10. Brooklyn
brOOKLYN
“See this?” Emzee huffs. “The model probably tilted her head at the last second. That’s why you get these shadows in the hollows of her eyes and under her nose, instead of a soft illumination highlighting the planes of her face. Amateurish.”
She gestures at the dark areas on the photo with her pen and looks at me expectantly.
“Make sense, or am I just rambling?”
“No, it makes perfect sense,” I say. “Though it does look kind of artsy that way.”
She shakes her head. “Even if the guy arranged this shot intentionally, he shouldn’t have. Shooting fashion photography for DRM is all about being glossy. Flawless. Uncomplicated.”
The image is still beautiful, of course, but the way Emzee just described it may have made more of an impact on me than the actual photo.
We’re standing over a table in one of the large conference rooms at the Danica Rose Management offices, sifting through images from a photoshoot that a group of DRM models went to yesterday.
Emzee is giving each of the hundred or so printouts a once-over with her professional eye.
I’m just along to keep her company before we head out for lunch at Aroy.
We’ve looked at so many photos by now that the colors, faces, and backgrounds are blending together.
I don’t know how she can weigh the small details anymore.
Everything looks the same to me and my brain protests each time she asks for my opinion.
She’s supposed to be judging a potential new photographer’s style—studying the angles, lighting, colors.
Emzee doesn’t seem impressed. She’s been nitpicking every single image. Another Zoric perfectionist.
“There’s too much background focus in these ones. He should have played with the depth of field.” She pulls up another and holds it at arm’s length. “And look. See how her hip juts out all weird? That’ll have to be photoshopped, and you know how people hate that these days.”
I laugh at her angst. “Emzee, you’re stressing over every single picture.”
“Because none of them are right!”
“Then tell your brothers you can’t commit to hiring anyone yet,” I say more gently. “I’m sure there are plenty more out there who’d love to come in and show you what they’ve got.”
DRM has been testing out new portfolio photographers this week, preparing for an influx of work that they hope will be coming to their models soon. It’s all been very hush-hush.
“You seem edgy today,” I add, realizing how ridiculous it sounds as the words leave my mouth.
Emzee is always edgy; it’s her default. Her cool, precise, no-nonsense demeanor rubs a lot of people wrong, but I’ve finally gotten used to it.
In fact, I’m a little jealous of my sister-in-law’s ability to carry herself like an absolute queen.
She shrugs and starts to collect up the images.
“Maybe. It’s just infuriating seeing subpar work from someone who made such a big deal about how they went to ‘Rhode Island School of Design’ and shot a campaign for ‘Chanel’ and whatever.
It’s like being lied to, right to your face.
Besides, I wanted to hire another woman.
There’s way too much testosterone around here. ”
Drumming my nails on the tabletop, I lean closer and smile. “Boy trouble?”
She narrows her eyes. “Look at the men in my family. You think I’m capable of dating?”
It’s a good mysterious answer from her. On one hand, she might mean that she has a skewed view of what men are like.
On the other, maybe she’s saying she wouldn’t want to bring a guy home to meet them.
It isn’t much of an answer, either way. Emzee could very well be dating someone in secret.
But if that’s her choice, I’m happy to respect her privacy.
“Well, don’t worry,” I tell her. “You’ve got Munchkin and he’s perfect.”
“He is, isn’t he?” she coos. “Did I text you the picture of him in his bunny costume?”
“Yep.”
If Emzee has one true love in this world, it has got to be her French bulldog.
I stifle a yawn and glance at my watch. “I’m gonna grab a coffee. Want one?”
She picks up another photograph. Studies it. “Sure. One cream. A pound of sugar.”
My lip curls up. “Since when?”
“Since never. Just kidding. I’ll take it black like my soul, if you please.”
I grin. That’s about as close to humor as I’ve ever gotten with her, and I’m glad. I love spending time with her. Now if I could only make the same kind of progress with my husband.
I was wary of meeting Emzee at the office today, knowing Luka would be in the same building.
He’s acted even more distant ever since our little fuck fest at the body paint show.
It’s obvious his overtime at work is part of his plan to keep away from me, but I’m still hopeful that our physical reconnection means we can tiptoe back into working on everything else.
So I don’t want to risk derailing things by showing up at his office door unannounced.
Heading down the hallway, I hear voices from the break room, getting louder as I round the corner. I hesitate at first, but then slip inside with a polite smile. The two execs don’t even notice me. Their backs are to the door, heads bent as they speak in low tones.
I recognize the man closest to me. He’s on the executive board for DRM and has been working hard alongside the Zoric family to boost the agency’s new image and help them ride out the bad press of the trafficking scandal.
The woman with him is new to me, but she’s in a severe bun, black pantsuit, and spiky stilettos to match, so I’d wager she’s not to be fucked with.
Making my way over to the fancy espresso machine, I grab two mugs from the rack and then take my time pouring the coffees. I’m within earshot from this range, and while I don’t mean to eavesdrop, it’s a little hard not to hear what they’re whisper-shouting about.
They’re discussing a massive casting opportunity. Of course I’m going to listen in.
“We’re creating the next Gisele,” the man stresses. “We can’t go off all half-assed.”
“I get that,” the woman says, “but you have to get our people on board first. You’re talking about a very ambitious plan. What if they pass on our model and go with another Elite girl? Launching a new face is always a risk.”
New face? I open the cabinet and pretend I can’t find the sugar. My heart is pounding.
“Exactly my point!” he says. “Risk, dollars, ambition—it’s the only way this company is going to bounce back. We need a brand-new face. Just think of the multimedia ad campaigns, the social media, the billboards. It’ll be total saturation. KZM will be ubiquitous again.”
“Danica Rose,” the woman corrects him sternly. “The old agency is dead for a reason.”
“I know, I know. I misspoke,” the man says sincerely. “Look, all we have to do is find our golden goose and get Maxilene to sign her—that’s target number one.”
The woman nods. I bite my lip. Maxilene? I pour some macadamia nut milk into my coffee and slowly stir, tilting my ear to catch every last word.
He goes on, “Once she blows up internationally, we strike while the iron’s hot. Leverage that success into a contract that guarantees they hire our models exclusively. We’re talking millions.”
Tingles race down the back of my neck. That kind of contract would make the agency invulnerable…and ensure DRM’s models have a permanent spot in the industry hierarchy. In short, it would fix everyone’s problems in one fell swoop. No wonder this guy is so worked up.
“This ‘exclusive contract’ is just a glint in your eye,” the woman scoffs. “We have to deliver first, convince them we have the roster they need. I know all you see is dollar signs, but you have to be strategic. The agency hasn’t had a strong foothold since the KZ shit hit the fan.”
They’re referencing the trafficking scandal, of course.
I take a little more time doctoring up the coffees, then washing the spoon slowly and deliberately, but they seem to be done talking. As they go off on a tangent about a modeling contract that fell through, I take my cue to leave.
My heart thrums hard in my chest. Darting back into the conference room, I slide Emzee her mug and grip mine in both hands as I sink into the thick leather chair. My mind is racing with possibilities. I want that Maxilene contract.
“What’s that look on your face?”
Emzee’s question pulls me away from my thoughts. I take a sip of my coffee, quickly realizing I put way too much sugar in it. “Nothing. I was just daydreaming about the new Maxilene campaign. I’d kill for that gig.”
She quirks a brow. “So ask your husband to pitch you to them…” Her words are mild, but I catch the hint of questioning in her tone.
I’m sure she knows something is up with Luka and me. She hasn’t come right out and asked about it, but with all the work she does for Danica Rose, she’s around her brother often enough to know when he’s in a mood. She’s said as much to me in the past.
It’s crossed my mind to mention Maxilene to Luka, of course, but there’s never a good time to bring it up, especially considering that we barely speak to each other. And on top of that, there’s my pride. I know I can ask Luka for help, but I’d rather land this job without it.
“I don’t want to use him for this,” I say firmly, lifting my chin as I look Emzee in the eye. “I want to earn it on my own merit. I know I’m good enough. I can give them what they want.”
“I get it.” Emzee nods, respect flashing across her face.
Taking a sip from her cup, she regards me for a few seconds.
“But there’s nothing wrong with asking when you know you’d be the perfect fit.
Didn’t you marry my brother specifically to get better contracts and make a name for yourself?
I’m not judging you for it. I just don’t see why you won’t use all your resources. ”
I hold back a heavy sigh. How can I explain to her that things are different between Luka and me without having to tell her why? Yes, we made a deal. But I no longer feel my husband has my best intentions at heart anymore. Not after what I did to him.
And more importantly, this would be the pinnacle of all that I’ve worked for in my career. Landing the job just because the boss ordered it would undermine my achievement.
“Besides, Brooklyn, look in the mirror,” she goes on. “It’s not like you aren’t qualified to be the next face of Maxilene. You’ll be doing them a favor.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“I’m not going to tell you what to do, but maybe think on it some more.” She rises and collects her things. I take it as a sign work talk is over. “Come on. Let’s go eat.”
As we head down to the parking garage to pick up Emzee’s car from the valet, I think hard about what she said.
She isn’t wrong. I did marry Luka to help further my career.
He may not like me right now, but the fact is, he still needs to meet the conditions of the contract we both signed.
I’ve been spending too much energy on my relationship with him, and not enough on the business side of our partnership.
It’s time to change that. If I’m going to see my dreams through, I need to get my head straight. Make my move.
After all—this is my future on the line.