Chapter Six
Dani
I CANNOT BELIEVE I CRIED ON THIS MAN’S SHOULDERS.
Fury courses through my veins as I lift my head, finding a small patch of my foundation on his shirt.
Not only did I lose control with someone who’s at the very top of the list of people I don’t want to share feelings with, but the evidence of that loss of control is now staring me in the face—on display for everyone he encounters the rest of the day.
All this because the past doesn’t know how to stay in the fucking past. Why couldn’t it be my old life wiped from existence?
When I started my career, I was overly sensitive. Every rejection and criticism I received felt like a personal attack on my soul. I would spend hours reading every nasty comment made on posts and videos of me to the point where I could recite them verbatim.
My self-worth was in the gutter. I looked in the mirror and all I could see was everything people didn’t like about me. I said yes to things I had no interest in doing that didn’t serve me at all just because I was afraid I wouldn’t get another opportunity.
When I left New York, I left that old version of myself behind. I toughened my skin until it was impenetrable.
I became known as the woman who oozed confidence out of her every pore and who didn’t hesitate to eviscerate naysayers with her words. People stopped trying me because they knew it was a lost cause. I became the one in control.
People like Nigel Pierce are the reason I had to transform myself. He was—and unfortunately still is—a huge name in the modeling industry. He was responsible for making and breaking far too many of my peers, and I was one of the models he made—and almost broke—too.
He preyed on my insecurities and made me feel like I needed him, like I would fade into obscurity if he stopped seeing the value in me.
After all, if he hadn’t discovered me and booked my first show, I might still be in my shitty apartment with more roommates than bedrooms begging brands to notice me.
I haven’t seen or spoken to him in years, but last night he commented on my latest post. He didn’t even say anything worth getting upset about, just a simple “Dani Jenkins. It’s been too long, beautiful,” yet it sent me into a tailspin, sending my mood to the pits of hell.
The audacity to think he can just pop up out of nowhere and talk to me. And the one person I could talk to about it isn’t here anymore.
Tanya was the one person who knew the details of my past with Nigel. I knew telling her would make her murderous, but I also knew I could trust her to keep it to herself if I asked. If she were here, I would’ve come over last night so we could open a bottle—or three—of wine and plot his downfall.
Instead, I’m here to do away with her.
Being in this house is fucking with me. Everything in here is a landmine, waiting to trigger an onslaught of emotions.
I can’t do this.
I don’t want to do this.
I don’t want to be the person to go through all her things and determine their worth. All her things are priceless to me.
She was priceless to me.
And she hid everything from me.
She always did what she thought was best for me, so I’m trying my best not to be angry with her, but I’m so fucking angry with her.
Sucking in a deep breath, I try to ignore the increasing tightness in my chest and the fog spreading over all my thoughts.
Micah brushes his hands against my shoulders. I know he wants to see my eyes, but I can’t let him. I can’t let him see any more than he already has.
The sound of the doorbell is a welcome reprieve.
Micah lets out a small sigh, his breath ghosting across the shell of my ear, adding butterflies to my already rumbling stomach.
“That’s, uh, Bailey. She said she’d meet us here to help go through stuff.”
I wonder if he asked her to be here because he needed a buffer or because he thought I’d want one. Either way, her presence is a gift horse I won’t look in the mouth.
“You should go let her in. I’ll be down in a minute,” I muster despite my dry tongue.
Micah tries observing me again, but I keep my eyes focused on that fucking spot of makeup.
“Dani,” he starts.
“Micah,” I cut him off, exasperated and barely holding on to what little control I have left.
The frustrated grunt from his lips lingers in the air around us, seeking validation and falling short of any acceptance. “You’re fine. I know,” he says as he ever so slowly releases his grip on me, unknowingly plummeting me into the darkness.
He darts downstairs as I stumble into the bathroom, shutting myself in.
The cold, smooth surface of the sink provides minimal relief against the clamminess of my skin, but I grip it for dear life to try to stave off the vomit clawing its way up my throat.
You’re okay. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.
I recite the mantra to myself repeatedly until the soft tan of the walls stops spinning and the feeling returns to my lower limbs.
After another few minutes of self-assurances, I feel mostly back to normal aside from the tension headache that always follows moments like this.
The first time I lost control of my body, it was terrifying. I was running through the halls of a hotel, unsure if he was chasing me or if it was just the pounding of my heart against my chest I was hearing.
Had Nigel not gotten a random phone call, what would’ve happened in that room? Would I have given him the things he demanded from me? Would he have taken them by force?
Somehow my legs carried me to an empty stairway before they crumbled beneath me.
I felt as if I were floating outside of my body, watching everything unfold.
I was screaming at myself to get up, but my legs were frozen to the ground.
My body was so unbearably hot, I thought I might melt from the inside out.
I kept telling myself to breathe, but it felt as if rocks were sitting on my chest, making the task impossible.
I laid in that stairway powerless to move until my body decided it was safe to work again.
The headache that followed was severe enough to leave me bedridden for a full twenty-four hours after.
Eventually, losing control became part of my norm.
The aftershock headaches became slightly less debilitating.
I didn’t figure out a way to bring myself out of the haze sooner until my last confrontation with Nigel.
I hate being home.
I spent the last six months in London for work, and I had hoped that would’ve been long enough to ease the pain I felt at home, but being back in New York doesn’t feel good.
Everywhere I look something reminds me of him.
Right as I’m about to unzip my suitcase, Leslie calls me.
There’s a voice I haven’t missed at all. While I was in London, Leslie left me alone for the most part. Most of my time was spent working on the shoe collaboration with occasional shows and photoshoots, so there was no need for her to be on my line every five minutes.
That might be what I’ll miss the most about London.
“Leslie. Long time no talk. What a pleasure.” Sarcasm drips from every word like venom. We’re well past the point of pretending we’re anything more than agent and client. We’re a means to an end for each other, not friends.
“Are you at home?” She never bothers to say hello. It’s always straight to the point.
“Yes.”
“Good. There’s a launch party for Dolce’s newest fragrance tonight. I’m sending a glam squad your way.”
I sigh. I definitely haven’t missed this shit. “Leslie. I’m tired. I just got home and I’m jet-lagged. I don’t want to go to a party tonight.” The only plans I have are with my bed and my TV.
Leslie grunts her frustration. “You’ve been missing from the New York scene for six months. You need to make a reappearance, and it needs to be good.”
“I’ve been working.”
“No one gives a fuck what you’re doing if they can’t see you doing it.”
We go back and forth until the conversation ends with me doing what I always do—giving in.
“Welcome home,” I whisper to myself.
At the party, I order another glass of wine from the bar. If I could drown in this glass, I would.
This party is everything Leslie wanted it to be.
It’s loud and crowded. People have been bombarding me with welcome-back love from the moment I walked in while I’ve been trying my best to keep my eyes open.
The mini knit Balmain dress I’m wearing is doing the heavy lifting for me tonight because I don’t have the energy to give.
My model friend Anya and her husband, Pedro, are here, and though I usually always have fun when they’re around, tonight is not that night. I should’ve put my foot down with Leslie because I can feel the exhaustion in my bones. My legs are about to give out and I can hear my words slowing down.
I excuse myself to the restroom, hoping a moment of quiet and a splash of cold water can bring me back, but the body I just bumped into is the coldest splash of water I could ask for.
“Dani Jenkins. You look fantastic.” Nigel Pierce leans in to kiss me on the cheek.
I step out of his grasp just in time. “Nigel. What are you doing here?” Leslie is under strict instructions not to send me alone anywhere where Nigel is expected to be, so if he’s here, I shouldn’t be.
His hand lingers by my hip. My feet itch to run as far away as I can, so I dig my nails into my palm, reminding myself that we’re in a room full of people, not a hotel room with no one to save me but myself.
He chuckles, clearly offended by my lack of enthusiasm. “I was invited, same as you. You really do look good, Dani.” He makes no attempt to hide his sleazy gaze sliding down my frame. I feel like not even a scorching-hot shower could erase this feeling from my skin.
“Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I was headed to the restroom.”
He grabs my wrist before I can step away, his grip forceful and demanding. “Hold on a minute. Let’s catch up. We might be working together soon, so it’d be good for us to get reacquainted.”
My lip curls against my will. “Excuse me? Working together on what?”