Chapter 10
Lucy
Using the same amount of effort required to land a man on the moon, I push the phone incident to the deepest corner of my mind.
Luckily for me, distraction is easy in a place like this.
The Runway Revolution production has taken over the ballroom of the Manhattan Ritz-Carlton. Floor-to-ceiling windows brighten the room, and a spotlight follows contestants across a long stage, providing additional illumination. Cream upholstered dining chairs stacked ten-high line the wall.
A makeshift catwalk slices through the middle of the room, with a judging table plopped at the end like the world’s most intimidating middle school teacher’s desk. Sour-faced and snooty fashion aficionados frown at the contestants from their stiff seats.
We strut for our lives, eager to clinch the chance to become a rising star in an industry more cutthroat than…
well, me, this morning, when I literally cut Callum’s throat with my nails.
While I absolutely experienced a transient desire to hurt the man, I never meant to claw him like an animal.
Every time I think about that, debilitating shame slinks into my consciousness.
But then I remember what sent me flying into a rage in the first place, and I’m back to square one, attempting to focus on my surroundings and block out the rest.
I pace backstage, practicing my long strides while absently toying with my silver Celtic knotwork bracelet.
This bracelet is the one possession I fought to keep during my captivity, the one thing that reminds me that, underneath the layers of trauma and fear, Lucy Marlow still exists.
The competition surrounds me, along with the familiar aromas of hairspray, face cream, and extra-strength deodorant. The other models are practiced and polished with portfolios of recent work, swishing their hips and manes of glossy hair that fall within nature’s color palette.
I spent extra time this morning styling my own tresses into sleek waves. The purple streaks catch the backstage lights, identifying me as the odd model out.
Instead of recent jobs to flaunt, I’ve got nothing but a social media following and desperate determination. I just need to hope that’s enough—
Oh my—
Marco Benetti, one of the world’s highest-paid male supermodels, is walking this way.
His career spans luxury campaigns for brands like Versace, Armani, and Tom Ford.
Every aspiring supermodel on the planet recognizes Marco.
He’s like the Tyra Banks of our generation.
What’s he doing at the Runway Revolution auditions? This event isn’t high profile enough for a model of his caliber. And why are his piercing brown eyes trained on me? My mouth goes dry.
The devastatingly handsome Marco possesses classic Italian features. Dark curly hair, a distinguished, striking jawline, and the kind of thin yet chiseled physique that graces magazine covers worldwide.
His polished exterior mesmerizes me. Every thread of fabric touching his skin is designer. That outfit probably costs what I pay in rent…for a year.
I must be hallucinating, because he walks right up to me, kisses my hand, introduces himself, and asks for my name.
I stutter, my mouth dangling open.
“Lucy Marlow!” A backstage manager waves me over. “You’re up!”
“T-that’s me.” My eyes cling to Marco as I climb the few steps onto the raised stage platform.
Holy shit. How am I supposed to focus on my walk when one of the most gorgeous and successful men alive wanted to know my name?
The stagehand touches his headset. “And…go!”
I venture out onto the runway. The lights rimming the edge of the stage and hanging above blind me. After a brief attack of nerves, a sense of calm infuses my veins.
I know what to do. This is my stage.
Traversing the catwalk with my longest, most graceful strides, I sashay my heart out. Near the turnaround point, I sneak a peek at the judges. My focus frays, and budding panic squirms between my ribs.
My best isn’t working. Not today.
I can sense the judges’ waning interest from here. Their bored expressions inform me I’m just another pretty face with attitude. My heart sinks as their eyes drift toward their notes, dismissing me before I’m halfway finished walking.
My palms start to sweat.
What can I do? I need them to look. To really see me.
I need to wow them. Now. Or this whole endeavor will end before it ever really begins.
At the back of the room, Callum plays sentinel, arms crossed as he surveys the space in lieu of watching my performance.
Somewhere between leaving my apartment and arriving on set, he’s managed to manipulate the producers to hire him as part of the show’s security.
Or more likely…Shane Gallagher or Darren exerted pressure and made it happen.
When I found out, I was less than thrilled. Now, however, a reckless idea steals my breath.
Maybe I can capture the judges’ attention and pay Callum back for the little phone incident in one fell swoop. Multitasking at its finest.
The notion delights my vengeful heart so much that radical, off-the-rails confidence inflates in my chest. I’ve got this.
I veer sharply off the designated triangular runway, causing murmurs among the judges as I strut toward Callum.
Whispers fill the room, but I pay them no mind. I’m too busy enjoying the stunned expression on my bodyguard’s face.
Gotcha.
Mr. Control hates surprises, and his eyes widen as I invade his personal space. Whoever’s working the lights does me the favor of training an optic-white spotlight on us. I can’t see anything beyond the ring of brightness, but we should be visible to everyone else.
Circling Callum, I put all my sensuality on display. My movements are deliberate. Seductive. They also come easy. Exactly what I hope the judges want to see.
When I trail my hand across Callum’s shoulders, his muscles tense beneath my touch, but he remains still. Luckily, he doesn’t seem keen on creating a public scene.
“What are you doing?” He grits out the question through barely moving lips.
I lean forward to whisper “winning” in his ear. My fingers caress his chest, just like I did this morning. He flinches, and I relish that tiny crack in his armor. “And getting revenge. I love twofers.”
His breaths come faster. When I flick my eyes up to his, they’re dark, his blown pupils fixated on me.
I can’t tell which emotion he’s struggling with most…
fury or the urge to screw me six ways to Sunday.
A light flush stains his neck. He jerks again as I nip his earlobe.
At his reaction, a rush of heady warmth spreads through my body.
Provoking a response feels like winning the lottery.
This time, I refuse to panic. Refuse to let my mind drag me back to the darkest chapter of my life.
I’m not just paying Callum back. I’m not just impressing the judges.
I’m reclaiming my life.
When I cross back in front of him, he growls at me. “You really think the judges will fall for this schtick?”
“Yep.” I complete my improvised performance with a final provocative pose, draping myself over Callum’s body like he exists to serve as my backdrop. “Wait and see.”
The severe cast to his handsome, angular features only heightens the dramatic effect. He may very well be one of the best fashion props I’ve ever encountered.
The lighting tech cuts my spotlight, creating a temporary blackout. It’s the perfect end to the impromptu presentation of my highly adaptable skill set.
As soon as we’re no longer the center of this grand ballroom’s attention, Callum puts a little distance between us. He’s stiff as a board, but his flush remains, emphasizing the scratches I left on his neck.
Under the regular lights of the ballroom, the judges come back into view. They’re fully engaged now, whispering among themselves with intrigued expressions.
You did it, Lucy. You hooked them!
The excitement fizzing in my chest is unstoppable, a shaken soda can ready to explode.
I hasten back across the ballroom and up the steps to the runway, giving the judges one last glance. After I’ve finished my final poses and introduced myself formally as required, I exit the runway backstage, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
All that’s left is to wait for the judge’s to name the round’s finalists.
Whether I’m chosen or not, I gave my all and turned heads.
And honestly, the real prize was the final glimpse of Callum’s face.
His jaw clenched…his eyes tracking me with an intensity that soared past professional courtesy…
Take that, Kavanagh.