2. Saar
Chapter 2
Saar
Two years later
“ H mmm…” It’s all my manager says, and the sinking feeling that I’m disappointing him rolls around my stomach.
I’m used to disappointing my parents—it’s their default setting, anyway. It cost me—both time and money in therapy—to accept that Charles and Melody van den Linden only love themselves.
Disappointing someone who became my proxy father when I made my foray into this business—that’s a very different story.
Vito Conti has been with me since I started modeling at fifteen. Rationally, I know that my leaving the industry after twelve years isn’t that unexpected, but it still feels like I’m betraying him.
Vito shovels four spoons of sugar into his cappuccino. The man, with his impeccably styled salt-and-pepper hair and thick-rimmed glasses that accentuate his sharp, intelligent eyes, is always charming and composed.
But when he’s reaching for sugar, I know he’s stressed. That’s his only tell, and I might be one of only a few people who knows that about him.
“Saar, this is…” Vito smooths his silver scarf, which matches his silk pocket square, and licks his lips. “I should have known something was up when you were waiting here for me.”
I frown, failing to connect the dots.
“You’re always late, and here you were chewing on your lip when I arrived. I’m the one waiting for you all the time. And this place,” he huffs. “This is—”
Patrons—mostly tourists—in this busy coffee shop near the Piazza del Duomo in Milan are loud and distracting. I chose the spot for that reason, specifically. Somehow, it’s easier to deal with a difficult situation among chaos.
It’s like the ambiance of chatter and laughter makes the heavy conversation at our table more palatable.
Vito hates it here, and I should have considered that before I lied that I have another meeting nearby and wouldn’t make it anywhere else.
The racket might distract me, making the task oddly easier, but it’s annoying Vito. A fail on my part for sure.
“Vito, I’m exhausted, and I don’t enjoy the work at all. I’m objectified and disrespected and dying from fatigue. I thought about it long and hard, and I’m done. I’m not going to sign any new contracts.”
Why can’t I look at him?
“Saar, principessa, you know you’re my favorite client, and I get it.” He sips from his cup, his gaze roaming the room with contempt before it lands on me and softens significantly. “Of course, I support your decision.”
I open my mouth to argue, but his words sink in, and I blink. “You do?”
A sad smile ghosts his sophisticated features. “Only the best for you, but I’m afraid I have bad news that might force you to revisit your retirement dream.”
Concern mars his forehead, his thick eyebrows pulled together behind his large glasses. He leans forward and takes my hand, holding it between both of his.
The warmth of his palms would be comforting, but I don’t let that lull me. I was prepared for some sort of manipulation, but his grave tone settles eerily inside me.
“There is no easy way to say this.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a pause. “And frankly, I wanted to spare you until I have more details, but in light of your decision…” He takes a deep breath and licks his lips.
“Jesus, Vito, spill it. Whatever it is, I can take it. When have you ever treated me like a porcelain doll?” I pull my hand from his and lean back, crossing my arms over my chest.
An unruly strand bounces off my messy hairdo, right across my eye. I blow it away, but it just springs back. Everything about today is annoying.
It took me a year to finally find the courage to take this step. To walk away from the lifestyle I’ve known since I was a teenager.
And it’s not even the walking away part that prevented me from acting sooner. Or my body that has been screaming for a break after the abuse of fad diets, irregular meals, lack of sleep, and constant jetlag.
It’s the next stage that kept me in the grind of late nights, early mornings, runways, cameras, airports, and fast clothing changes.
The next stage of my life.
When I turned twenty-five, I thought I would first figure out my future career and then I’d quit.
Two years later, I’m just exhausted. My brain is running on fumes, unable to focus or to access enough creativity to find my reinvention.
Vito clears his throat. “Okay, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It appears that your accountant has been embezzling money from you.”
He pushes his unfinished cappuccino away. Like the cup is somehow associated with the bomb he’s just dropped.
I stare at him for a moment, the offensive strand of hair no longer an issue. “Maria?” Like identifying the offender is what’s important here.
Vito has been taking care of my finances, so I haven’t met my European accountant many times. Yet the few times we met, she came across as a kind, competent woman, with pictures of her grandchildren on her desk.
Vito nods. “I don’t know the extent, but there are irregularities I’m looking into. From what I uncovered so far, you need to pay taxes you owe for several years here in Italy, and potentially in the US. And with the penalties, I’m afraid you can’t afford much at the moment. You certainly can’t quit.”
My body heats as if I was standing in front of the spotlights. In fact, the light here feels like a camera in burst mode with a flash on my face. It’s just my blinking.
Vito takes off his glasses and wipes his forehead. I’ve never seen him this uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, principessa, it’s all my fault. You trusted me with your money, and I failed you.”
A shadow of regret flickers in his eyes. The larger than life man shrivels, his shoulders sagging with guilt.
“Oh my God, Vito, it’s not your fault. Don’t you dare take the responsibility. She fooled you. She fooled us both.” My voice carries, and I feel more than see people turning their heads. I lower my voice. “We need to call the police.”
He closes his eyes for a brief moment, sighing. “Saar, before we find out more—and rest assured, I have a private auditor on the case already—we need to keep it quiet. What if she covered her tracks and you’re accused of tax evasion? You know how eager the authorities are to use those who are well-off as scapegoats. It’s good PR for them.”
“Tax evasion?” My hand flies to my mouth. Fuck. “When will you know more?”
“Hopefully by next week.” He takes my shaking hands in his, and this time I welcome the comforting gesture. “Why don’t you return to New York and take a week or two off? We’ll talk once I know more.”
The beat pulses through me. I shimmy with the other bodies, moving in sync. The volume of the music drowns my thoughts and worries. Every muscle and joint screams, begging me for a break.
I’m exhausted, but I don’t let up. The bass thumps in my chest, my skin slick with the humidity of the club. Bodies move around me, their heat mixed with the scent of sweat and alcohol.
I don’t care. Amid this chaos, I can pretend I’m having fun. I can touch the illusion of freedom. And I can be anonymous.
Besides, it’s the only way to make sure I fall asleep at night. Funny how I thought that when I finally had time off, I’d sleep like a baby for a month.
Clearly, my body is so out of whack with any normal cycles that I’ve been unable to fall asleep. My current financial troubles haven’t contributed to my peace of mind. And the uncertain future is surely keeping me up.
The idea of slaving on the runways and at photoshoots makes me want to cry, and I haven’t cried since I was fifteen.
Instead, I’ve been going clubbing every night. A few drinks and hours of dancing are a highly effective avoidance tactic, but only if administered on a regular basis, with no time in between for grim reality to sink its teeth into my consciousness.
Someone’s hard body presses into mine. I rock my hips in the rhythm. I lean into it. Him, by the feel of it.
It’s a slower song. I hate the change of pace. I don’t want intimate, and I have enough melancholy taking up space in my head at the moment.
But I have to admit my body is ready to slow down. Closing my eyes, I let the stranger sway us. A smell of vodka and a way too strong aftershave tickles my nose.
I want to step forward, but it’s like my body is so grateful for some reprieve, I’m unable to follow through on that need.
I might just fall asleep for a moment here on this unfamiliar chest.
Fuck, I should go home.
Home? As if.
When in New York, I used to stay at my parents’ house. But since they stopped talking to us, I would usually crash at Finn’s or Cal’s.
My home this week has been an impersonal hotel room. My brothers are ridiculously happy with their new wives, and I didn’t want to bother them with my moping. Especially since I’m not ready to share my failure with them.
A new song calms the rhythm even further, and I shiver as the dancefloor empties a bit. Only couples pressed tightly together remain moving around us.
Okay, I really should go home. But the smelly guy feels like a welcoming pillow. Maybe I can rest here for a moment longer. Only a moment, for my brain to make my legs walk.
Unfortunately, after a few beats, he dips his head and his mouth dusts my neck. I rock away from him.
Before I manage to leave, he stumbles and reaches for me. I shake off his arm, his touch snapping me out of my dance-induced stupor.
“I’m leaving.” I raise my hand to stop him.
“Come on, don’t be a bitch after you teased me with those moves.” His hand grazes my waist again.
Fucking asshole. I’m not in the mood for this. I spin around to slap him, but my hand slashes through empty space, nothing but air rushing through my fingers.
I waver. I’m not even drunk, but the momentum and the missed target shifted my body. I blink, disoriented. Jesus, I should have left sooner.
A security guard is dragging Grabby Hands away, his face a blur in the flashing disco lights.
Fuck. A decent slap would have been cathartic. I fist my hand, but before I can turn to finally get to the exit, a bulky man steps in front of me.
Another security guy. “Are you okay?”
Wow, this place really takes women’s safety seriously. I smile at him. “Yes, I’m fine.”
What I want to do is to snarl that I can take care of myself. I don’t. Even with my head buzzing with fatigue, I behave.
I’m skilled at keeping my feelings, commentary, and needs in my head. That’s the only way to survive in my industry. No, not mine anymore. Goddammit.
I’m about to turn, but I glimpse the security guy looking up and giving a slight nod. I follow his gaze and groan.
Of course, Cormac fucking Quinn is involved in this nightclub. I’ve purposely avoided all my usual hangouts. Mostly because my friends don’t know I’m in New York.
I’m not ready to talk about my situation and deal with their sympathy or pity. I’m not even sure how to deal with it, and I don’t want to get anyone involved. Especially since my best friend, Celeste, is now married to my brother.
The last thing I need is Finn and Cal snooping around and asking why I don’t work. Or why I need money.
But as it turns out, the last thing I needed was Quinn saving me like I’m some sort of damsel in distress.
It’s funny how our path keeps crossing. It’s definitely not funny how I grew to hate his guts.
And now, he’s Cal’s business partner. Every time we run into each other, he attempts to flirt with me. More like taunting me to prove I’m just a pretty face with no substance.
His gaze meets mine—dark and… well, blank. That’s new. Usually, he rakes his eyes over me like I was his meal.
Perhaps he’s high, but if I ever saw a look void of emotion, that’s the one he’s giving me right now.
He breaks our stare like he’s bored with me already—asshole—and turns back to his companion, a woman with breasts so large I wonder how she keeps from tipping over.
Okay, another club to take off my list of places to get lost in. Does he really own most of them? Is this his pastime? Like that company he started with Cal doesn’t make them busy or rich enough?
After a short cab ride, I arrive at my hotel. Fully awake. Fuck. I don’t know if it’s the Grabby Hands or Quinn’s dead gaze that pumped enough adrenaline into my veins to wake up my brain.
Or I might have just done it myself by not leaving sooner. Now I’m probably so tired I won’t be able to sleep.
I don’t. I stare at the ceiling, trying to quiet my thoughts. The shadows change the white walls while I watch the night meet the dawn, and the streets awakening slowly.
At seven in the morning I take an hour-long hot bath, and finally feel my body and mind shutting down.
Wrapped in my towel, I shuffle toward the bed and fluff the pillows. I drop the towel, enjoying the freedom of being bare, and with a sigh, I sink into the soft sheets. Only to groan right after because the house phone rings. What the fuck?
“Yes?” I snap.
“Ms. van den Linden, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Roger, the day manager. I regret to inform you that your credit card charges have been declined. Do you happen to have another card we can use?”
“Come again?” I must be delirious with fatigue.
“I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Roger—” He takes my damn question literally.
“Okay, Roger, I haven’t slept all night. It must be some sort of a mistake. Just try it again.”
“We tried multiple times and contacted your bank before we bothered you. This card has been canceled. I’m really sorry, but I’ll have to insist you get us another one.”
“I’ll come down.” I hang up and stand.
The ground swirls, but I find purchase on the edge of the bed to steady myself. Shit, I stood up too fast. When was the last time I ate?
Clearly, years of modeling robbed me of basic habits. Fuck. Not bothering with the underwear, I slide into a T-shirt dress I find on the ground in the corner and grab my phone.
While I wait for the elevator, I dial my manager.
“Principessa, I was going to call you. How are you?”
“Vito, the hotel claims my credit card was canceled.”
“But of course, I told you I’ll be canceling it.”
Did he? Fuck, what’s wrong with me? I don’t recall that conversation. “Why?”
“You can’t incur more debt until we understand what’s going on. Your checking account currently has five hundred euros.”
The elevator door opens, and its current occupants stare at me, shuffling to make room, but I don’t get in.
“What exactly are you saying, Vito?”
“Isn’t it too early there? Why don’t we talk after you have breakfast—”
“Stop babying me, Vito, what the fuck is going on?”
The heavy pause on the other side makes me want to throw the phone at the wall.
“Saar, it’s worse than I thought. I’m working with the auditor to prepare the evidence to press charges, but it may take some time. You need to be patient.”
“Patient? I’m staying at a hotel I can’t pay for.”
“Perhaps I can book a job for you while you’re there?”
I shiver at the idea. I’d rather live with my parents. Another shiver tightens the knot in my stomach. Or be homeless.
“No, I’m getting my brother’s jet to fly over there and deal with this shit.”
“Saar, don’t overreact. It’s better I find out all your options first. I’m going to wire you two thousand dollars to settle your current bill.”
“Vito, I can’t take your money.”
“Principessa, it’s the least I can do for you. You’re in this fucking situation because of me.”
“Vito—” I sigh. “Okay, please settle the bill for me here, and I’m going to stay with my friend.”
“Good call. I have business in the States in a few days, so we can sit down and review the situation.”
The idea of having him here gives me an unreasonable jolt of happiness. Vito, with his kind eyes, always stirring me in the right direction, subbing for my father without even knowing it. “Thank you. What would I do without you?”
He sighs. “Saar, I’m going to sort this out. It’s my fault I trusted that woman.”
“Stop it. She fooled me as well. I better go and pack.”
After a moment, he sighs again. “Saar?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you need to look into accessing your trust fund?”
I can almost hear how much it pains him to even suggest that. He knows I want nothing to do with the van den Lindens’ money. Nothing that came from my parents.
“I don’t—”
“I know, I know how you feel about that. But it might be just a temporary solution, so you can settle.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not? Fuck them, they never showed you any affection, so at least now their money can help you when you need it the most.”
“Even if I swallow my pride, Vito, I only get access to those funds once I’m married.”