Chapter 26
Lucy
The revulsion on Callum’s face slashes through my chest like talons.
Of course. Why wouldn’t I disgust him?
I can’t blame him.
Viktor used me up completely. Carved out everything I had to give, eviscerated my entire being, and left an empty husk behind.
I’m nothing. A filthy, broken toy, once shiny and beloved, now torn apart and abandoned by the dumpster.
Callum’s rejection hits me in waves, dumping barrels of old trauma in its wake. Self-hatred and insecurities from my foster care days crawl out of the pit in my stomach to tangle with more recent wounds.
I silence my sobs with a pillow before stumbling back to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
I should’ve told him about the text. But I couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak. The photo was too humiliating. The knowledge that he saw it writhes through my stomach like worms.
I don’t want anyone to see me like that, but especially not him.
Victim, my demons chant. Whore. Spoiled goods. Untouchable. Undesirable. Unlovable.
I’m dirty all over again.
With shaking fingers, I yank the shower knobs until the water’s on full blast, as hot as it’ll go, and then I step beneath the scalding spray.
I’ll scrub my body some more, until it burns. I’ll rake my skin raw. Over and over. As many times as I can stand.
But no matter how long I scrub my skin before bed, I never manage to purge myself of my insidious past.
In the morning, I force everything from my mind.
Today marks our last competition before the judges choose the three finalists. After this, it’s a set of promo shoots in two days. If I bomb this round, it’s over for me.
And all this pain and suffering these past few weeks—all this drama with Callum—will have been for absolutely nothing.
I can’t let that happen. I owe it to myself to come out of this with something to show. At least I can be proud of the career I’ve built, even if I’ll never be able to truly feel like myself again.
Callum and I don’t speak while we get ready, and the silence weighs down on my shoulders like a cloak. The creeping shame has me aching for yet another shower, even after I’ve meticulously dressed and put on a fresh face of makeup.
His cold, hard demeanor has returned. No sign of the man who knows how to laugh, or the man who kissed me in the middle of a fight. I suppose I’ll never see that man again.
Hot, bitter tears burn the back of my eyes.
I swallow them down.
So what if I’m on my own? So what if he’s just like everyone else?
I have a job to do, and nothing’s going to stop me.
This particular challenge takes place on a dramatic rooftop set with skyline views in every direction.
Midday sunshine beats down on us as set assistants bustle around the concrete with clipboards, earpieces, walkie-talkies, and shades.
Security guards mark all the entrances and exits.
Callum blends in with the rest of them, positioned near the thick padded mat at the base of the set.
The contestants all wear safety harnesses.
Today, we’re going to fly.
A protective net stretches over the matting. Several feet above the net, constructed wire scaffolding stretches up into the sky. The theme for the shoot is “breaking through barriers,” and the Runway Revolution set designers selected avant-garde aerial props.
Brightly colored geometric sculptures hang at various heights from the scaffolding, accented by flowing fabric installments that catch the wind and reflective surfaces that sparkle in the sunlight and cast magical light effects across the rooftop.
They’ll string us from the scaffolding just like the props so we can pose for a series of photographs. Scores from the judges will be combined with votes from fans and competition enthusiasts that cull the remaining eight of us down to three.
And because I won first place in the charity event, I’m the last to go today, right after Heather. Yesterday, this excited me. More time to prepare.
But now, going last just means I have more opportunity to stew on the shit show last night devolved into.
I’m still reeling. The kiss was…so good. I haven’t experienced anything like Callum’s kisses, well, ever.
And even though I thought I’d never want someone to touch me again, never want to get vulnerable like that, every little stolen second with Callum has been amazing. Even his aggression felt incredible.
Until he ran. Disgusted. And for good reason.
Viktor swore I’d be his and his alone.
I shake the memories away, refusing to let them get to me.
The rooftop around me teems with some of the best photographers and industry professionals in the business, yet the only thing my mind latches on to is Callum discovering that sickening photo.
My focus is shot. My nervous system cranks into overdrive, and by the time I’m finally up, my veins vibrate like a hummingbird’s wings.
My mood is toxic.
One of the assistants holds up her thumb. “Ready, Lucy?”
I give a single nod, and she signals the suspension helpers who work the cables off to my left. The whir of a generator nearby warps my hearing. An industrial-sized fan kicks on, ruffling my hair and rippling the silken fabric that caresses my skin.
Sneaking an angry glance at Callum, I nearly stumble in my stilettos. Of course he’s already watching me. Our eyes lock, and for one fraction of a second, his carefully controlled persona cracks. A sliver of emotion swims through those intense green eyes. Remorse? Revulsion?
I miss the chance to decide when the harness tugs at my middle and lifts my feet from the ground.
The apparatus hoists me up a story above where I stood moments ago. Manhattan sprawls out in every direction. The air catches in my lungs. I expected to be scared, but dangling above the rooftop of a New York City skyscraper is exhilarating.
The view from up here is nothing less than magnificent.
I savor the stunning skyline, and for a flash, I feel completely free, until the photographer positions himself and my work begins.
I quickly realize the challenge of working with props from a distance.
I arch my body against the harness, extending my arms and legs toward the hanging geometric shapes. Everything shifts with the wind, which is stronger up here than it was just a few feet below. With each gust, my stomach swoops.
Do your best, be your best, be the best. You’ve only got one shot, my inner taskmaster coaches from the recesses of my mind. I try to heed the instructions, but every few seconds, Callum’s revolted face flashes to the forefront.
Tension tightens my muscles.
My limbs stretch, fueled by powerlessness.
Anger.
Humiliation.
Aggression.
Without any conscious decision, I lash out. My poses become tortured and angular. Powerful in their pain. I throw all my frustration and hurt and rage into the movements. Desperation leaks into the arch of my leg, the twist of my spine.
Clawing at the air, I snatch a fistful of flowing fabric from one of the installations and yank it toward me, wrapping the cloth around my torso like armor.
From below, gasps and scattered applause echo beneath the hum of the generator. Swathed in billowing cloth, I work to adjust the intention behind my poses, aiming for something a little softer.
An odd noise interrupts my concentration. My ears prick.
Clunking. Creaking. Almost like metal.
The scaffolding.
The audience cries out.
I toss my head to locate the problem and spot the culprit. I tugged too hard on the fabric installment, and the entire backdrop system is starting to collapse.
But I should be fine. The harness ropes attach to sturdier parts than the props, so—
“She’s going to fall!” someone shouts.
Panic explodes through my chest as one of the props detaches with a sharp jerk from the scaffolding and drops. A piece of the scaffolding itself follows.
Fear paralyzes me as I sway far above the ground. I can’t even open my mouth to scream.
My ropes slacken, and I plummet, careening down toward the net.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This is going to hurt. Even though the net should catch me, a drop from this height…
Air rushes by me, whipping my gown and hair like loose kite strings. The whistle of ropes lashes past my ears, and the shrieks grow louder. The impact comes, knocking the wind from my lungs.
Though I slam into the net, the pain isn’t as bad as I expected.
Applause and exclamations wash over me as I take stock of my body.
Four intact limbs, check. Head still attached to my neck. And definitely not dead.
A strong burst of relief bubbles up inside me. I’ll sport some bruises, but the net did its job. Though the slack seems a little loose. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be lying directly on the mat.
Wait.
Applause?
Beneath the myriad sensations blooming throughout my body, the scent of cedar and vanilla penetrates. I crack my eyes open.
Callum’s sprawled out on the protective net beneath me, clutching me tightly to his chest.
Not the mat after all.
Callum.
He…he broke my fall?
I gape, my stomach fluttering. I can’t tell if that sensation stems from residual anxiety or something else entirely.
“Callum?”
He winces. “Are you all right?”
“Are you?” I struggle to climb off him, but I’m tangled in the installment, this dress, and—
“Lucy!”
One, two, three assistants pull me off Callum and detangle me from the fabric trapping my limbs.
A few other assistants guide Callum out of the net, but I can hardly see him as I’m half ushered, half carried toward the dressing station so I can be assessed for any injuries.
“Is he all right?” I push for answers.
One guy checks over his shoulder and nods.
The pressure crushing my chest dissolves. Good thing I was the last model.
The set’s in scattered ruin on the rooftop.
Guilt and regret pool in my limbs, weighing me down. I’m lucky no one was seriously injured. I crane my neck to reassure myself that Callum’s truly okay and find him standing tall.
He really does seem fine. Whereas I’m finished. They’ll kick my impulsive ass straight out of the competition for single-handedly destroying the set.
My eyes sting. Not only did I break everything and literally squash my chances of winning, but who knows how many thousands of people watching today’s challenge on social media saw the whole thing?
This is almost as humiliating as the photograph from last night.
I just fucked my entire career.
I bury my face in my hands, trying to stem the tide of overwhelming despair coursing through me.
As the assistants help me out of my dress and back into the outfit I wore to set, I do everything in my power to stop myself from falling apart. But, damn, it’s so difficult.
I’m almost afraid to leave the dressing room. I’m not sure I can handle people watching me with pity and judgment.
I suck in a wavering breath. Somehow, I need to power through this disaster.
Even if powering through involves crawling.
At least Callum’s probably happy. My spectacular, chaotic display means I’m done, and his job gets that much easier. No more heightened risk from the Runway Revolution staff and assorted spectators. Who knows? He might even throw me a party.
When I finally step out, Warren Tanglewood, the photographer, beelines for me. “Lucy, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m so sorry about the set—”
“Don’t be. Look.” He shifts to my side, angling his camera so I can inspect some of his shots.
Unexpected delight fizzes through my veins.
The photos are incredible.
Warren’s talent for photography is insane. He caught the entire display, but instead of a fiasco, the images are breathtaking.
Even without the retouching and editing magic that comes in post-production, I’ve never looked so alive.
I’m an avenging angel, fabric flowing around me in the air currents, the broken geometric pieces scattered on the net below creating dramatic depth.
Even my frozen, terrified expression works. Every element of the last photograph is in beautiful balance with the others, and I’m so beside myself with surprise that I don’t know what to say.
“Lucy, your fearless performance up there was incredible.” Warren beams. “You’ve gone viral already.”
My jaw couldn’t gape more. “I’ve what?”
He holds up his phone, showing me his Instagram feed. Photos and videos of my shoot are stacked on top of each other like building blocks. Comments fly past, lauding the “raw authenticity” and “powerful vulnerability” in my expressions.
And one comment I keep seeing over and over again…people pledging to vote for me.
The lead weight in my body melts away like morning fog.
I lift my eyes and meet Callum’s burning green gaze from across the rooftop.
Guess his job isn’t going to get any easier quite yet.