Chapter 38
Lucy
I’m worried I might start crying and mess up my makeup, so the instant Heather Kincaid crosses my field of vision, I intercept her. She’s lasted this long in the competition even after the charity-ball meltdown.
Her friendly pale blue eyes and blond curls stand out in any room. A bubbly smile lifts her face as soon as she spots me.
She loops her arm through mine, a soft titter in her voice. “Marco’s here again.”
I’m a fan of Marco—who isn’t?—but Heather’s a super fan. If the man is in the room, her attention fixates on him, almost to the detriment of everything else.
At one time, I might’ve acted the same. But things have changed.
My focus resides on an entirely different man.
I try to give Heather and the conversation my full attention. “It’s technically not even a competition day.”
“You don’t think he’s one of the judges for the final round, do you?” Heather adjusts us so we’ll both have a view of Marco chatting with one of the set directors on the far side of the room.
“He could be.” I shrug. “There’s no way to know, though, since all the final round judges are going to be kept confidential until the night of.”
Honestly, final judging is the last thing on my mind.
Earlier this summer, Runway Revolution was a dream among dreams.
Now that this experience is almost over, I don’t know how to feel. When I reflect back on this competition, what I’ll probably remember most will be the time I spent with the man who’s gone missing. The one currently avoiding me and gallivanting off who knows where to conduct secret business.
Heather gasps while squeezing the life out of my wrist. “Lucy, he’s coming over here. What do I do?”
I wince. “Smile.”
“Ladies.” Marco hits us with that million-dollar grin. His pretty face doesn’t do much for me, but Heather all but swoons right into his arms. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.”
Breathless and practically bouncing on her heels, Heather folds her hands together in front of her chest. “Everything’s been so wonderful.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Marco angles toward me. “And what about for you, Lucy?”
My name in his thick accent sounds strange.
I struggle to respond, my blank mind utterly empty of something clever or witty or even normal to say. Thoughts of Callum have completely overshadowed anything useful from my brain.
How can I let that man do this to me?
I’m struggling to not look like an airhead in front of this rich and famous model when the lights overhead begin to flicker.
Heather shifts closer to me. “What’s going on?”
Murmurs kick up. Staff faces begin to pinch as the flickering continues.
“I don’t know, but someone better get to the bottom of it.” Marco waves down a nearby assistant.
Uncertainty soon invades the room. No one’s sure if the lighting malfunction is specific to the ballroom or to the hotel, whether it’s a power issue or a circuitry malfunction. But within half an hour, the competition runners send all the models home for the day.
Ryan finds me in the small crowd immediately. “Shall I call Mr. Kavanagh, ma’am?”
“No. Let’s just go.”
“I’m authorized to take you back to Mr. Kavanagh’s residence.”
“Wonderful.” Because my mood’s completely shot, everything I say comes out tinged with tension.
I follow Ryan to the hotel’s garage, where we climb into Callum’s Range Rover so Ryan can drive me back to Callum’s apartment. How did Callum get to the Gallagher estate? He left us his vehicle and took a cab? Did he run back home to grab his motorcycle?
Imagining Callum riding the subway almost pulls a laugh from me.
I let myself into Callum’s apartment using the all-access key he tossed at me this morning. The small biometric device allows me to bypass his in-depth security measures.
Ryan exits the elevator but doesn’t follow me past the foyer. Instead, he retrieves his phone. He’s probably calling Callum to update him on our location and inform him that the entire promotional shoot got called off for the afternoon.
I head straight for my room. Before I change clothes, though, I check on the crypto wallet.
During the move from the hotel to Callum’s place, I grew nervous about leaving the drive unattended at the bottom of my makeup bag in the show’s dressing room and swapped that hiding spot for the inside of a rolled up t-shirt, which I stashed in my suitcase’s torn lining.
When I grab my bag, a familiar sense of déjà vu douses me from head to toe.
The same feeling I experienced at my apartment when I realized someone had sifted through my things.
My clothes shifted positions from this morning. For one, that blue blouse is on the left side when I know I placed it on the right.
My pulse stutters as I lift the bottom lining. An ice block forms in my gut.
The t-shirt’s gone.
A frantic search confirms that the wallet’s missing too.
I stand frozen, mind racing.
The crypto wallet was here when we left this morning. And now it’s gone.
After what happened last night, I almost told Callum about the wallet, but I didn’t want to mix him up in my drama. He left before I had the chance anyway.
Could one of Viktor’s men have broken in and stolen it?
Sharp needles prick my skin as I survey the room. Nothing else appears out of place, and Callum eats, sleeps, and craps security measures. Someone breaking into his home the way they did mine seems highly unlikely. Impossible, even.
But if Viktor or one of his men didn’t take the wallet, then who did?
My mind dashes through possibilities, each more improbable than the next.
Except for one.
A memory from last night surfaces. In the middle of packing up at the hotel, I decided to take a quick two-minute shower.
I turned the water on and then remembered that I’d already packed my razor.
Leaving the water running, I padded out of the bathroom and found Callum rummaging through my bag.
He claimed he was helping, but in retrospect, I realize he avoided my eyes when he said it.
The insidious possibility hollows out my lungs.
What if Callum rifled through my things and stole the wallet?
I lift my hand, as if warding off the thought. No. He wouldn’t do that. He didn’t even know about the wallet.
But try as I might, my mind can’t summon any other feasible explanation.
Sick dread snakes through my limbs. I don’t want to believe Callum would double-cross me like this. Before I jump to conclusions, I should talk to him.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe a logical explanation exists that doesn’t involve Callum misleading me this entire time.
But money and power are both a hell of a motivator.
I race from the guest room to the foyer, where Ryan Murphy waits. “Take me to the Gallagher estate. Now.”