20. Ayana
CHAPTER 20
Ayana
“C ut!” Wentworth lowered his camera and frowned. “Ayana, babe, you’re not focusing . Where’s the fire? Where’s the passion? Where’s the it factor that made you Model of the Year, hmm? I don’t see it, sweetie.”
I am not your babe or your sweetie.
I bit back my tart response. If I acted with anything except the utmost professionalism, I’d be labeled “difficult to work with.”
Plus, as much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. My head wasn’t in the game. Two hours into the Sage Studios denim shoot, and we’d yet to nail any of the photos. I hadn’t struggled this much during a job since I got food poisoning in Milan and vomited all over a ten-thousand-dollar gown.
“Sorry.” I forced a smile. “I’m ready. I’ll focus.”
Wentworth stared at me for a second before he heaved an exaggerated sigh. “No. Everyone, take five. Get some fresh air, bang it out in the fucking bathroom. I don’t care. But when we’re back on set, I need you all at the top of your game, you hear me? Let’s go!” He snapped his fingers. “Chop, chop!”
The crew of assistants, stylists, makeup artists, and hairdressers dispersed. Chatter filled the studio, and a few people threw sympathetic glances my way as I headed for the nearest window.
I cracked it open an inch and sucked in a greedy lungful of cool September air. I hadn’t eaten since the green smoothie I’d downed for breakfast, and I was feeling a little lightheaded from the stress and hunger. Wentworth barking orders in the background didn’t help. God, I despised that man.
He’d acted professionally so far, but his mere presence creeped me out. I’d seen and heard too many things to be fully comfortable around him, even if we were surrounded by other people.
If only Vuk were here. The thought floated, unbidden, through my head. He had nothing to do with the fashion world, but as intimidating and infuriating as he was, he made me feel safe. I was certain that if the apocalypse happened tomorrow, he’d know exactly what to do to keep us alive. He was that capable.
Unfortunately, he was also the reason I was bombing this shoot.
It’d been almost a week since Vuk left me standing on the street after I tried to kiss him. The more I thought about it, the more guilt and embarrassment ate me alive, yet I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The way he’d looked at me, his grip on my wrist and the rough words he’d whispered in my ear…
I hadn’t understood what he said, but it didn’t matter. The memory sent a warm shiver down my spine. Every damn time.
The makeup artist approached me. “We’re shooting again in a minute. Let me touch you up first.”
“Of course.” I swallowed my turmoil and closed the window. “Thank you.”
While the team fussed over my hair and makeup, my mind drifted back to last weekend.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to Vuk since, and I was starting to second-guess my gut. Maybe he wasn’t attracted to me. Maybe the alcohol had made me delusional, and I’d simply manufactured the vibes I’d felt.
If that were true, he was probably disgusted by my shamelessness. To him, I was nothing more than someone who’d tried to cheat on her fiancé weeks before her wedding.
If that wasn’t true, and he really was attracted to me…well, that didn’t change much, did it? Unless he was willing to jeopardize a thirteen-year friendship for short-lived gratification.
I let out a soft groan. This was all so much easier when I was drunk.
The hair and makeup team finished their touch-ups, and I took my place again in front of the camera.
Wentworth looked me up and down. “Beautiful,” he said, his eyes lingering a little too long on my chest and legs. “But that isn’t enough. Let me see that famous Ayana Kidane spark.”
The sooner I nailed this, the sooner I could leave, so I pushed aside my discomfort and all thoughts about Vuk and the wedding.
If I could shoot a winter campaign in Iceland wearing a backless gown and stilettos while I was on my period, I could do this.
I took a deep breath and let the rest of the room fade away until it was just me, the camera, and the rhythmic click of the shutter. The rest of my life might be a shitshow, but this? This was my element.
For the next few hours, I posed and improvised and played off the rising energy in the room. I didn’t have to think; I just let my body flow into the positions naturally.
French electronic music played in the background, underlaying Wentworth’s exclamations of “Gorgeous!” and “Perfect!” We stopped intermittently for more touch-ups and wardrobe adjustments, but the shoot went so smoothly, we finished before sunset.
“Good job, everyone,” Wentworth said after we wrapped. “This campaign is going to be smashing.”
I changed and checked my phone while the crew packed up. I had new messages from my family and Indira—who was asking, again , whether I could set her up with Vuk—but nothing from Vuk himself…which made sense, considering I’d never given him my number.
But the disappointment stung all the same.
“Fantastic job, sweetie. I knew you could do it.” Wentworth’s voice in my ear made me jump. I jerked my head up to find his face inches from mine, and iron restraint was the only thing that kept me from kneeing him in the balls.
“We had a rough start, but it turned out well, yeah?” His smile had the opposite of its intended effect.
Objectively, Wentworth was decent-looking. He was in his early forties with thick brown hair, brown eyes, and rugged features. Not the type who would have trouble finding female company—until the women got to know him.
Whatever attractiveness he possessed was immediately counteracted by his arrogance and general sleaziness.
“Yeah.” I took several discreet steps back. “I’m glad we got the shot.”
I glanced around and realized everyone had left besides us. I mentally kicked myself for not leaving as soon as the shoot wrapped; no model wanted to be alone with Wentworth.
“We should celebrate.” He closed the distance between us again. Now that he didn’t have an audience, he didn’t seem so concerned with being professional. “My apartment isn’t far. I could order food. Champagne. Other things.” The last two words dripped with suggestiveness.
The army of spiders crawling over my skin multiplied. “No, thanks.” I took another step back, but the wall behind me prevented me from going any further. “I have another appointment soon. In fact, I should?—”
“Really?” Wentworth arched his eyebrows. “Hank told me this was your last job of the day.”
Dammit. Fucking Hank.
He’d been suspiciously quiet since he showed up unannounced at my apartment. Usually he would’ve called at least four times to check in on me, but it’d been crickets.
Maybe it was because he knew I was onto him about his spying. As promised, Vuk had sent his team to sweep my apartment and devices for bugs earlier that week. They’d found one on my phone and one in the Beaumont-branded pen I took everywhere. They couldn’t trace them directly back to Hank, but I knew he was responsible.
Vuk’s team had gotten rid of the bugs and left me a scanner that allowed me to check for “untraceable” devices on my own. The information blackout would’ve tipped Hank off, though he’d been quiet since before then.
I didn’t want to confront him about the surveillance yet. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for; I just knew it wasn’t time.
Meanwhile, I had another industry asshole to deal with.
“It’s not a job. It’s a…facial appointment,” I lied. I hiked my purse higher on my shoulders and eyed the distance to the door. It wasn’t far, but Wentworth blocked my direct path.
“I heard you’re getting married in a month or so.” He closed in enough for me to choke on the overpowering scent of his cologne.
“I am,” I said with a tight smile. “Now if you’ll excuse?—”
“Is that why you’ve been so distracted? I have to say, I expected more from you.” Wentworth shook his head. “Professionalism matters.”
My temper reared, but I didn’t take the bait. I refused to give him that opening.
“There’s been a lot of chatter about your wedding,” he said casually. “Like how the church ceremony really got pushed up because of a scandal and not because of Orla Ford’s health. Pregnancy, child out of wedlock, that sort of thing.”
“Whoever is saying that is wrong,” I said shortly, too irritated to keep up pretenses. “Like I said, I have a facial appointment soon, so I really need to go.”
I tried to sidestep him, but he was too fast. “There are other rumors too,” he said, blocking my path again. “Like how you and your fiancé aren’t even having sex. It must be difficult. Physical intimacy is important in relationships.” He touched my arm, his breath billowing across my face.
His pupils were the size of quarters.
He’s high. The realization struck me hard. I didn’t know what he’d taken after the shoot, but Wentworth was absolutely high out of his mind.
A cold dagger of fear slipped between my ribs right as he moved, quick as lightning. By the time I reacted, it was too late.
His mouth crushed against mine. He placed his hands on the wall above my head, caging me in while his tongue probed at the seam of my lips.
I was so stunned by the abrupt turn of events that I could only stand, immobilized, while Wentworth Holt kissed me without consent.
I should push him off. Scream, cry, something . But there was a part of my brain that couldn’t quite process what was happening.
We heard stories and we glimpsed things, but within every person lived the small, unshakeable belief that they were the exception. What happened to others couldn’t possibly happen to them. Disaster was possible, but not probable.
So for all the concerns I’d raised about him and all the discomfort I felt, I never truly thought he would be bold enough to make such a move.
Wentworth mistook my lack of response as encouragement. He kissed me harder, one of his hands dropping from the wall to caress my shoulder.
The feel of his palm against my bare skin shocked me out of my stupor.
My stomach heaved, and a swift surge of rage swamped every other emotion. In that moment, I didn’t care about my job or reputation. Men like Wentworth Holt had been taking advantage of others for far too long, and I was sick of it.
I shoved him off me and slapped him. The resounding whack echoed through the empty studio.
“Don’t touch me.” My heartbeat slammed hard enough to bruise. A sticky, sour film coated my tongue, and the lights buzzed like wasps in my ears.
Compared to other models, I’d been “lucky” so far when it came to creeps like Wentworth. I’d been the subject of suggestive stares and comments, and I’d endured the occasional wandering hand, but no one had dared be this brazen—until now.
Wentworth’s face twisted with an ugly scowl. He wasn’t used to hearing no , and the combination of rejection and drugs turned him into an even more monstrous version of himself.
He lunged for me again. I tried to dodge him, but I had limited space and he had the superhuman strength that came from being high.
He grabbed hold of my arms and pushed me against the wall. A scream rose in my throat, followed by a fresh wave of fury.
I was hungry and exhausted after the all-day shoot, but fuck him if he thought that meant I would let him do what he wanted without a fight.
When Wentworth tried to kiss me again, I summoned all my strength and headbutted him. The sickening crunch of bone mixed with his howl of pain.
Blood fountained from his nose and dripped onto my skin as I pushed him aside and scrambled for the door.
“You bitch!” He grasped my arm on my way past. His hand was slippery from the blood, and I was able to twist out of his hold.
I didn’t give him time to try to corner me again; I didn’t even think. I acted on instinct and slammed my knee into his groin as hard as I could.
Wentworth doubled over with a high-pitched howl. Just in case that wasn’t enough to incapacitate him, I swung my bag into his face. It was my Shoot Day bag, and it was stuffed to the brim with makeup, travel-size hair products, a water bottle, a physical planner, a phone charger, snacks, a backup pair of heels, and a thousand other things I kept on me in cases of emergency.
All that to say, the bag was heavy as hell, and I heard a deeply satisfying thud when it connected with Wentworth’s face.
I didn’t wait to see if the hit knocked him out completely or simply slowed him down.
I turned and booked it outside. We were on the sixth floor, but I took the stairs instead of the elevator because I needed to move, needed to keep moving in case he caught up with me and made me pay.
My lungs were burning by the time I reached the lobby and burst into the middle of Chelsea.
A passing couple gasped when they saw me emerge, frazzled and blood-stained, but in true New York fashion, they left me alone. I ignored the curious gawks of other passersby as I sped walked far, far away from the studio. I passed street after street and made turn after turn until I lost all sense of direction.
I finally stopped at a random corner by a Chase bank. My calves ached from how fast I’d been walking, and it wasn’t until my vision fogged that I realized my cheeks were wet.
My chest heaved with silent sobs. I tried to wipe the tears away, but they just kept coming, and I eventually gave up.
I sagged against the wall. My earlier boost of adrenaline drained away, leaving my limbs so heavy I could hardly stand.
I’d been running on fumes for months, and my altercation with Wentworth had sapped me of my remaining energy.
I stared straight ahead, the world muddling into a blur of people and traffic.
On a day-to-day basis, when I had a packed schedule to follow and mindless entertainment to distract me, I could convince myself I was okay. But when I was alone, stripped raw and vulnerable, I could no longer deny what I’d refused to acknowledge: I was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally.
My life was spiraling, and every attempt to regain control only put it further out of reach. First, it was signing Beaumont’s contract to save my family from financial duress. Then it was agreeing to marry Jordan to get out of that contract. Now I had my feelings for Vuk and the Wentworth situation to deal with. I was sure he was going to try and twist what happened to make me look like the villain.
A migraine bloomed behind my temple.
I should file a police report. Call Sloane. Figure out what to do when my agency came down on me for “attacking” Wentworth when it’d been self-defense.
I’d long disabused myself of the notion that Beaumont was on my side. To them, models were at the bottom of the hierarchy because there was a never-ending supply of us.
Somewhere, always, there was a pretty young girl with stars in her eyes and dreams of fame and fortune—or, at the very least, of ways to put food on her family’s table.
So no, Beaumont wouldn’t take my side when they inevitably found out what happened. They’d keep it hush-hush and figure out a way to placate Wentworth.
I angrily swiped the back of my hand across my face again. The rational part of me recognized that I should get off the street before someone took and uploaded a picture of me crying to the internet.
I was well known, but thankfully, I wasn’t famous enough to warrant a horde of paparazzi following my every move. That didn’t mean I was safe from candid photos taken by random passersby.
I sucked in a long, calming breath and tried to think. What should I do next?
I didn’t want to go home to an empty apartment; I wanted to be with someone I trusted. But who did I have, really?
Jordan was the obvious choice from a practical perspective, but I didn’t want practical. I wanted emotional support, and that wasn’t something I turned to him first for.
Kim was working, and Indira was a definite no. She’d understand the predicament, but she was too close to the industry. Sloane would be too logical about it, and my family would freak out if they knew what happened. My father would probably come up and kill Wentworth himself. I didn’t want to place that emotional burden on them when they already had so much work and reception planning on their plate.
My tears finally slowed to a trickle.
If I were honest with myself, there was only one person I wanted to see. It made no sense, but few things in my life did anymore.
So, before I could talk myself out of it, I headed to the nearest subway station and took the train uptown, toward the most dangerous man I knew.