Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
JENNY
T he morning sun streams through the sheer curtains of my hotel room, casting golden light across the polished floors. I blink at the brightness, feeling a mix of grogginess and a faint excitement bubbling under my exhaustion. Today is the fitting at Tod’s…a place I’d never dreamed I’d set foot in, let alone as part of their campaign. The thought brings a flicker of pride, but it’s quickly smothered by self-doubt.
Am I here because of me, or because of Zack?
The question lingers, heavy and unwelcome, as I rub my eyes and stretch. I toss the blanket aside, the weight of last night pulling me back. Tossing and turning, my mind had refused to quiet, replaying the same scene over and over. Zack. The way he’d looked last night, standing on the balcony with that quiet intensity, his shirt slipping off his shoulders, revealing muscles that moved like liquid steel beneath his skin. It wasn’t just his body that haunted me, though…it was his presence, the way he commanded the space around him without a single word.
And then there was the kiss.
The kiss from the conservatory has been etched into my memory, vivid and consuming. It wasn’t just any kiss…it was my first. My very first. And it wasn’t from Brett, the man I thought I wanted for so long. It was from Zack, the man I wasn’t even supposed to be thinking about.
It had been overwhelming in its intensity, a force that pulled me under and left me gasping. The way his lips moved against mine; the way his hands gripped me like he couldn’t let go... It had made me feel alive in a way I didn’t understand. A way that scared me.
And now anytime I look at him it’s nearly all that I can think about, I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away as I pull on a simple but comfortable outfit…a fitted blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans. Stylish enough for Tod’s, but not so much that I’ll draw unnecessary attention. As I glance in the mirror, I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
This morning isn’t supposed to be about Zack. It’s about proving I belong at the fitting, proving I’m more than just the girl handed an opportunity because of someone else’s influence. But even as I pull on my clothes and run a brush through my hair, I can’t stop wondering if I’ll see him.
He’s in the room next door. The thought alone sends my heart racing. Will I run into him when I leave? Will I catch him stepping out, impeccably dressed, his usual commanding presence impossible to ignore?
I hesitate for a moment, staring at the door, my pulse pounding in my ears. The idea of facing him again makes my chest tighten, but it’s not dread. Not entirely. There’s something else, something I don’t want to name.
When I finally step out into the hall, I glance toward his door, half-expecting it to open. It doesn’t. I breathe a sigh of relief as I make my way downstairs, my heart gradually settling.
But as I enter the dining area, the relief vanishes instantly. He’s there.
Zack sits at a table near the window, bathed in soft morning sunlight that catches the sharp angles of his face. He looks flawless, as always, his suit perfectly tailored, his posture confident and relaxed. My stomach twists painfully, and for a moment, I consider walking away, pretending I haven’t seen him. But it’s too late. His eyes lift from his phone, meeting mine with a calm intensity that makes it impossible to look anywhere else.
I have no choice now but to head over and it severely annoys me that suddenly and unnecessarily my knees feel wobbly.
As I sit down, I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, his focus still glued to his phone. His brow is slightly furrowed, his posture relaxed yet commanding, as though even here, in this casual setting, he exudes control. He doesn’t glance up at me, not even once, and it twists something in my stomach…part frustration, part something else I can’t quite name.
My nerves bubble under the surface, making it impossible to sit still. The silence between us feels oppressive, heavy with things unsaid, so I push my chair back and stand abruptly. If he notices, he doesn’t show it, his attention fixed entirely on his screen.
I make my way to the buffet, my palms damp as I grab a plate. The spread is impressive…fruits, pastries, eggs, juices…but I barely see any of it. My hands move automatically, placing a small omelet and a few slices of toast onto my plate, my mind elsewhere. The glass pitcher of orange juice feels cool in my trembling grip as I pour myself a drink, the faint clink of glass on glass making me flinch.
When I return to the table, he still hasn’t looked up. I set my plate down carefully, easing myself into the chair, trying not to make any noise. My heart pounds, though I don’t know why. He hasn’t spoken to me, hasn’t even acknowledged my presence, yet I feel his energy filling the space between us.
I pick up my fork, my hand unsteady as I take a small bite of the omelet. The eggs are warm, fluffy, and should be comforting, but they might as well be sawdust for all I can taste. My nerves make every chew feel labored, my throat tight as I swallow.
He shifts slightly, the sound of his chair creaking, catching my attention. For a brief moment, I glance up, but his gaze remains fixed on his phone, the faint furrow in his brow deepening as if whatever he’s reading requires his full focus. The silence stretches, suffocating and thick, and I find myself hyperaware of every movement I make…the scrape of my fork against the plate, the faint clink of the glass as I take a sip of orange juice.
I try to focus on my food, but it’s impossible not to notice him. The way his tailored suit molds to his broad shoulders, the subtle tension in his jaw as he sips his coffee, the way his fingers move deliberately across the screen…it’s maddening. How can he be so composed, so unaffected, when my every nerve feels like it’s on fire just sitting here?
We eat in silence, the tension between us growing heavier with each passing moment. My chest feels tight, my breath shallow, but I force myself to keep my head down, to focus on the simple act of eating.
All of this is because I’m exhausted, I tell myself. That’s the reason I’m feeling so much more than I should. So much more tense, more nervous…plus Tod’s. The fitting today. This morning could be the start of something big for me. A career. A future where I won’t just be "Jenny, the chauffeur’s daughter." A future where I’ll be someone in my own right.
The thought steadies me, gives me something to hold onto. This could be my chance to stand on my own, to reach something closer to the Jacksons level. Not the same amount of wealth…they’re in a league of their own…but acclaim. Recognition. Enough to step out from the shadow of my dad’s station and into a light of my own.
I glance down at my plate, pushing the eggs around with my fork. I love my dad, but being around the Jacksons all my life has taught me one thing: I want more. Much, much more.
When I finish eating, I hesitate. My fitting at Tod’s is coming up, and the thought of navigating Rome’s unfamiliar streets alone fills me with unease. I want to ask Zack for a ride, but he looks so absorbed in his work. The idea of interrupting him, of admitting I might need him for something as simple as a ride, makes my stomach churn.
I push my chair back, standing quickly. Better to leave now than wrestle with the growing tension knotting in my chest.
But before I can take a step, his hand shoots out, catching mine. The touch sends a jolt through me, an electric charge that leaves me breathless. So, he was aware of me. Hm. I try to pull away instinctively, but his grip is firm, warm, and unrelenting.
"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice low and commanding.
I turn to face him, my heart racing. His dark eyes lock onto mine, the intensity in his gaze pinning me in place.
"Work," I manage to say, though my voice betrays the storm inside me. My pulse is thundering, the heat of his hand wrapped around mine making it hard to think straight. His grip is firm, just tight enough to keep me there, to remind me that he has the upper hand.
"For Tod's," he states.
"Yes," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
"How are you getting there?" he asks, his voice calm but carrying an edge that sends a shiver down my spine.
"The bus," I say quickly, too quickly. I can feel his gaze tighten on me, like he’s dissecting my words, my reasons.
His brow arches slightly, a flicker of disapproval crossing his face. "The bus?" he repeats, and there’s a weight to the words, a quiet challenge that I can most defiantly place.
"Yes," I say again, firmer this time. But the tremor in my voice betrays my nerves. I can feel his eyes on me, heavy with judgment, the kind of look that makes me want to squirm. He’s dissecting my answer, probably thinking about last night…about the trouble I got into for making the same decision. It’s as if he’s pinning me in place with nothing more than his quiet disapproval, daring me to admit I might need him.
I try to pull my hand free, but his grip lingers for just a moment longer before he finally lets go. The loss of his warmth feels sudden, jarring, but I force myself to straighten my bag on my shoulder and take a step back.
"You’re sure?" he asks, his voice still calm but edged with something sharper. Concern? Frustration? I can’t tell, and I don’t dare look too closely.
"I’m sure," I reply, turning my back before he can say anything else. My steps are quick and deliberate, but each one feels heavier than the last. I know he’s watching me as I leave, and the weight of his gaze presses against my spine like a hand I can’t shake off.
I should’ve taken the ride. It would’ve been easier, safer, and far less chaotic. But the idea of being trapped in the car with him, so close, with his presence filling the air like some suffocating force, is more than I can handle. I need space. I need air. I need time to figure out what’s happening inside my own head with my career and Brett before I let Zack Jackson invade it any further.
The bus stop is just down the block, near a line of small cafes and boutique shops that glitter in the morning sunlight. The street is alive with motion…pedestrians bustling past, scooters zipping by, and the faint hum of conversation blending with the clink of cups and plates from the cafe terraces.
The bus arrives with a loud hiss of brakes, and I step on, clutching the pole tightly as it lurches forward. The ride is bumpy, the city’s cobblestone streets jarring the frame of the bus and making me tighten my grip. My thoughts swirl, a chaotic mess of nerves and doubt.
When I finally arrive at Tod’s, I’m a mess. My blouse clings to my back, damp from the heat, and my hair feels limp, the loose waves I’d carefully styled this morning now frizzy from the humidity. I glance at my reflection in the polished glass of the building’s facade and grimace. Not exactly the picture of a confident, polished model.
Inside, the air is cool and buzzing with quiet efficiency. A receptionist checks me in and leads me to the fitting area, where the other models are already gathered. My heart sinks the moment I see them.
They’re stunning.
Tall, elegant, and so effortlessly beautiful it feels almost painful. One girl has a striking, angular face with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. Another has skin that glows under the soft light, her dark eyes framed by lashes that look like they belong in a mascara commercial. They’re all so distinct, so memorable, the kind of women you’d never forget after seeing them once.
And then there’s me.
I catch my reflection in a nearby mirror as I’m handed a sleek black dress with leather accents for the fitting. My features are softer, less defined. My lips are full, my eyes wide and bright, but there’s nothing extraordinary about me. I’m just... pretty.
Pretty isn’t enough.
My stomach tightens as I follow the stylist toward the main fitting area. The other models are already scattered around, chatting casually with assistants or posing in front of mirrors as their outfits are adjusted. They seem at ease, moving with the kind of grace that feels out of reach for someone like me.
The stylist leads me to a corner where a woman in a crisp white blouse and thick-framed glasses greets me with a polite smile. "You must be Jenny," she says, extending her hand. Her tone is warm, but there’s a sharpness to her gaze that makes me feel like I’m being appraised.
"Yes," I reply, shaking her hand and trying to muster a confidence I don’t feel.
"I’m Elena," she introduces herself. "I oversee all new campaigns for Tod’s. We’re excited to have you on board."
Her words should be comforting, but instead, they feel heavy. Like I need to prove I belong here, like being handed this opportunity isn’t enough…I have to earn it.
"You’re aware of the terms in your contract, yes?" Elena asks, motioning for an assistant to bring over a clipboard.
I nod, though my heart speeds up slightly. "Yes. Three months, covering a range of shoots and events, right?"
"Correct," she says, flipping through the paperwork as though double-checking. "It’s important that you understand what’s expected. Tod’s prides itself on professionalism and precision. Your punctuality, attitude, and adaptability will all reflect on us, so we expect nothing less than excellence."
"Of course," I say quickly, though her words only make the pressure in my chest tighten.
She hands the clipboard to me, pointing to the last page. "Sign here to confirm everything, and then we’ll get started with the fitting."
I scrawl my name across the paper, my hand trembling slightly, and hand it back. Elena nods and gestures to the stylist. "Let’s get her into the first look."
The black dress is sleek and sophisticated, with leather accents that add just the right touch of edge. The stylist helps me into it, carefully adjusting the straps and smoothing the fabric over my shoulders.
"Beautiful," she says with a smile, stepping back to admire her work.
I turn toward the mirror, my heart sinking slightly as I take in my reflection. The dress fits perfectly, hugging my curves in a way that feels both flattering and foreign.
I shift uncomfortably as the photographer approaches, his camera hanging around his neck.
"Jenny, right?" he asks, his voice brisk but not unkind.
"Yes," I reply, trying to steady my voice.
"Great. We’ll start with some simple poses to get a sense of your angles," he says, gesturing toward the backdrop.
I step onto the small platform, the bright lights overhead making my skin feel warm. The photographer gives quick, precise instructions as he begins snapping photos.
"Chin up. Relax your shoulders. Eyes here…perfect."
I do my best to follow his lead, but every movement feels stiff, unnatural. I catch glimpses of the other models out of the corner of my eye, their poses fluid and effortless, and it only makes me more self-conscious.
"Good," the photographer says after a few more clicks of the camera. "Let’s try a smile. Not too much…soft and natural."
I force a smile, but it feels wrong, like it doesn’t belong on my face.
I should be much better than this. Maybe it’s the pressure because this is a much bigger gig… a much bigger opportunity?
I release a heavy sigh and try my best to keep my inner battle off my face.
After the first set of photos, I’m led to a small table where the creative team has gathered. They’re deep in discussion, flipping through sketches and fabric swatches, but they pause as Elena introduces me.’
A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick Italian accent stands and shakes my hand. "Welcome," he says warmly. "I’m Marco, head of design. You’ll be wearing a lot of my creations, so make sure you bring them to life, sì?"
"Of course," I reply, my smile faltering slightly under his expectant gaze.
Another woman, younger and with a clipboard in hand, nods toward me. "We’ll be shooting in different locations throughout Rome. Villa Borghese, the Spanish Steps…iconic spots. Be ready to work hard, but I think you’ll do great."
"Thank you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
As the meeting wraps up and I’m ushered back toward the fitting area, the weight of everything presses down on me. The expectations, the comparisons, the constant feeling of being out of place.
I think of Brett. His easy smile, his endless optimism. If he were here, he’d tell me not to worry. He’d tell me I’m beautiful, that I have nothing to be afraid of. And for a moment, I wish I could hear his voice, feel his reassurance.
But then, unbidden, Zack’s image creeps into my mind. His sharp eyes, his commanding presence, the way he looks at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. What would he say if he were here?
He wouldn’t coddle me, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t tell me everything’s fine or that I’m perfect as I am. He’d challenge me. Push me. And for some reason, that thought sticks with me longer than it should, sending a faint shiver down my spine.
Why does he make me feel this way?
I shake the thought from my head as the flash of light nearly blinds me. It’s just the reminder I need to scrape all of this nonsense out of my head and focus solely on my work.