by R. K. Lilley
“I don’t think he likes me, either,” I noted. I was shocked at my own candor. I hadn’t meant to speak those words aloud.
Pasco winced. “Well, then I apologize for that, as well. You deserve better.”
I shrugged. “It’s not your fault. Thank you for a lovely meal. I should probably go. I have an early shoot.”
Diana opened her mouth to say something, but paused mid-motion, mouth agape as the sound of a loud crash boomed through the house. It came from the direction of the entryway.
A moment later, Calder staggered into the room.
It was obvious right away that he was stinking drunk.
I stiffened in my seat. I watched his parents share a look. Diana look worried. Pasco looked furious.
Calder had eyes only for me. “Did you miss me, honey?” he sneered.
So he was a mean drunk. Good to know. Still, I felt like I’d been slapped. Every time I was starting to think he might be nice to me, he went cold, or worse, hostile.
I rose to leave.
“Are you feeling proud tonight, Dad?” he turned to his father. “Look how getting married when you told me I had to made me grow up and settle down. What a wise decision, Father. Good thing you didn’t break your perfect streak of never being wrong.”
“I never told you that you had to get married,” Pasco said with calm, dignified fury. “I only told you that you had to get married to someone I approved of if you wanted the startup capital to get your business back up and running. I think it was a fair trade considering your history of losing fortunes and choosing the wrong bride.”
I thought for a moment that Calder was going to lunge for his father.
“Banks. Please, stop,” Diana said softly. That alone seemed to take some of the steam out of Calder.
“I never should have come,” Calder said bitterly. “Goodnight, Mother.” He turned to leave.
I moved to leave, as well. I hugged Diana. She embraced me back, kissing both of my cheeks.
As I passed him, Pasco’s hand gripped my arm as though to hold me in place. “Don’t go with him, Noura. You should avoid him when he’s like this. He has no manners.”
My husband stormed back into the room. “Oh please,” he scoffed. “Did you think I was inviting her to come with me? Did you think I was going to willingly spend time with my wife? Get a clue. I have other plans.”
Well, wasn’t that sweet?
He left without another word.
After an awkward silence, Pasco spoke, “I know that what I did seems extreme. I’ve suffered the wrath of my whole family because of it. But you have to understand, or at least hear, where I’m coming from.
I didn’t miss the irony that he felt the need to explain this to me of all people, but I just listened.
“Banks was always my most responsible son,” he continued. “And the most stubborn. Did you know that he amassed his own fortune before he was twenty-one? He’s an absolute wiz at sniffing out solid real estate investments. Everyone could see he was going to go very far.” He paused. “And then he met her.”
I knew the her he was talking about. She was tattooed in beauty on my husband’s back. His ex-fiancée. Fatima.
“Do you know who she is?” he asked.
My face was so stiff it felt like it might crack. It’d been a mask of utter stoicism since my husband’s arrival and short departure. A defense mechanism I’d learned for my trade. Unlike my roiling gut, my voice was smooth and turmoil-free as I replied, “I do.”
“She was a sickness in his brain from the start,” Pasco continued. “To this day, he has a total blind spot when it comes to her. And the sad fact is that nothing but ruin was ever going to come of it. She was using him. I told him so. He wouldn’t listen, even with all the red flags. She comes from a very bad family, something he wasn’t concerned about at all. And he knew I disapproved. That’s why they got engaged behind my back. When I found out, I was concerned. Frustrated. Livid. I did something I’m not proud of.” He took a deep breath and shared a look with his wife. She appeared sad, him remorseful.
I just listened, completely silent.
“I went to Fatima,” he continued his rant. “Her not him. I told her that if they married, he’d be disinherited. He could keep what money he’d earned himself, which was not insubstantial, but nothing else. Ever. Not a dime from his family for as long as they were together. For her part, she didn’t leave him right away. Instead she convinced him to go into business with her father. He invested everything, thinking he was betting on their future.” His elegant hands were on the table clenched into fists. “We still haven’t ironed out all the details, but here’s what we know: The money vanished. All of it. He lost everything. That’s the kind of family she comes from. The kind that makes money disappear.
“And people,” Diana added with unexpected vehemence. There was a bitter twist to her mouth I’d never witnessed before. “They make people disappear as well. They’re nothing but common thugs.”
Pasco just nodded like that was secondary to the rest, continuing, “Within a month, she’d left him and married someone else. A French Count, as it happens. A billionaire, of course. Banks took it badly, as you can imagine. After that it was clear my son was heading in the wrong direction. He had been for a while. He wouldn’t listen to anyone, bullheaded boy. Even after she married someone else, it was clear they were carrying on for God only knows how long. And he was not getting better. When an opportunity arose, I grasped it. He’d sniffed out a golden real estate venture and came to me for the money. But I wouldn’t give it to him without a condition: Get married to someone who was not Fatima. He could have chosen anyone, an old girlfriend, a new one. The Bride Catalogue was his idea. He wanted someone who knew the score.
I know my actions seem drastic, but I was desperate. I felt that I had to interfere in his life. To shake it up a bit. Anything was better than leaving it to him.” He shrugged eloquently. “He won’t forgive me. Truth be told, I figured there was a good chance your marriage wouldn’t last, but anything to shift his attention away from that poisonous woman was enough for me. I apologize that you were dragged into it.”
“Please don’t apologize,” I said, voice level but sincere nonetheless. “I wasn’t dragged. I’m here of my own volition. I knew there was little chance any of this would be smooth.”
My words seemed to calm my agitated father-in-law. He nodded once, twice. “You’re more than we could have hoped for. You two could suit very well. I wish my stubborn son could see it.”
“I wish that too,” I said, with absolute, uncomfortable candor. “And thank you for sharing all of this. I think I can understand his behavior a little better now. It helps.”
We said our goodbyes, and I left.
I was surprised to run into my husband at the elevator. I’d thought he’d be long gone. He was using the wall to prop himself up. I couldn’t tell if he was really that drunk or if he was just that pissed off.
“Do you need help?” I asked him calmly, pushing the button to go down.
He straightened and glared at me. “Gold digger,” he spat out. So it was both.
The car arrived and I stepped inside, looking straight ahead. I was so sick of his judgements. His double standards. Finally, I snapped. “I may be a gold digger,” I said succinctly. “But you’re a spoiled rich boy. I heard what your father said about your startup capital. You do know that means that you married me for exactly the same reason that I married you. You’re a hypocrite judging me like that for doing the same thing you are.”
I geared myself for his reaction before stealing a glance.
He looked like I’d slapped him. And I had. Not literally but with the truth.
And shock of all shocks, I’d left him speechless.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
The VS fashion show happened the next evening. I felt more nerves than I had in a long while on the job.
It was more than a world-wide televised runway show. It was
a circus of epic proportions. A camera crew followed every model working the event from their homes to the red carpet, through the extensive press gauntlet, and (once you got through all of that) the backstage, which was as much of a show as the event itself.
All in identical baby girl pink bra and panty sets, with an occasional tiny blush silk robe to cover up outside.
Asha had quite a bit to say about that, but I was getting increasingly good at ignoring her. “Take it up with your boss,” I told her every time she tried to tell me to cover up more.
It all went by in a sort of teeth-clenching blur. I got through it with a smooth poise fueled by my own sheer determination to make a mark.
I had to kill it for this. This was my shot at the big time. The difference between being an ‘it girl’ for fifteen minutes and launching into a full-on lifetime supermodel hall-of-famer. Like my mother-in-law minus the romance.
I’d never had any other talents, so I wanted to be the best at modeling, and this show was my make it or break it moment. If I did well, I’d achieve a long wished-for goal.
Backstage was an absolute madhouse, more of a party than anything else. It wasn’t even just the model chasing usual suspects (though they were there of course) it was a who’s who of tabloid fodder celebrities, men and women both. I spotted famous singers, actors, reality TV personalities, and YouTube influencers and that was only within the first minute.
Someone handed me a glass of champagne, and I toasted and pretended to drink with some random, gorgeous VS models in matching pink. Everyone was very friendly. More so than at any show I’d ever done.
I didn’t have to wonder at the reason for it, since there were cameras everywhere.
One of the show’s staff waved me down and started to lead me to my prep station. It was so crowded that I had to squeeze between strangers to follow.
Some random guy (I thought I recognized him, from television maybe?), tried to wrap his arm around my waist as I attempted to press past him.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he murmured, lips on my ear, hand gripping my ass, voice delighted. “Where have you been all my life?”
He got exactly one second into it before he was dragged away by a beefy, ruddy hand.
I glanced behind me at Chester, who was gripping the man by both shoulders and shaking him. Clearly setting him straight. Good old Chester.
I watched and pretended to take another sip of champagne. No way in hell was I partaking anything with carbonation when I didn’t get to wear more than tiny scraps of silk and lace for the next five hours.
Not today, bloating.
After that Chester made the journey across the room simply by throwing an arm around my shoulders and elbowing his way through the crowd. Unsurprisingly, no one else touched me after that.
I knew my assigned camera crew had caught the whole thing, and I wondered briefly how it might play out, but quickly shook the thought off. No use dwelling. Nothing I could do about it but keep my game face on.
I sat down at my station and let hair and makeup do their job.
“Is your security guard always so protective?” The question was from someone on a mic, pitched loud enough to carry over the noise of the crowd. It came from a friendly woman standing behind my assigned camera crew. I recognized her as one of the people producing the show behind the show.
I shrugged and smiled pleasantly. “When he sees the need. I don’t tend to like being grabbed by strangers.”
Several people laughed.
“You don’t know who that was?” the woman asked. She was smiling engagingly, like she found that fact charming.
I shrugged again, hoping I wasn’t being made a total fool of but fully aware that playing dumb had its advantages. “I don’t, but I have to say he did look sort of familiar.”
The woman addressed Chester, “Do you know who it was?”
Chester was scowling, an expression that didn’t look to be leaving his face anytime soon. He was the only one in earshot that didn’t seem amused by the whole thing. “Some guy who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”
That got a loud laugh. I got the feeling the guy must have been more famous than I realized. “He’s Brooks Ainsley,” someone called out. I shook my head. Didn’t ring a bell. “A recording artist,” the producer explained to me. “He has the number one song in the country right now.” That explained it. I’d been too busy keeping up with Jovie’s K-pop obsession lately to check on the US charts.
“Oh,” I responded. “Tell him we said congrats.” That got a big laugh.
I knew we’d smoothed it over and twisted it to our advantage as best as we could when the producer moved on to cajole some questions out of the next model, looking very pleased with herself. People would be talking about the incident for days, particularly since it’d all been caught on camera. It was as good for me as it was for their brand, and even the handsy pop star would no doubt be pleased at the extra internet hits on his name, even if he was getting dragged.
Wins all around. Free publicity at its easiest.
The next hour showed me a part of the event I hadn’t really understood until it was happening. I was there early for prep, but the array of celebs were there for a different reason entirely. While the models sat wearing barely anything and had our hair teased and makeup caked and baked on, the guests flitted from station to station, studying and judging us like we were pieces of art at an exhibit. It was very odd, more like doing a car or boat show than a runway, where we were on display in a different way.
It wasn’t pleasant, but I plastered a fake bemused smile on my face and bore it well. On the upside it kept me too busy to linger on nerves over the catwalk.
Several of the famous attendees even deigned to speak to me, and the ones that did were even nice. Not surprisingly, Chester’s scuffle with the recording artist had the whole gathering astir. A famous entertainment reporter had caught the entire thing on her phone and insisted on showing it to me.
I watched initially with reluctance, but as I took it in, even I thought it was funny. The man had grabbed at me and been plucked clean away in one second flat. Meanwhile as Chester was clearly berating him, looking like he might pulverize him where he’d stood, I’d watched the whole thing with calm eyes and sipped casually at my champagne.
“It’s already gone viral. They even made it into a meme. You want to see?” the woman asked me.
I said sure and she showed me a GIF of myself. It was the moment I’d sipped the champagne, watching the scuffle with utter composure. Someone had put thug life glasses over my eyes and captioned it with the word BADASS in bold caps.
I found myself smiling. The whole thing had turned into an unexpected confidence booster and it was no doubt good press for me, less so for the pop star, but I supposed that’s what you got for grabbing random women.
The whole event flew by in a frenetic rush that seemed to come to a standstill and rush by in a blur at will, feeling both too quick and too slow. The backstage pre-game passed by too quickly for me to process but also felt like it dragged on with agonizing leisure.
After forever of waiting and before I was ready, I was squeezed into various pieces of exquisitely sheer white lace, strapped into a set of angel wings that almost tipped me over on the spot, and sent down the runway.
This was the first of the two looks I was walking for the show, and even though I had to wear pieces of stick-on nude tape to keep it TV friendly, it was the more conservative of the two. That being said, I was practically naked and felt it keenly with every strutting in five-inch stilettos step.
The usually narrow stage was built wide for the show to accommodate live music acts. I walked to the heavy beat of the drums, letting my hips sway. We hadn’t had a real dress rehearsal. We’d had the music but not the band, so it was only about halfway down the catwalk that I realized who was crooning into the mic.
Brooks Ainsley. Awwwkward.
Luckily, I had too much momentum to let it so much as pause
my steps. I was wary as I passed by him, but he didn’t come near me, in fact tensed up and took a few notable steps away as I moved by. He’d learned his lesson.
I smiled at him and winked. He winced, looked away, and kept singing.
There was a discernible reaction from the crowd: gasps, laughs, cheers. Might as well have fun with it. I added a little jaunty bounce to my steps and an extra sashay air kiss at the end of the catwalk.
I didn’t dare look into the crowd. While an awkward rock star might not make me falter in a walk I’d mastered years ago, I didn’t think I could react so blithely if I spotted my husband in the throng.
As far as I was aware he’d never attended one of my runway shows, and it was easier to just pretend he wasn’t at this one. Finding out otherwise would be hell on my already grated nerves. The man got to me like nothing else could.
At least five pairs of hands started peeling my clothes off my body the second I hit backstage. The show was too frantic to honestly entertain something as frivolous as modesty, so all the dressing room rules were quickly thrown out. I opted for penance over permission on that one. At one point, I clashed eyes with a fuming Asha and it left me no doubt that I’d be getting hell for it later.
Oh well. No time to worry as I was unwrapped from white lingerie and twisted back into a complicated series of thin black velvet straps that materialized into a teddy and somehow managed to show even more skin than the first look. Goodbye, runway virginal color theme. Good riddance.
A small team shrugged enormous black feather wings onto my shoulders, and another helped me step into thigh-high black velvet boots before pushing me gently back into line.
It must have been a quick wardrobe changeover because there were over a dozen models waiting in front of me, eyes plastered to a screen showing live coverage of the show. Everyone was dancing and cheering each girl’s walk as they watched. I had a naive moment where I thought everyone was just being nice before I realized we were all still on camera.
I had the whimsical thought that they should do this at every show. Even fake kindness was worlds better than the usual bitterly competitive backstage vibe.