Chapter 42
Lucy
Once Nika leaves, I’m too wound up to sit still.
I thought I wanted alone time, but Callum’s home is too quiet. His presence lurks around every corner like a specter feeding off my pain. All the little Callun-like details that delighted me when I first arrived only serve to remind me of him. Of what we shared and how stupid I was.
Even after that scalding, sobering shower, my mind continuously rewinds, analyzing our time together to unravel where and when it all went wrong. When did I commit my fatal mistake?
More than once, I grab my phone and hover my finger over Callum’s number. Each time, I stop myself before hitting the button. The pain of his betrayal cuts too deep.
I can’t face him. Not yet. Maybe never.
At the end of the day, I’m a coward.
I’m reaching for my phone again when it rings.
Blood whooshes in my ears. Callum?
When I flip the phone over, I don’t recognize the number.
A memory of the blocked number that sent the blackmail photo materializes in my mind. What if one of Roguilin’s thugs is calling to harass me?
I drop the phone like it’s a poisonous snake. I’m not answering. No way. If it’s important, whoever’s calling will leave a message.
A few seconds later, a voicemail notification appears. When I check the transcript, I nearly choke on my own tongue.
Marco Benetti has my phone number and wants me to call him back as soon as possible.
I stare blankly at the screen. Half of me wants to pretend like the call never happened, curl up in the fetal position in bed, and drown in my misery.
Except, the only beds here belong to Callum.
The walls close in on me. I wish I’d gone with Nika after all. I don’t want to be here anymore. The faint scent of his cologne lingers in the bathroom, the familiar smell cinching my ribs until I swear they might crack.
Screw it. I hit redial. Any distraction beats dissolving into a pathetic, heartbroken puddle, and at the moment, modeling is all I have left.
Marco picks up on the second ring.
“Lucy.” He practically purrs my name. “I thought I missed you.”
Before Callum, before all of this, Marco directing that sexy voice at me would have incited a gleeful little dance. Now, my pulse never even accelerates. “Sorry! I was in the shower. Is everything all right?”
“You tell me.” His grin is audible. “Are you familiar with the luxury brand Fini?”
That’s like asking if I’ve heard of Gucci.
“Yes, of course.”
“One of their representatives just contacted us expressing interest in using you for an upcoming campaign.”
Shock pries me out of my heartbroken stupor. “Are you serious?”
He laughs. “As the Pope. What are you doing right now? We should chat about this in person, if you’re interested.”
He suggests meeting at a small café only a few blocks from here, and I jump at the chance to escape.
I’ll need a job once the competition ends, whether I win or not, and doing a spread for Fini would be huge. The number of doors that this campaign could open for me is virtually limitless. Better yet, an assignment like this would help take my mind off Callum’s betrayal.
I check the time. “I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“Molto bene.” Marco’s excitement is infectious. “Ciao for now, bella.”
As soon as I get off the phone with Marco, I dig through my suitcase for something presentable to wear for my impromptu meeting. Part of me wants to shower a second time, but I’m literally still wearing a towel.
Once I throw together a chic outfit, apply Visine to my eyes to hide the redness, and slap on a little mascara, concealer, and lip gloss, I text Nika to tell her a work thing came up and that I need to step out for about an hour.
Then I hurry out a side door, careful to evade Ryan’s eagle eyes.
Guilt prickles my skin. Both he and Nika will be pissed that I snuck out without telling them, but I can’t bear their pitying looks. Not without breaking down again.
I hustle down the streets to the café, ducking my chin and battling the urge to check for Callum. He should be the one watching me. He would’ve caught on that I’ve escaped.
Of course, he’s nowhere in sight.
Why would he be? Now that he got what he wanted, he no longer needs to protect me. Or pretend.
My phone vibrates. I let the call go to voicemail before glancing at the screen. When I do, I see that I missed two calls from the DA’s office, along with a text.
Please call.
I also missed two texts from Nika, demanding that I wait for her.
I don’t feel like dealing with either of them, so I silence my phone.
Then I hasten through the dusk-dusted Manhattan avenues until I arrive outside Martino’s.
A red awning overhangs the front door, and inside, red-and-white checkered tablecloths cover each little table.
Flowers and quaint pictures of the Italian countryside decorate the walls.
Scones and cannoli and sugar scent the air.
In a secluded corner away from the windows, Marco scrolls through his phone. He perks up as soon as I come through the door, triggering a serious tidal wave of self-consciousness within me.
I’ve never been alone with someone this famous. Or anyone famous.
After I’m seated, a server brings us a small basket of plain Italian bread and olive oil.
Marco nudges the bread toward me. “Eat, bella. You look positively peaky.”
I hide a grimace. My eyes must still be pink from all the crying. “That’s okay. I don’t think I can eat right now.” I manage a little smile. “But thank you for inviting me. I really appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it. But, dear Lucy,” his eyes crinkle with concern, “you seem to have wilted since I saw you this morning.”
Marco asks a server for some chamomile tea.
I force my shoulders to remain level. “It’s been a rough few hours, I’ll give you that.”
He taps the side of his head. “I’m all ears, as they say.”
Marco’s gentle probing and understanding nods draw out more than I intend to spill. Soon, I’m babbling about my exhaustion, my insecurities, and the pressures of the competition. Even vague references to the threats I’ve been receiving slip out.
When the server delivers the tea, Marco picks up his own cup and blows at the steam while studying me.
“And then, just an hour ago,” I swallow hard, “I had to fire my bodyguard.”
I expect Marco to ask me why, but instead, he only clucks his tongue. “That bodyguard of yours did seem rather controlling. Always hovering, always watching. Must have been suffocating for you.”
I flinch, gazing into my untouched cup. “Yeah…something like that.”
“It seems to me that you need to unwind.” Marco directs another dazzling smile at me. “Why not take a little break and come to my place?”
A few days ago, the suggestion would have sent me spiraling from excitement. An exclusive invitation to a famous fashion icon’s home? Every model’s dream.
Today, I can barely summon the energy to fake a return smile.
“Thank you so much, but I should probably decline.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Today’s been…kind of overwhelming. I think I need to get a good night’s sleep more than anything.”
The warmth on Marco’s face melts away. He readjusts his posture, and the line of his body changes so completely, he almost becomes a different person. He picks a spot of nonexistent lint from his sleeve. “You may change your mind when you see this.”
He exudes boredom. Like this entire conversation is beneath him now.
The hair on my arms rises. “See what?”
When Marco shows me his phone, all the air rushes from my lungs.
I’m staring at Heather Kincaid. My friend and fellow model. She sits on the floor with her wrists bound behind her and tears streaming from her terrified eyes. “Is this some kind of sick joke? I don’t understand.”
Marco’s voice drops to a businesslike tone, all pretense of friendly concern evaporating like water on hot pavement. “I will trade you,” he gives me a mirthless smirk, “her for you.”
Alarm roots in my chest while confusion dizzies my head. Only my years in foster care stop me from reacting. I learned early on that tears and dramatics only cause you to look weak.
Despite the anvil sinking deep in my stomach at the sight of Heather’s face, I need to remain as calm as possible. To be strong for her.
Losing my cool won’t do her any favors.
Cotton-mouthed, I set my jaw. “Why are you doing this?”
“Let’s just say that Viktor Roguilin is a very important patron of mine.” He sips his tea with infuriating calmness. “When he makes you an offer, it is nonnegotiable. And he seems to want you very badly.”
My blood freezes to ice cubes in my veins as the pieces finally settle into place.
This was never about the modeling competition. It was never even about my testimony.
The wallet. It’s all about me and the wallet.
The one I no longer possess.
Under the table, I clutch my phone between my sweat-dampened hands. My thumb presses down on the side button, holding for dear life.