10. Ayana
CHAPTER 10
Ayana
“D o you know why you’re here, Ayana?”
Don’t panic. “Hank said you wanted to discuss my career goals going forward.”
Emmanuelle leaned back, the picture of stylish sophistication. Her smile formed a bold slash of red across her face.
At age fifty-two, the owner of one of Manhattan’s preeminent modeling agencies could’ve passed for a woman half her age. Not a single wrinkle marred her porcelain skin; not a single hair dared stray from her sleek blonde bob. She possessed the same elegance that had made her such a phenomenon in her modeling heyday, but there was a sharpness to her that prevented me from relaxing in her presence.
She reminded me of a beautiful serpent lying in the grass, waiting to strike.
“Yes. It’s your six-year anniversary with us,” Emmanuelle said. Her lightly accented voice was as smooth and crisp as her perfectly tailored blazer. “You’ve achieved enormous success over the years, and I couldn’t be prouder.”
“Thank you.” I crossed my legs and forced myself to maintain eye contact.
Emmanuelle’s inner sanctum was deceptively warm. Small potted plants lined the shelves next to her desk; photos of her husband and son dotted various surfaces.
In all my years with the agency, she’d called me into her office twice—once when I signed with her, and once after I booked my first multimillion-dollar campaign.
It was enough for me to know the welcoming decor was a trap.
“I wouldn’t be where I am without you,” I added. I knew how to play the game. “Your mentorship over the years has been invaluable, as has Hank’s hard work and guidance.”
It was a bald-faced lie. My real mentor was Fabiana, the former Brazilian supermodel who’d taken me under her wing after we met at the Model of the Year awards five years ago.
Admittedly, we no longer talked as often now that she was remarried and traveling around the world with her new husband, but she’d personally done far more for me than Emmanuelle had.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Emmanuelle didn’t blink an eye at my obligatory flattery. “Perhaps that’s why I’m confused to hear that you’ve been unhappy with your compensation timelines. That doesn’t sound like the attitude of a grateful model, does it?”
Bone-deep cold stole through me.
Crap. I had to tread carefully.
My engagement to Jordan afforded me a semblance of leverage, but until we were married and I got my money, Beaumont held all the cards.
“Of course I’m not unhappy. I’m so grateful for all the agency has done for me over the years.” I placed as much sincerity as I could into my voice.
Pushing Hank was one thing; antagonizing Emmanuelle was another. She was one of the most powerful and well-connected people in fashion. The last time one of her models pissed her off, the girl disappeared overnight. The agency said she returned to Wisconsin for “mental health reasons,” but rumors abounded about what really happened.
I was skeptical of the sensationalism, but one could never be too careful. Regardless of what happened to the girl, it was a well-established fact that Emmanuelle could ruin anyone if she put her mind to it.
“As you know, I’m in the midst of wedding preparations,” I said. “Part of it includes discussing my finances with Jordan. That was how the status of my payments came up.”
“I see.” Emmanuelle’s smile returned. “I’m sure those payments pale next to the Ford family fortune, but I understand why you’d want to bring something to the table. I’ll speak to accounting. We wouldn’t want to tarnish your big day with such a little hiccup.”
My fingers curled around the edge of my chair. That little hiccup was my career and financial well-being. “I appreciate that. Truly.”
“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Emmanuelle returned her attention to her computer. “You can go.”
I stood and walked toward the door. My skin felt like it was stretched too tight over my body.
“One more thing.” Her voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “The denim campaign with Wentworth Holt. Will that be an issue?”
Ugly little shards wedged into my chest. “No.” My mouth formed an approximation of a smile. “Not an issue at all.”
I spent the entire elevator ride down picturing Emmanuelle and Hank’s faces when I quit. I wanted to take a hammer and smash those big glass windows of hers on my last day here. Return every bit of gaslighting and condescension they’d thrown at me tenfold.
The simmer in my blood matched the alarming violence of my thoughts.
I forced a deep breath through my nose. I couldn’t afford to get too worked up. Even if I quit, I had to maintain my professionalism.
Once you reached a certain height, people looked for any excuse to tear you down. I’d be damned if I handed them the opportunity myself.
That was why I’d agreed to Jordan’s proposal. It gave me enough money to buy out my contract, and covering my financial bases with Beaumont before I left was the only way I might appease Emmanuelle enough to keep her from badmouthing me all over town. When she talked, people listened, and as much as I despised the bad actors in fashion, I loved the actual art of modeling.
My relationship with the camera, the way I came alive when the shutter clicked, the exhilarating rush of slipping in and out of different personas the way I slipped in and out of dresses—those things were mine . I couldn’t lose them.
The late summer heat steamed off the sidewalk when I finally exited the building. It was at least ninety degrees, the air so thick and muggy it condensed like soup in my lungs.
I had two hours until my fitting at the Stella Alonso showroom, so I stopped by a nearby café for caffeine first. Fashion Week started tomorrow. Between the grueling prep and wedding anxiety, I was running on little sleep these days.
The café was packed, but I took solace in the rush of people. The noisier it was, the easier it was for me to retreat into myself.
I stared at the chalkboard menu and tried to calm my racing heart.
I’m fine. Everything was fine.
Emmanuelle hadn’t banished or blacklisted me, and she didn’t know about my plans to leave. If she did, she would’ve been less subtle with her threats.
As for the wedding…well, that was another matter.
It was Thursday, nearly a full week after Jordan dropped his bombshell at the Vault. Since then, it’d been a scramble to update our logistics and notify the guests and vendors.
Jordan and I agreed that moving the reception up on such short notice was impossible, so we settled on an alternative: a small, intimate ceremony for our closest friends and family in New York, followed by the Irish and Ethiopian receptions in February, as originally planned. His grandmother cared more about the vows than the party.
My parents freaked out when they first heard about the change in plans, but since the church ceremony shouldn’t affect the party they’d planned, they eventually calmed down.
Logistics aside, getting married earlier than planned shouldn’t be a big deal. Most brides and grooms would probably welcome it. The sooner the wedding, the sooner they could spend the rest of their lives together. An earlier date also meant I’d get my money faster. If I was lucky, I’d be out from under Beaumont’s thumb before the holidays.
But Jordan and I weren’t spending the rest of our lives together, and October loomed in a way February hadn’t. Even the prospect of leaving my agency couldn’t untangle the knots in my chest.
“Miss?” The cashier’s prompt brought me back to the present. I’d made it to the front of the line without noticing. “What would you like to order?”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, flustered. “Just a large green tea. Hot. Thank you.”
I paid and stepped back—straight into the person behind me. I whirled around, but my second apology in as many minutes died when I saw the dark buzz cut and blue eyes.
“Vuk.” My pulse ratcheted up again. “What are you doing here?”
He raised his eyebrows and glanced at the espresso machine.
Right . Coffee. Duh.
I composed myself while he placed his order and joined me next to the pickup counter.
He was dressed for work in a black suit, no tie, but that didn’t dampen the air of danger he exuded. It was in the way he moved, the way he stood, the way his eyes took in every last detail of his surroundings.
No amount of tailored clothing could hide the fact that he was made for the battlefield, not the boardroom.
“Did you have a meeting nearby?” I asked.
I hadn’t seen Vuk since he abruptly excused himself after Jordan’s announcement. I imagined he was busy doing CEO things and planning the bachelor party, so it was strange to see him in here in the middle of the day. The café was nowhere near his house or his office.
He nodded but offered no elaboration.
Shocker. The day Vuk willingly shared information about himself was the day I willingly wore Crocs in public (i.e. never).
“Green tea for Ayana!” the barista called out.
I picked up my drink and hesitated. Despite his reticence, Vuk’s presence calmed my earlier nerves—probably because I was too busy overthinking every detail of our interaction to focus on anything else.
“You’re welcome to join me if you want.” I threw out the invitation on impulse and sat at a recently vacated table nearby. “I have some free time before my next appointment. I could use the company.”
I’d brought my knitting materials. I’d planned to work on my latest project (a hat made from a beautiful cerulean yarn I’d picked up in Scotland) before I ran into him, but I’d rather talk to him than knit.
I wanted to know him better. He was Jordan’s best friend, which meant we’d be around each other for years to come. He’d also accompanied me to California and calmed my nerves during the flight back. Strangely, I wanted to see more of that side of him. The softer, gentler side, though nothing about Vuk could be considered particularly soft or gentle.
Despite my invitation, I didn’t expect him to say yes. It was a workday, and he had better things to do than hang out with me.
I’d already resigned myself to my own company when he grabbed his coffee before the barista had a chance to call his name. He ignored her double take when she saw his face and took the seat across from mine.
He was so large and the chair so small, he resembled a giant sitting on doll’s furniture, but his warning stare told me to keep that observation to myself.
I fought a smile. “I would’ve thought a big-shot CEO would have his assistant fetch his coffee. How down-to-earth of you to get it yourself.”
I always pick up my own drinks. Less risk of them getting poisoned that way.
I stared at him. “Are you serious, or was that a joke? Actually, never mind.” I held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
People weren’t really running around poisoning rival CEOs, were they? Yet the idea somehow seemed more plausible than Vuk Markovic making an honest-to-God joke.
His mouth tipped up, but his eyes remained impassive. How’s the wedding planning going?
My chest deflated while my mouth maintained a smile. “It’s going great. The church ceremony is small, and Vivian is on top of it.” Jordan and I had hired Vivian Russo, a well-known luxury event planner. She was also one of Sloane’s best friends, and I had full faith in her to execute the big day flawlessly. “We’ll get everything done in time. It’s going to be a beautiful ceremony.”
I’m sure you’re thrilled. You’ve been counting down the days, haven’t you?
Vuk’s trap unfolded so casually I would’ve missed it had I not spotted the near-imperceptible tensing of his shoulders.
He was testing me. Why? Had he picked up on my horror at the Vault before he left? Or was he still suspicious about my almond slip-up at the cake tasting?
Either way, he was watching my face like a hawk.
“Well, I obviously wish we were getting married under better circumstances, but what bride doesn’t dream of her wedding day?” I hoped he didn’t notice the slight shake of my hand when I brought the cup to my mouth again.
Just minutes ago, I’d convinced myself an earlier wedding was a good thing for various reasons, but Vuk’s words sent those rationales scattering like leaves in the wind.
I should be thrilled. After all, a platonic marriage wasn’t that different from my current (nonexistent) love life, and I was getting paid for it to boot. Plus, Jordan and I were good friends, and we had fun together. There were far worse things than being married to a good friend.
But friend didn’t equal lover, and platonic didn’t equal romantic.
At the end of the day, it wasn’t love. Not the kind that I would be thrilled about.
Once again, that’s not an answer. Vuk hadn’t touched his coffee. His attention was wholly focused on me, and I suddenly empathized with how bugs under a microscope must feel.
“It is. Why are you so obsessed with my thoughts and feelings regarding the wedding anyway?” A hint of irritation snapped into my voice.
It wasn’t like me to lose my cool, but every time I extended an olive branch, he used it to browbeat me with his arrogance. What happened to small talk and pleasant conversation?
I want to know if you’re in love with Jordan.
“Why?”
He’s my friend. You’re marrying him. Connect the dots.
It was incredible how quickly I went from being happy to see him to wanting to slap him.
“You,” I said, squeezing my cup so tightly a drop of liquid splashed over the side,“can be a real jerk.”
I’ve been called worse. The bastard didn’t even blink. Answer the question, Ayana. Are you in love with him?
Yes. One word, one syllable. It was a simple enough lie.
The response hovered on the tip of my tongue, yet I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I chose a workaround instead.
“I love Jordan, and I’m marrying him.” I took a steadying breath and squared my shoulders. I wasn’t in love with Jordan, but I did love him—as a friend. “So unless you have a legitimate or personal objection to our union, I would appreciate if you stopped interrogating me about it. It makes me uncomfortable.”
The earlier crowd had dispersed, leaving the café empty save for us and two baristas. My voice traveled the length of the small space, but the staff studiously avoided looking our way.
Perhaps they were too scared of Vuk, whose jaw had tensed so much I was surprised his teeth didn’t crack.
Noted.
That was it. No pushback, nothing else to be said.
My brief burst of indignation popped. “Thank you.” Something passed through my chest that I couldn’t name. It was tight and heavy, but it was gone so quickly I paid it no mind.
I searched for a new topic of conversation. “The bachelor party is next weekend. Have you figured out what you’re doing yet?”
Yes.
“Okay. So what’s the big plan?”
This is the second time you’ve asked me about the bachelor party. Vuk finally took a sip of his coffee. You say I’m obsessed. Maybe I’m not the only one.
Blood rose to my neck and chest. “I am not obsessed. I’d hardly call one repeat question obsessed .”
Whatever helps you sleep at night.
“Keep it up. I will take off my heels, and I will stab you with them,” I threatened.
Vuk leaned back and stretched like I’d offered him a day at the spa. What if I said there’ll be strippers at the party? His lazy stare didn’t lose any of its original sting. He could pierce armor with those eyes. Would you be upset?
I couldn’t care less. I’d only asked about the bachelor party because it was the first thing that popped up in my head, but it was hard to summon any real interest in Jordan’s stag night activities.
When we made our arrangement, we’d agreed that the other person could do what they wanted with whomever they wanted as long as they were discreet. Ironically, neither of us would take advantage of that loophole.
Jordan wasn’t interested in romantic relationships with anyone ever, and I was too paranoid for an affair, even one sanctioned by my husband. I didn’t trust any potential lover to keep his mouth shut. The last thing I wanted was scandal or for Jordan to be humiliated.
Of course, I couldn’t tell Vuk any of that.
“It’s entertainment. It doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “Everyone has strippers at their bachelor party, and I trust Jordan won’t cross the line. If he does, I’m sure you’ll rein him back in. That’s what the best man is for.”
A scowl fell over Vuk’s face. He appeared deeply displeased at the prospect of playing babysitter.
It occurred to me then that Jordan wouldn’t be the only one entertaining strippers. Vuk would be there too.
The tight feeling returned, this time for an entirely different reason.
He didn’t strike me as a lap dance type of guy, but as the best man, he was expected to participate in the festivities. Besides, how well did I really know him? He could be a regular at the Vermilion Lounge, the city’s most high-end strip club, for all I knew.
An image of Vuk sitting in a dark VIP room while a busty dancer ground against him flashed through my mind.
The tea’s aftertaste turned sour, and I quickly pushed the cup away.
Vuk watched me quietly. If you were my fiancée, I wouldn’t look at another woman. Entertainment or not.
Somewhere in my lungs, a bubble of oxygen collapsed.
If you were my fiancée…
The sentiment brushed over my skin, soft yet rough.
I’d never heard Vuk speak. Few people had.
According to Jordan, Vuk stopped talking verbally to most people after an undisclosed incident in his past. But the shock of his words was so potent he might as well have touched his mouth to my ear and poured those twenty-three syllables straight into my bloodstream.
If you were my fiancée, I wouldn’t look at another woman. Entertainment or not.
Vuk’s gaze narrowed.
I wondered if he could read the thoughts scrawled across my face. If he heard my pounding heartbeat or noticed the telltale heave of my chest when I couldn’t hold my breath anymore and expelled it all in one great rush.
Time slowed. The whir of espresso machines retreated into a dull background roar.
Then he straightened again, and the thread holding this moment aloft snapped with disorienting swiftness.
Noise rushed back in, punctuated by the jingle of bells above the door as a new customer walked in.
Hypothetically speaking, of course. Vuk’s expression was one of impersonal civility.
“Of course.” I managed a bright tone. “Well, I hope you have fun next weekend. That’s when I’m having my bachelorette too.”
He started to sign a response, but he froze halfway. His attention snapped to something over my shoulder, and his face darkened with such animosity I instinctively recoiled.
I have to go. He pushed back his chair. The metal screeched against the tile floor. Thank you for letting me join you for coffee.
I stared, mouth agape, as he disappeared out the door. I was so thrown by his abrupt departure that I didn’t dwell on the novelty of his first-ever thank-you to me.
I spun around and searched out the window for what might’ve caught his attention. Nothing stood out.
The only thing I saw was a pizza delivery guy, Vuk’s retreating back and, further down the street, a tourist in a blue baseball cap.