Chapter 5
Lucy
My body trembles, eyes prickling with moisture.
In about ten seconds, if I don’t get myself under control, I’m going to have another panic attack.
“Lucy, let me in. I need to check your apartment.”
I ignore his command, my anger pushing aside the fear. “No need. It’s just me in here. No more gifts.”
The last thing I want is Callum barging into my apartment and dominating the space with his overpowering presence.
That motorcycle ride was horrible enough, with his sturdy chest snug against my back and his muscled thighs sandwiched outside my own.
With his masculine hands pressed close to mine.
My pulse beat like a drum the entire ride back.
Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t notice.
Trapped between his body and the handlebars, I should’ve felt claustrophobic. Instead, I think I almost felt…safe?
And a small part of me—okay, maybe not such a small part—enjoyed the sensation of snuggling up to him.
A disconcerting realization, to say the least.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Callum yells through the door.
I march deeper into the apartment. I won’t let the rat or Callum’s stubborn insistence ruin my evening.
This is the home Maya and I have shared together for the past several years. The place where we’ve been the most at ease.
The apartment is a very modest two-bedroom with one bath, a laundry closet, and a small balcony off the den where I maintain a container garden of herbs and edible flowers.
The entire space overflows with plants, as well as Maya’s books and teaching materials.
Posters cover the walls, supermodels from around the world and glamorous magazine spreads too iconic not to frame.
As soon as I enter my bedroom, I kick off my ugly work shoes, strip off the rest of my clothes, and grab a clean pair of yoga pants, a fitted t-shirt, a matching fuzzy cardigan, and the socks Maya bought me.
I wonder how she’s doing. If she were here, she’d roast me over the state of my room. The floor’s barely visible, the ancient hardwood covered in magazines and clean clothes I’ve lacked the motivation to put away.
Almost on cue, my phone blares Dean Martin’s “On an Evening in Roma,” Maya’s theme song.
I try to minimize the residual panic in my voice when I answer. “Hey, sis. I was just thinking about you—”
“Lucy, let Callum in. This second.”
Jaw dropping in disbelief, I stare at my phone before stomping back into the main room to glare at my front door.
That bastard narced on me? I’m not sure who the biggest rat is right now…
“I’m being serious.” Maya’s using her I mean business voice. “This is no time for games. Veronika told me one of the other women named as a witness in the case went missing. And now someone’s sending you threats?”
Eyes drifting shut, I groan in aggravation. “There’s nothing to worry about, May. I’m—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me.” The edge in her tone is simultaneously mothering and sisterly. “It sounds like things back in New York are completely out of control.”
I curl the fingers of my free hand into a fist. “Is that what he told you? Don’t believe everything you hear. He’s—”
“Lucy, I’m going to give you two options here. Allow Callum to serve in his full capacity as your bodyguard—”
“See, I don’t know if that’s going to work out. What’s the other option?”
“Me coming home, and both of us getting out of town until things with the trial blow over.”
I take a few deep breaths, but my frustration doesn’t dissipate.
“Define full capacity.” When Maya’s deep sigh transmits through the phone, I rush on. “You know what? Never mind. I already know I won’t like the answer.”
“You can start by letting him inside.”
A beat passes as I weigh my options. I’d never forgive myself if Maya left Italy just to come babysit my lame ass.
Now it’s my turn to sigh. I open the door and begrudgingly motion my bodyguard inside. Without uttering a single word, straight-faced Callum draws his gun and begins to perform a sweep.
Thankfully, he left the box of rat in the hall.
“Okay. He’s in.”
“Be nice.” Maya chats for a while longer before extracting a promise from me to let Callum do his job. “I’ll call you later. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Our call ends, and I find myself alone with Callum. He must be satisfied that nothing’s amiss because he holsters the weapon.
“Well,” I gesture around the apartment. “I guess that’s it then. I’ll see you tomorrow. Unless you need to do another perimeter sweep.”
Callum tilts his head. “Perimeter sweep?”
Isn’t that what he was doing? Whatever. I’m just going to ignore him.
Luckily, as a model, I’m great at ignoring things.
I ignore the pain in my feet even when it feels like I’ve walked for miles in stilettos.
I ignore the frigid cold temperatures around me while modeling swimsuits for spring catalogues.
I ignore my hunger pangs in the days that lead up to that shoot.
I even managed to ignore the men who circled me like sharks on the auction block.
I can absolutely ignore one man while he inspects my cramped apartment with his critical eye. Or whatever the heck he’s doing.
Though, admittedly, I’m far too aware of his presence.
Spending even a short amount of time enclosed in the same space with him causes my stomach to swoop like I’m on a roller coaster.
Only nerves, I tell myself. I’m just triggered by close proximity to unfamiliar, dangerous men. I want him out. Fast.
And I’m prepared to do whatever I need to do to ensure his stay is as unwelcoming as possible.
Turning away from the living statue at the door, I connect my phone to my stereo and pick the boppiest pop station I can find, blasting the volume as high as it will go.
Callum Kavanagh seems like more of a total silence kind of guy. That or rock music like U2. The Cranberries, maybe.
Not Taylor Swift or Shawn Mendes or Gaga.
I grab my Swiffer mop from the alcove between the ancient refrigerator and wall and start gliding through my apartment. Aggressive cleaning usually sends Maya running, so why not try the tactic on Callum?
I seize every opportunity to cross his path, singing along with the music at the top of my lungs. Instead of moving around the space to check the windows or doors or search for secret microphones or something, he hovers near me.
At one point, he acts like he’s reaching for me. I dance away and grab a potted plant from the corner before shoving it into his hands.
“Water this for me!” He is not touching me again.
More than once, I almost trip him.
Whatever his plan, he gives up after a few minutes, setting my plant back down and retreating over to a shelf near the television. Good.
I’m stopped only by another vibration against my leg. Retrieving my phone, I expect to find a message from Maya pleading with me to act civil toward Callum. Instead, I see an email notification.
“Oh my god.” My voice cracks. “Oh my god.”
Big, buoyant fireworks explode inside me.
I read the message again. I’ve been selected for an in-person audition for Runway Revolution, the most competitive modeling event of the year.
Part traditional fashion show combined with cutthroat reality competition.
Potential contestants need to pass a preliminary screening just to receive an invitation to audition for the event itself.
And I made the cut. I almost can’t believe it.
Finally, some good news.
I haven’t modeled much since before…the ordeal, and truthfully, in the deepest, darkest, saddest part of myself, I’ve feared that my trauma crushed any talent I possessed.
But miraculously, I passed the first two online rounds of vetting and selection, and now… Now, I have a golden opportunity to jump-start my career.
My life.
I refuse to let those sex-trafficking fuckers steal one more thing from me.
It’s not like people get invited to audition for Runway Revolution every day. This could be, and most likely is, my one and only chance to participate. Squeezing the phone to my chest, I twirl in a circle.
My mind explodes into action, with the most important question shooting to the top.
What should I wear?
I need to pull together some carefully cultivated outfits that photograph well but don’t break my budget.
Thankfully, I’ve mastered the art of using affordable clothes to create an expensive appearance through fit and style.
I understand how to build an entire ensemble around a versatile investment piece—a well-tailored blazer, a classic dress—and rotate accessories to create multiple looks.
With only one week to prepare for the audition, I’ve got a lot of planning to do.
The moment shimmers like a bright, exuberant, shaken snow globe full of bliss…until Callum ruins it.
Abruptly, my music stops. The jerkface disabled my speaker system.
“Time to talk, Marlow.”