Chapter 16
Lucy
Every so often, I catch Callum from the corner of my eye as he conducts yet another risk assessment in the beating heart of the exclusive twenty-sixth Annual Charity Benefit for Culture and the Arts.
Women sheathed in designer gowns and men in tailored tuxes weave between tables set with tasteful arrangements of greenery and white roses in sparkling crystal vases.
The ceiling drips with gemstone chandeliers and vines of flower garlands.
The Mayfield Center of the Arts is an elite institution filled with countless modern art pieces, priceless jewels, and a host of conference rooms and ballrooms like this one.
For many in attendance tonight, this equates to a five-thousand-dollars-a-table dinner invitation. For the Runway Revolution contestants, this serves as the next event in a series of modeling challenges we must face before the judges announce the round five finalists.
The winners will move on to the Runway Revolution main stage and kick-start careers that will likely go down in fashion history.
I need to progress to the next round, no matter what.
Modeling is the only thing I’m good at. The one dream I’ve carried with me since childhood. Plus, I’ll feel stupid if I get eliminated right away after I gave up my job at the diner.
Surviving this charity gala is just one more step in the process.
Or at least, that’s what Callum must be thinking.
Based on his expression and body language, I can tell he’s growing irritated by the crowds, the venues, and probably by me—or at least by my “chaotic” career choice. But, damn, does he look amazing in black on black—tailored black suit with a black button-down and gray tie.
Focus, Lucy.
Tonight’s challenge is simple. Model a stunning designer gown for the cameras and get featured in a winning shot from any photographer present. Several famous fashion photographers are in attendance tonight, snapping candids and posed pictures of the models among the crowd.
A few of them have already captured some shots of me, but doubt still gnaws at my stomach lining.
Have I mingled enough? Modeled enough? Am I good enough?
The real crisis of conscience arises because what I told Callum I’m doing and what I’m actually doing aren’t quite aligned.
Prior to the event, he reviewed his security expectations in painstaking detail and shared a list of the attendees he’d already vetted.
We agreed that I could compete tonight on the condition that I don’t linger near any unvetted guests or leave a room without alerting him first.
The plan made perfect sense in theory, but as soon as we arrived, I realized how unrealistic it would be to restrict myself in that manner.
If I only speak to the people Callum deems safe, I’ll come across as aloof.
Tonight’s not just about the pictures. I need to maintain a likable, approachable public image. Or risk putting off my fans and voters.
To succeed in this challenge, I need to do more than wow the judges. The models also receive votes from photographers and other industry professionals we interact with throughout the event. In the last few rounds, the public can also vote online. Tonight, I have no idea who’s who.
I could be conversing with someone’s random plus-one for this charity gala, or I could be engaging with a top industry executive whose vote could make or break my inclusion in the final rounds. I can’t afford to snub someone merely because Callum didn’t add them to his “safe” list.
This industry—and especially this competition—is a war zone.
And the crowd is beginning to get to me. My skin crawls from all the eyes tracking me and assessing my worth.
Cameras flashing before I’m ready, without my consent.
It reminds me a little too much of—
Don’t go there, Lucy.
I signed up for this. I can’t quit. Quitting means letting the bad guys win.
When I spot Marco Benetti in my sightline, parting crowds like Moses parted the Red Sea, my mind clears. He talked to me during the audition rounds, and for some reason, he appears to be approaching me again.
The famous supermodel is just the distraction I need. Straightening my spine and adopting a bright, smiling expression, I greet him.
He kisses my knuckles through my opera gloves. “Ciao, bella.”
Wow. Marco just kissed my hand for the second time.
I bet only world-renowned celebrities can claim the same.
He stands a little inside my comfort zone, his lithe fingers skating over my arm. I urge my tense muscles to get over it. Most models I’ve met have zero regard for personal space, and the room’s crowded. It’s not his fault I’m jumpy tonight.
He launches into a conversation, and I attempt to listen. Really. But I spy another model as she rushes across the room, her face flushed and stained with tears.
A surge of protectiveness swells within me.
“Would you please excuse me, Marco? I’d love to chat later, though, if you have time?” I smile at him without waiting for a reply and hurry after the girl.
Even from a distance, I recognize her fear and naivety. She hasn’t been at it long enough to understand that the modeling world is merciless. The only reason I’m not more freaked out is because I’ve experienced some terrifying shit in my life.
I’ve almost caught up with her, pushing as politely as I can through the throng, when an impenetrable wall of muscle blocks my path.
“Tell me something.” Callum’s voice lowers to a growl. “Do you remember anything we discussed about your safety at this event? You do recall that we’re staying at a hotel for a reason, right?”
Shit. I guess he’s noticed my less-than-stellar adherence to our plan.
“Yes, I remember why we’re staying at a hotel!”
Oops, that came out louder than intended. Marco slants me a curious glance before returning to a discussion with a beautiful fortysomething woman in a slinky red gown.
I offer him a weak smile and redirect my attention to Callum. “And I’m doing my best, I swear.” A lie, but whatever. “I need votes to remain in this competition, and that means I’ve got to talk to people. Even if I don’t know them.”
“What good is being liked if you wind up dead?”
The only retort that springs to mind involves Marilyn Monroe, so I paraphrase her. “Being well-liked and dead aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”
Callum cuts his eyes over my shoulder, glaring at someone. “Votes, is it?” His lip curls into a sneer. “From here, it looks more like you’re gunning for a ride on the casting couch.”
I turn to see who caught his attention—Marco Benetti, of course—while Callum’s words slam into me like a tower of tumbling bricks.
As I scan the crowd for the upset model’s glossy head, I wonder why he didn’t just slap me instead.
That would probably hurt less than the sucker punch to the gut his cruel, exacting insults deliver.
Foolishly, I’d bought into his guise of sincerity when he requested a truce. Sitting up late talking security strategy, I believed we’d created an alliance, and that his hurtful comments were a thing of the past.
Guess I was wrong.
Again.
Aware that there are cameras everywhere, I force myself to remain calm. Despite the mammoth strength of the urge, I can’t kick him in the nuts.
The only course open to me is grace.
“It’s obvious you have a really low opinion of me.” I lift my chin high and meet his needling, green-eyed gaze. “But you’re wrong. You don’t know me or anything about what I’ve been through. And I just don’t care enough about you to prove it.”
“Is that right?” He glowers, sarcastic poison dripping from his deep voice.
“Yes.” Only my training prevents my lips from pulling into a snarl as I peer past him to track the retreating model. “So why don’t you do us both a favor and shove your colorful commentary right up your ass with the rest of your brilliant ideas?”
I pivot to flounce off just as someone barrels past me and steps on the hem of my long white evening gown. I lose my balance, toppling until Callum’s thick arm secures me around the waist and spins me out of the path of four more people who barrel by.
Our chests press together, his body solid against mine. Sturdy.
Safe.
My heart performs cartwheels between my ribs. My neck heats.
And I’m not imagining the way Callum’s eyes drop to my mouth, the way his muscular arm tightens around me.
His cologne—cedar and vanilla—wisps past my face. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
I could kiss him. It would only take a small shift forward…
I push my hands against his chiseled chest, and he releases me.
“You were saying?” His voice roughens with some unnamed emotion.
Ignoring the heat radiating through me from our unexpected embrace, I swallow down the unfortunate attraction and step around him. “Thanks for catching me, but I have to go now.”