16. Tori
TORI
As the days passed, Stefan and I found ourselves in a new sort of routine.
It was almost like the early days of our relationship, where we had seemed to reach a place of understanding—although this time, we’d come to terms with our undeniable physical attraction to each other.
I still hated what Stefan did and what he was tied to with KZ Modeling, but if I forced myself not to think about it, my life at home was much easier to bear.
And my relationship with Stefan reflected that. We seemed to reach a place of harmony.
There was so much we couldn’t speak about, so much we couldn’t say to each other, but I found that it didn’t matter for the time being.
We found other things to talk about, other ways to communicate.
The backdoor, shady dealings of KZM were still the elephant in the room, but we both became good at ignoring it.
It helped to remind myself that I would be getting a degree soon—a degree that would get me out of my dependence on anyone else.
I was lucky to have schoolwork as a distraction, too, and I took comfort in knowing that with my education, I’d ultimately remove myself from the tangled web in which my father and the Zorics had entrapped me.
I didn’t know where Stefan factored into that web; how much he himself had woven or if he, at times, felt just as trapped as I did.
There were times, when he was kind and gentle, that I thought he must be feeling just as disgusted with the situation as I was.
And even when he was cruel, or relished his control and power over me, I wondered if he was lashing out because he, too, was helpless to stop his father.
I didn’t know what to think and I didn’t know what to feel. Nothing was simple anymore. Maybe it never had been. But was it so bad to try and enjoy the presence of my husband while I could? Because I did. And it seemed like he was enjoying me, too.
When we were together, I tried to focus on the good that was between us. On the little moments of peace and calm. Moments that seemed to grow and expand every day. Our new normal was based less on mutual suspicion and instead on a foundation of time spent.
Meanwhile, with midterm exams over and a little less stress on my shoulders, I let myself ease up on the study dates with my school friends.
Most days after I got out of class, I’d come home and settle into the big comfy chair in the living room for hours, making sure I kept up with my homework while also taking some time to explore a little extracurricular reading.
I also signed up for an optional extra credit assignment a few hours each week.
It required me to communicate in sign language over video chat with Deaf elementary school students and their parents.
It was difficult, and I knew I signed painfully slow at time, but overall it was incredibly rewarding.
I felt a lot less isolated after completing one of my ASL sessions.
Stefan seemed to be spending more time at the condo too, often bringing his work home with him early in the evening and tapping away on his laptop at the dining room table while I studied.
It became a routine of ours. I grew accustomed to seeing him sitting there, and having dinner with him most nights.
Sometimes I’d bring him a drink or a small snack I’d prepared while I was trying to make myself useful by helping Gretna in the kitchen.
It was on one of these nights—when I’d been madly refreshing my sign-in page on the UChicago website in between chopping vegetables—that my midterm grades officially posted to my student dashboard.
“Oh my god,” I blurted, my voice shaking. “My test scores are in. I got straight As!”
I let out a little scream of victory, and before I knew what was happening, Stefan had run in and scooped me up in his arms, spinning me around in the middle of the kitchen as Gretna laughed gleefully and a stray tear rolled down my cheek.
“This calls for a celebration—Mr. Zoric, the good stuff,” she commanded, pointing to the pantry where the wine was kept.
“My wife deserves nothing less,” he agreed.
Dom Perignon, it turned out, was delicious. And here I had thought all champagne tasted exactly the same.
“I’m proud of you, kitty cat,” he’d whispered in my ear that night, letting me ride him as long as I wanted. I came twice in succession, so hard I had to grit my teeth against the force of my orgasms.
I found that I liked waking up next to him, and sleeping next to him, even on the nights when we didn’t have sex. There was something comforting about knowing he was there, that I could just reach my hand out and touch him if I wanted to.
Sometimes we talked about my program, though we both made sure to avoid mentioning Gavin. I honestly missed studying with him, our coffee breaks between classes, and his always-sunny mood, but I’d told him I was taking some time to myself and he’d been supportive.
Stefan brought up Emzee one night, saying her new boyfriend had stopped by the office that day. I was dying to know what he thought of the guy that Emzee was head over heels for.
“What’s he like?” I asked. “Emzee’s crazy about him. I’m excited to meet him, too.”
“I doubt you’ll get the chance,” he said. “They’ll probably be broken up before spring.”
“Really?” I was shocked. “Your sister made it sound like he was…pretty perfect.”
Stefan scoffed. “You don’t know photographers. Always flying all over the world, heads filling up with new projects left and right. They’re flighty. You can’t trust them,” he said.
“You do know that your sister is a photographer, right?” I teased him.
“Exactly,” he responded. “And you just proved my point. In fact, she’ll probably get sick of him first. She changes boyfriends like she changes outfits. My little sister’s got game.”
We laughed together, and I felt the knot in my chest ease.
From the kitchen, Gretna sang out, “This dinner is about to change your life!”
My mouth watered. Whatever she’d been working on for the past few hours, it smelled amazing. The entire condo had slowly filled with the scent of rich tomato sauce made with fresh herbs, crushed garlic, a pastry baking in the oven, and a plethora of other delights.
“I don’t know what Gretna’s been up to in there,” Stefan said, “but I’m done waiting to find out. I’ll get the plates and utensils, you grab the wine and the glasses.”
I nodded and we split off to get the table set in record time. After we sat down—on the edge of our seats—Gretna carefully brought in the heavy platter. I couldn’t help but gasp.
“Is that a…” Stefan’s voice trailed off, his brow creasing.
At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at.
I had expected one of her expertly homemade ravioli or gnocchi dishes.
Instead, the thing she was carrying into the dining room looked more like a huge pot pie.
It had a smooth, doom-shaped shell and was the size of a basketball.
It smelled like a dream, but the visual gave no indication of what was inside.
“What is it?” I had to ask.
“It’s called a timpano,” she told me proudly, setting it in the center of the table.
“Timpano…that sounds so familiar…” I said.
“It’s an assembly of pasta with onions and cheeses and sausages and meatballs,” Gretna explained. “But it’s all baked in a shell of pasta. It’s everything good about Italian food.”
As Gretna said goodnight and headed out the door, leaving me and Stefan to our dinner, I was momentarily distracted by the sight of my husband shrugging out of his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
I liked that I was one of the few people that saw him this way—tie loosened, top button undone, forearms exposed.
Something about it was intimate, unguarded.
I also couldn’t help relishing the fact that he looked very, very sexy when he took off his clothes.
And then, right as he cut into the drum-like pastry and the scent of Italian spices and sausage rose up into the air, it hit me. “Oh my god! Timpano! It’s the centerpiece of Big Night!”
Stefan’s face lit up with recognition, and his cutting hand froze. “Stanley Tucci? Mid-90s movie? Two brothers trying to save their failing restaurant?”
“Yes!” I crowed. “The chef brother was Tony Shalhoub! That dinner party scene is such a revelation. Course after course, and these people are practically swooning with every bite.”
“You feel like you’re actually sitting at the table with them.” Nodding, he leaned forward in his chair. “And then the scene with them eating their eggs the morning after—that stabbed me right in the heart.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “It’s pretty much the best food movie of all time.”
“It’s definitely one of the greats,” Stefan agreed. Then he looked at me appraisingly. “I’ve never met anyone else who appreciates that movie as much as I do. It’s so underrated.”
I shrugged, pleased and surprised that we had this semi-obscure movie love in common.
Stefan cut two slices of the dish and plated them for us. After pouring a glass of wine for each of us, we took our first bites.
“Mmm,” I practically moaned. “This must be as good as the one in the movie.”
“‘To eat good food is to be close to God,’” he said in an Italian accent, holding up his hand, fingers pressed together.
“I love that quote,” I said, before loading up my fork with another heavenly bite.
“Words of wisdom,” Stefan said.
As I chewed, I tried to remember some of my other favorite lines. It had been years since I saw it last, but I’d watched it many times. It was one of my go-to comfort movies.
“Sometimes spaghetti likes to be alone,” I said, giving my best Stanley Tucci impression and dissolving into giggles.
“Bite your teeth into the ass of life!” Stefan threw in, and then we were both laughing. “What a great movie.”
“And this is the star of the show,” I said, pointing my fork at the serving dish. “I’ve never had a timpano before, but I always wondered if it would be as good as it looked in the movie.”
“Well?” he asked, gesturing. “Is it?”
I took another bite, closing my eyes as I chewed. “‘People should come just for the food,’” I said, quoting the movie once again.
“I know,” he quoted right back at me. “But they don’t.”
I opened my eyes and found that he was looking at me. We both smiled.
The truth was, I’d loved that movie not just because it was all about food and eating, but because it was about family and connection.
Two brothers working together, trying to create a perfect evening, a perfect meal, in hopes that it might save their restaurant and solve all their problems. In the end, they don’t succeed at their original goal—but in the process, they come to realize how important family really is.
I couldn’t help taking this new, shared connection between me and Stefan as a sign.
Feeling emboldened by this new common ground, and like I’d finally gotten my husband to let his guard down, I figured this moment was the best opportunity I’d have at getting him to talk to me about what was going on at KZM. It was now or never.
I took a sip of wine to give myself some courage.
“I want to talk about the agency,” I told him.
His easygoing smile and relaxed demeanor instantly vanished, his expression gone wary.
“I have a few questions,” I went on. “And I hope you’ll answer them, if you can.”
I held my breath, waiting for Stefan’s response. Finally he nodded—one short, curt nod.
“Come at me,” he said. “I’ll try my best.”
Starting slow, I asked, “I want to know how it started. Not just the agency, but everything that goes along with it. The…” I didn’t know how to say it now that we were having a civil conversation. “The illegal aspect of it,” was what I finally settled on.
Stefan didn’t answer for a long time, taking a slow drink of wine as he considered.
“Are you sure you want to know about this, kitty cat?” he asked me.
Even though I got a little thrill at the use of his nickname for me, I knew that it was also a warning. A reminder about curious cats and the dangers that could befall them.
“Whatever it is, I can handle it,” I said, glad that my voice didn’t waver.
Stefan nodded. “When my father emigrated here from Serbia, he had a job waiting for him, something to do with importing. He won’t talk about what kind of work it was, so I’m not sure if he was already into shady dealings, but if I had to guess I’d say it was probably illegal.”
“So when did he start the agency?” I asked.
“The first job lasted a few years, but he had some kind of “professional disagreement” with his boss—probably over something my father did—and he left to start his own business. You think he talks about the talent like they’re a product, and that’s because—to him—they are.
He learned about sales and commissions through that first job.
The models are just another version of goods, as far as he’s concerned. ”
He looked up at me to gauge my reaction. I nodded. “I get it. Not that I agree with it.”
“Yeah. So I have no idea when the agency started offering…additional services. It could have been since day one. Or it could have happened later—I can’t imagine my mother turning a blind eye, and she was smart enough to have figured it out. Maybe it was after she passed.”
Stefan was quiet for a moment, and I inched my chair closer to him.
“Either way, I’ve been aware of it since I was old enough to understand such things. Probably around the time I was eleven or twelve.”
“Wow,” I whispered. That meant KZM had been involved in human trafficking for at least fifteen years. Maybe closer to two decades.
He paused.
“To be clear: we are absolutely a full-scale modeling agency,” he said. “That’s the work I’m mostly involved in. Finding talent, booking them modeling jobs, managing them, contracts.”
I could sense that he was choosing his words carefully, that there were things he still wasn’t saying, but I was grateful (and surprised) that he was being open with me at all. So even though I wanted to know more, I didn’t push. It would only shut him down. I was sure of it.
Stefan continued talking shop. He seemed to enjoy discussing how the agency worked, and what his job entailed.
It was obvious that he took pride in fostering the careers of KZM’s talent and he said nothing about the sex work that went on—almost as if he was willfully pretending it didn’t exist. I’d bet anything that was how he acted at the office, as well.
But if Stefan was telling me the truth—and KZ Modeling truly was a legitimate operation—then why carry on with the seedy side of the business?
It was clear the agency had the potential to run on its own, without Konstantin’s illegal hustling and backdoor dealings.
I could really see the company thriving solely as a modeling agency.
Especially given the success and industry reputation that KZM had built up over the last few decades.
And I couldn’t help wondering—why couldn’t Stefan see it, too?