Triple Power Play (Obsessed Players Club #1)

12. Aurora

TWELVE

AURORA

The months following the bikini photoshoot are a whirlwind. Not only did I secure a contract for the swimsuit layout, but I also landed an exclusive modeling deal with Worldwide Enterprises, one of the top modeling agencies. Even now, I still can’t believe it.

Since the morning after the beach shoot, Emily and I have been jet-setting. I’ve been featured in everything from lingerie to designer clothing. We’ve been to a different city nearly every week.

Yet, amidst all the success, the first shoot stands as my crowning achievement.

I’m now, and will forever be, a swimsuit cover model—all thanks to one playful photoshoot.

Emily has become my full-time makeup artist, assistant, and closest companion. She’s nothing short of irreplaceable. I can’t fathom navigating this chaotic journey without her. She’s my buffer in social situations and does all the networking, which I loathe.

My dream of providing Grams with the care she deserves came true. She was moved from the state nursing home to a legitimate rehabilitative and assisted living facility in Santa Monica. Her improvement is remarkable. She went from being a zombie to walking short distances and regaining her speech.

And, of course, we’re no longer escorting. Or, in Emily’s case, dating athletes with the hopes of becoming a wife. Our hectic schedule rarely allows the opportunity to return home, let alone revisit that chapter of our lives.

For the first time in months, we’re about to settle down. It’s fashion season in New York City, and I’m working with several designers to see who fits before gracing the runway. I love this part—putting all the pieces together and showcasing the finished product. It requires long days and hard work, but in the end, it’ll be worth the half-a-million-dollar paycheck.

And I thought escorting paid big.

I yawn, flipping through channels on the flatscreen in our hotel suite. “Where are we headed tomorrow?”

“You’ve been doing that a lot, forgetting your schedule. Maybe you need to take some time off before you burn out.”

I glance over at Emily, her signature stern expression in place. “Doing what?” I set the remote down, too tired to scroll.

“I just said! You keep forgetting what shoots you have coming up. You’re always yawning, always tired. I thought you were going to doze off during the shoot yesterday.” She crosses her arms and flops back in the leather chair.

“Okay, that photog was slower than a sloth and playing jazz music. Besides, we have to seize every opportunity that comes our way before it disappears.” I gesture to our opulent hotel suite provided by the modeling agency, along with our food, driver, and security, not to mention all the clothes.

I fear that, at any moment, someone else could rise to become the new “it girl,” and I’ll be left in the dust. I’ll work my ass off for as long as the offers keep pouring in.

“Not getting enough rest won’t maintain your beauty or energy.” She purses her perfectly lined lips and raises her brows without a single wrinkle on her forehead.

I love Emily. She’s exceptional at what she does, but I often wonder if she resents our new life. I’m too drained to party, and she’s always on-point, ready to go clubbing or meet some hot guy who’ll sweep her off her feet. When my day ends, I’m too exhausted to do anything except check in on Grams. I pay her forty percent of what I make after paying my agent, which is perhaps the only reason she hasn’t returned home.

When I say nothing, she continues. “And your anxiety has gotten worse. You’re always sick and not eating. You’ve lost weight—more than you should.”

“Can you blame me? I’m constantly in the spotlight. But, honestly, it’s not my anxiety. I’m not anxious.” At least, not any more than usual.

“Then what is it? Because you can’t keep going like this. Starving yourself, throwing up, sleeping all the time… It’s unhealthy.”

Giving up the fight, I collapse into the plush couch cushions. Perhaps she’s right, and I need a break. “I’m exhausted. That’s all.”

She leans forward, places her elbows on her knees, and regards me for several long seconds.

I release a deep sigh. “What is it, Em? You want to go home? You miss the guys?”

She never talks about any of them except Jackson. He has become a daily presence in our lives—on social media, where he leaves outlandish comments on my modeling pics.

With dramatic flair, she rolls her eyes. “No, I don’t miss them. Why would I? I’m still dealing with your stalker ex.”

I’ve blocked him on everything personal, but my agent isn’t comfortable blocking the hockey star on my public accounts. She says his thirsty comments bring me notoriety.

“And I don’t want to go home—far from it.” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “I want you to care for yourself before you burn out.”

“Seriously, I’m fine.” Another yawn.

She shakes her head in frustration and stands. “Don’t stay up late. You have an early meeting and then a shoot in the fashion district.”

Stay up late? I’m already falling asleep.

“Aurora. Aurora. Aurora .” Emily raises her voice and nudges my shoulder.

“Hmm?” Didn’t she say I needed rest? Why is she waking me?

“It’s seven in the morning. You need to get up!”

The blanket is ripped from my body, and I bolt upright. I’m ready to ask her why I slept on the couch for nearly fifteen freaking hours when a wave of nausea hits me. I rush to the bathroom and fall to my knees in front of the toilet, expelling everything I’ve eaten in days.

Once my stomach has settled, I rise on shaky legs. I hate throwing up, but unfortunately, it happens with my anxiety, along with panic attacks and, on rare occasions, fainting. Or what I call, taking a nap from reality .

I step out of the bathroom, and Emily is there, arms crossed over her chest, eyes glaring.

“This is the fourth day you’ve been sick.”

“I know. I know. I’ll see someone. Honestly, though, I’m only sick—” In the morning.

We stare at each other, my mouth hanging open and her jaw clenched.

Exhaustion, forgetfulness, nausea. Ethan. The broken condom.

Wait. I was on birth control…but was encouraged to stop when I started modeling…and I was throwing up from anxiety before the beach shoot. Did I even take it that night?

No. No. No. No. This isn’t happening.

I think back to my last period, struggling to recall the dates. I fail to remember, and terror sets in. I clutch my chest, unable to draw air into my lungs.

“How long?” she asks, reading my mind.

I can’t focus, only shake my head. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t . It’ll ruin everything.

“I’ll get a test.”

I skip the panic attack and go straight to dissociating. I’m staring at the pasty-white bathroom wall, absently holding the positive test, when Emily enters.

She lowers herself and sits beside me. “I know you’re in shock. I know you think it’s the worst thing ever, but it’s not. You have options. You also have a meeting with the agency in less than an hour and a shoot right after. We have plenty of time to worry about this later.”

No. We don’t. We don’t have any time for this .

I rest my head against the wall. I’m so fucking tired, tired of having the weight of the world on my shoulders.

A tear rolls down my cheek, and I shut my eyes.

“That’s it. That’s all you get to cry.” Her voice softens, and she wraps her arms around me. “We can cry all you want later, okay? I’ll even buy you ice cream.”

Somehow, I pick myself up from the floor and arrive at the meeting on time. Felicity, my agent, details my upcoming schedule, and I’m numb. Lifeless.

Over the next few months, I have obligations in New York, Miami, and Houston. On the bright side, I have a week-long respite in LA, during which I can plan for the future and break the news to Grams.

“Earth to Aurora. Did you hear me?”

I raise my head to find Felicity staring at me. “Yeah, sorry. New York, Miami, Houston. Got it.”

Her brows pinch. “What’s wrong? You don’t seem happy. At our last meeting, you were ecstatic about your busy schedule.”

Before I can answer, Emily speaks up. “She’s exhausted. Perhaps we should scale back a bit. Give her some time to rest?”

My agent gazes at me, and I sense her disappointment. Believe me, I’m just as disappointed, if not devastated.

“I’ll hold off on booking you anything additional unless it’s something we can’t afford to refuse. I’ll also send you to La Mar Resort and Spa on Laguna Beach. They’ll pamper you, and I’ll foot the bill.”

“Thank you,” I mumble. Pampering won’t solve this problem.

On our way to the afternoon shoot, Emily and I sit in the backseat in silence. I don’t know what to say. I’ve screwed up everything—for both of us. For Grams.

She reaches across the seat and takes my hand. “Do you know how far along you might be?”

I shrug. “Google says about nine weeks, based on my last period. Seems accurate.”

Her following words are hesitant. “Are you leaning toward keeping the baby? I’ll support you no matter what decision you make. But it’s going to be hard.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m keeping it, Em. I’ll manage. I always do.” My voice cracks, and I hold back the tears. I refuse to cry. Having a baby isn’t supposed to be sad.

She gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll make it work. You won’t show for another month or more. We’ll find a doctor to help balance your schedule and pregnancy. Models get pregnant, and it’s not always the end of their career.”

Then why does it feel like the end?

“Thank you, Em. I mean it when I say I couldn’t do this without you.”

Her eyes sparkle, and she smiles. “Babes, we’ve been through it all together. Remember when we’d hide in the tires on the playground and plan our escape? We’d talk about how we’d make it big?”

A light chuckle escapes my lips. “I’d become a famous singer, and you’d be a top model.”

“Even though you have the voice of a tone-deaf donkey, and I haven’t grown since middle school.”

We both share a heartfelt laugh that briefly lifts the storm cloud hanging over our heads. The air is lighter, and a glimmer of hope sparks.

Until Emily poses a question that churns my stomach.

“When are you telling Jackson? He’s going to lose his shit.”

I take a deep breath, summoning my strength. “It’s not his.”

Confusion wrestles across her face, lines furrowing her brow.

“Jackson and I were fighting before he left. We hadn’t had sex in over a week, and then he was gone for another two. It’s been months. It’s not his.”

Her eyes grow wide. “The photographer?”

My nose scrunches up. “No, definitely not the photographer.” I went on one date in LA with the photog of the bikini shoot, and I couldn’t leave fast enough. He talked about himself the entire time and was rude to the waitress. Repulsive. “I know who the father is, and he’s not interested in having a child, at least not with me.”

She scoffs. “It doesn’t matter what he’s interested in. He was involved in conceiving this baby and should take responsibility.”

“He’s married. He claimed to be getting a divorce, but his actions spoke otherwise. I won’t tear apart someone’s marriage for financial gain, and that’s all it’d be.”

“Oh, babes. You have to tell him, at least for the financial support. If he’s married, he’ll pass along some hush money.”

I’ll never tell her who the baby’s father is. She’ll hound me about him and might also tell the guys, who’ll tell Jackson. I don’t need that chaos.

I raise a hand, my decision firm. “I’m unwilling to subject my child to the turmoil of a tug-of-war between parents living separate lives.”

And I’m not losing my child to some wealthy couple on the East Coast.