Chapter 17
Callum
I follow a few paces behind Lucy, my hand still warm from holding her against my chest. As I shuffle between guests in black-tie apparel, I work to regain my composure.
The worst of my anger faded as soon as the hurt flashed across Lucy’s face. Again. So much for our truce.
The baffling thing is that I don’t understand why I was so mad in the first place.
All these years, I’ve prided myself on my ability to maintain my cool, even in emergency situations. In addition to my skill set from the military, my prudence is one of the main reasons Darren asked me to join his new business.
It’s becoming increasingly clear that despite all my qualifications, Lucy Marlow possesses the unique ability to rattle me up and crawl under my skin.
I hate feeling out of control.
She’s become a variable in my behavior. I can’t trust how I’ll act around her.
I’ll be happy once this assignment ends, when I can finally return to my usual routine. Be detached, cool, and levelheaded. Finish jobs with no strings attached. With no one to drive me nuts with their bullshit attitude and refusal to follow a simple order without a fight.
The lifeless faces of the people I didn’t save race through my memory…and then my brain adds Lucy’s beautiful face to the collection.
Every muscle in my body seizes before I manage to banish the vile visual.
I refocus on Lucy’s purple-streaked head as she beelines straight for a slender blond model. The younger, bleary-eyed girl is obviously in the throes of some kind of emotional breakdown.
Lucy makes contact, sandwiching one of the younger girl’s hands between her own.
I don’t get close enough to eavesdrop, but from this distance, the exchange appears heartfelt.
Whatever conversation they’re sharing lifts the younger girl’s spirits.
Soon, she’s smiling through the tears currently creating tracks down her well-made-up eyes.
Lucy grabs a napkin off a table, dips the corner in a glass of water, and wipes the girl’s cheeks.
Once she’s happy with the result, she gives the girl a quick hug before hooking their elbows together and tugging her along, veering toward a gaggle of waiting photographers.
The two laugh, smiling and posing for pictures together.
I cross my arms and chew the inside of my cheek.
I remind myself that Lucy was nuts enough to involve herself with Roguilin. She’s a next-level attention-seeker, willing to risk her life if it means drawing the adulation of the most powerful people in the room.
But that familiar refrain is starting to lose its effect.
This is a problem.
Maybe I should change tactics. If I’m nicer to Lucy and encourage her to open up to me—use me as a safe place to vent her touchy-feely shit—she might grow to trust me. Not completely, but enough for her to reveal where she hid the wallet. The sooner the better.
Preferably before either of us gets shot.
For the remainder of this insipid evening, I trail Lucy around the ballroom while maintaining a little breathing space. I never come close enough to force an interaction.
I’m still trained on her when she finds her way to the congregating slate of other hopeful Runway Revolution contestants, each one dressed to the nines and bouncing off to one side of the massive charity event stage.
A mix of dread, anxiety, and anticipation smother my thoughts.
It must be time to announce the winners of tonight’s competition. Lucy’s put me through hell to reach this moment, so it’d be a waste if she didn’t advance…but also a relief. My job would become about three-hundred-percent easier if the judge’s booted her.
Guests funnel toward their various seats around the decadently dressed round tables, and representatives from the Runway Revolution team bring the room to order.
A woman in red floats to the podium, her dark hair held aloft in an elegant tail by a diamond cuff.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s now time to announce the results of this year’s Fashion for Charity Challenge sponsored by Runway Revolution and our generous donors.
Let’s give a round of applause for our contestants. ”
Polite handclaps build through the space while the models blush, preen, and pose for the press photos, soaking up the crowd like sun-starved succulents.
The projection screen above the stage transitions to life with a flourish, the Runway Revolution logo eating up the center of the screen.
The woman in red addresses the crowd. “This year, we received over twenty-thousand applications and have worked tirelessly to sift through all those candidates and select the best of the best to compete.”
Wows follow her comments.
This is the first time I’m hearing exactly how competitive this event is. No wonder Lucy fought me tooth and nail to enter.
“The fifteen young women you see before you have risen to the challenge, conquering four increasingly difficult rounds of competition to be here tonight. They represent not only the crème de la crème in upcoming talent, chosen for their skill, style, poise, and industry promise, but the next generation of runway models everywhere. Please, join me in congratulating them on all they’ve accomplished. ”
More applause. More wows and blah, blah, blah.
Get to the soul-crushing already.
“I can say for certain that these are faces to watch for in the industry.” She smiles at the contestants before turning her attention back to the audience.
“Unfortunately, only the models featured in the five winning photos from this evening’s charity challenge will get a chance to move forward in this year’s Runway Revolution.
With that being said…it’s time to announce our finalists. ”
The models bounce and grasp each other’s hands, their expressions behind their pageant queen grins ranging from flustered to queasy.
“Will the photographers of the winning photographs also join us on stage for the reveal?” The woman waves to the table full of photo-taking opportunists seated closest to the stage.
Murmurs of excitement ripple through their camp.
Yes, I’m sure they’re all very talented. I’m also certain that most men would find a way to lick their own asshole if that meant spending every day surrounded by the gorgeous women on display.
Additional grumpy, cynical thoughts continue to attack me as the Runway Revolution people prepare to unveil the first photograph.
“In fifth place, with a score of 7.2, I give you Adrian Madriaga, photographed by Germaine Raphael.” When she tosses an arm toward the screen, the photograph bursts to life to the whistles and clapping of enthralled spectators.
The picture in question is a dramatic, colorful solo shot of Adrian—a tall, tan, leggy woman with wavy raven black hair and striking soulful eyes—posed elegantly against the charity’s backdrop.
I don’t know much about fine photography, but from the whispers that swell around me, I glean that this photo is technically perfect but lacks emotional connection. Whatever the hell that means.
Adrian takes the stage and throws herself at Germaine Raphael, a burly, under-spoken photographer with a plain face and thick curly hair.
“In fourth place, with 7.8, I give you Marnie Finn, Wendy Gao, and Renee Toure, photographed by Stephan Q.” A new photograph graces the screen, this one a glamorous group shot featuring three contestants with celebrity guests. The photo has a bubbly, whimsical quality that I don’t love.
The other critics in my vicinity comment that it captures the gala’s elite atmosphere but feels staged. Not that I’m an expert, but I have to agree.
It’s a gorgeous picture of three gorgeous women, but nothing about the scene seems real.
Listen to me, evaluating the winners like I’d even be here tonight if it weren’t for this enormous migraine of an assignment.
My gaze flicks to Lucy with her fingers double-crossed, eyes glued to the screen above the podium on the stage.
The woman at the microphone gestures to the screen once more. “In third place, with a score of 8.1, is Anastasia Enamoré, photographed by Jean-Paul Neoné.”
In the contestant section, a shocked redhead slaps her hand over her mouth in overjoyed surprise, her eyes huge like they just promised her a billion dollars. She glides onto the stage, arms open wide as she crosses to the photographer who took the shot, all to raucous applause.
Above them, an artistic black-and-white photo faces the room. The image captures Anastasia mid-laugh with Dax Winfield, a prominent gazillionaire philanthropist who’s constantly popping up on the net for his good deeds all over the globe.
“She’s showing genuine emotion,” a nearby fashionista muses.
She’s cut off by her more caustic friend, who cocks a hip. “But the broader appeal is limited.”
My neck starts to sweat. They haven’t announced Lucy yet. They may not call her up at all, but either way, I’ll face the consequences as best I can.
More modeling chaos or a dejected drama queen under my protection. I don’t find either option all that appealing.
“In second place,” the woman at the podium struggles to regain the attention of this buzzing den of fashion lovers and benefactor types, “with an 8.6, I give you Loretta Denmark, photographed by X Kennedy.”
They reveal a shot of a striking black woman with long legs who’s helping an elderly donor navigate the venue. The photo seems to demonstrate beauty and compassion, all in perfect lighting. Or at least, that’s what I’m gathering from the lipreading. And it’s a candid shot.
My heart clenches.
Shit. We’ve come to first place, with no mention of Lucy.
Again, my eyes dart to her and the other contestants. They cling to each other as the emcee summons an even brighter smile to her face.
“And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.
In first place, with a score of 9.3,” a drumroll accompanies roving spotlights to build anticipation, “Lucy Marlow and Heather Kincaid, photographed by Christopher Mancini!” This time, the woman applauds, pointing her clapping hands in Lucy and Heather’s direction.
The tension inside me bursts.
Shit. She won. Lucy actually…
The photo appears in breathtaking clarity.
The shot captures Lucy in an unguarded moment, mid-spin in her flowing white designer gown, reaching out to pull the nervous young Heather into the spotlight with her.
The image memorializes Lucy’s striking features, warmth, and confidence as she extends a hand in invitation.
The photographer also showcases young Heather’s natural beauty and her vulnerability.
“This photo tells a story of empowerment.” The woman gestures to the screen as Lucy and Heather float together to the stage. “Sisterhood. And fearless authenticity. We, the judges, felt it perfectly embodied both the charity’s mission and the heart of what Runway Revolution is all about.”
A chorus of whistles heightens the momentum of applause shaking the room.
The photo’s incredible. But beyond that, Lucy’s impressed me more than I want to admit.
All this glitz and glamor is foreign to me, but she’s really cut out for it.
Here I thought she was just a brat with a reckless streak who wanted to be the belle of the ball.
Turns out, she’s a brat with a reckless streak who’s also truly talented at the job she’s passionate about.
And she actually gives a shit about her fellow competitors.
She raised that other girl up, potentially changing the course of the younger model’s life.
I’d be lying if I claimed that reality didn’t alter my own opinion of her.
At least a little.
The contestants on stage hug each other, tears pearling in their eyes. Together, they strike one final pose for the next round of press photos while the woman in red brings the night—and any hopes of this assignment getting easier in the near future—to a close.
“Congratulations to our finalists, and thank you, everyone, for joining us this evening!”