity of it all too much to contain. Sasha, however, stayed silent, her eyes never leaving the magazine. Whatever she'd seen, it was definitely no potato bag.
Sasha's eyes snapped to us, sharp and unwavering, like a bullet shot straight at my chest. For a moment, I froze. Her expression—wide-eyed and bewildered—held a strange intensity that sent a small ripple of unease down my spine.
She stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor, and marched over to me, the magazine clutched tightly in her hands. Without a word, she flipped it open and held it out, the glossy pages spread to the midsection.
My eyes fell on the title sprawled across the page, and my breath caught for a fraction of a second. My gaze lingered on the bold letters, the accompanying photograph adding weight to what I was reading. I blinked, trying to process the shock that rippled through me.
"What, even the potato bag price shocked you?" Samuel quipped, leaning back in his chair with his trademark smug smirk. "Understandable. It's enough to leave anyone reeling."
I ignored him, my focus glued to the page.
It was about Cassandra Cottingham. The article praised her face, calling it the most perfect in the world, as if beauty alone could absolve her of whatever sins were etched into her soul.
"Cassandra Cottingham," I muttered under my breath, her name tasting bitter as it rolled off my tongue.
Sasha said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes. She wasn't just shocked—she was rattled. And for the first time in a long while, so was I.
The magazine gushed over her like she was royalty. It wasn't just about her face—they went on about her impeccable fashion sense, her elegance that seemed to radiate effortlessly, her perfect choice of necklaces that apparently "redefined grace." Even her mug shot was described as "luxurious," as if the glossy pages couldn't resist romanticizing her darkest moments.
I stared at the words, letting them sink in. The article turned a woman accused of heinous crimes into a fashion icon, almost erasing the reality of who she was—or at least, what I knew her to be.
Sasha crossed her arms, her expression tight. "A luxurious mug shot," she muttered. "I've seen it all now."
Samuel leaned over my shoulder, glancing at the page. "Man, I gotta get arrested in a tailored suit if this is the treatment you get," he joked. "They'll probably say I'm redefining 'disheveled chic.'"
I flicked the edge of the magazine with my finger, the page flitting like it might give me answers. "This is how they frame her?" I muttered, half to myself. "Like she's some untouchable goddess?"
Samuel shrugged. "Guess that's what you get when you mix a killer with couture."
My jaw tightened. Cassandra Cottingham was a lot of things, but a goddess wasn't one of them. And yet, the world seemed intent on forgetting that.
Title: The Face That Captivates: Cassandra Cottingham's Timeless Elegance
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"In a world where beauty is often fleeting, Cassandra Cottingham stands as a living embodiment of perfection. With her undeniable grace and undeniable poise, she has become the subject of envy and admiration alike. Her features—flawless in symmetry—are nothing short of a masterpiece sculpted by fate. From her piercing eyes, deep and enigmatic, to her perfectly contoured cheekbones, every detail of her face seems designed to captivate.
Her soft, full lips—never too bold, yet striking enough to draw attention—add an air of mystery, while her high cheekbones lend a sculpted elegance that rivals the very finest in fashion. Her jawline, firm yet gentle, completes a visage that speaks of strength and serenity in equal measure.
Monica Bellucci once graced the screen as the epitome of timeless beauty, but Cassandra Cottingham has taken that standard and redefined it. Her elegance isn't just skin deep—her choice of couture, from sleek gowns to intricate jewelry, complements her natural allure, transforming every public appearance into a statement of effortless sophistication.
Even in moments of vulnerability—like her mug shot—she exudes a quiet grace, her features softened but unmistakably striking. It's no wonder that she has garnered a devoted following, her image now immortalized not just as a suspect, but as a symbol of refined beauty.
Whether in the fashion world or the spotlight, Cassandra Cottingham commands attention—and leaves an impression that lasts far beyond the frame."