by R. K. Lilley
I laughed. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’ve got a few years to make up my mind. In the meantime, spill the beans. What is it? How’d you find it?”
“It’s not as obscure as you might think. It circulates pretty heavily in the modeling community.”
“Why’d you do it?” she asked. There was no judgement in the question, just probing curiosity.
“I was in a bad place. I’d spent about four years struggling. Don’t get me wrong, I had some success, but it never felt like it mattered. My life was not improving. No matter what I did, it felt like I was still drowning.”
Our eyes met. “I know the feeling,” she stated.
I was sure she did.
“Most models spend all the money they make trying to prove they’re worth something on Instagram,” she said.
I nodded. “Exactly. The average successful modeling career lasts less than four years. I’ve had more luck at it than most, but I’m well aware that it’s temporary. I started at fourteen, that means I’m coasting on borrowed time and, even with some success, this industry will likely still be done with me directly after my teens. I was making decent money, but nowhere near enough to retire at twenty.”
“God, that’s depressing,” Jovie lamented. “And it’s all true.”
“I wanted to be more,” I explained. I wanted her of all people to understand. “To change my station in life. To be untouchable.”
“And now you’re a Castelo. That’s about as untouchable as it gets.”
I nodded, meeting her eyes squarely. She got it. “It was a lonely choice to make, but I can’t regret it.”
Her hand covered mine. “Your life’s not lonely anymore. If you have one person, you’re never alone, right? You’ve got me. Always.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Banks followed me to Paris. He came bearing gifts in a wealth of aquamarine jewelry. I didn’t recognize it from the family cache. He told me it was a late birthday gift and that it reminded him of my eyes.
And then he stayed with me. I couldn’t quite believe it, and I couldn’t fathom why or how he was able to take so much time away from all of his business projects, but he did for almost two weeks. He shadowed me everywhere like he had nowhere else he wanted to be. He came to all my shoots and took me out every day after I was done working.
We ate at all the best restaurants, extravagant French food or lavish Italian, and somehow he talked me out of counting most of my calories.
We drank cheap sparkling wine at the foot of the Eiffel Tower and expensive champagne at the top.
He spent four hours chasing me leisurely through the Louvre, snapping pictures of me only when I wasn’t posing for them. At one point, I almost fell into an undoubtedly priceless vase.
He caught me with a warm smile, drawing me close. “We wouldn’t want you to fall into anything expensive.”
“Except you,” I teased.
“Fall into me all you want,” he murmured. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m free.”
I lost my breath. My heart pounded. He had changed so much toward me in such a short time, and I couldn’t tell when he was teasing anymore and when he was serious, but I didn’t pursue it any further. I was too wary of him still to push my luck.
We spent a day in Versailles, staring at our golden reflections and making out in every decadent, dark corner we could find.
One day we went on a food and wine tour through the R district. I ate some of the cheese and drank all the wine. He ate double all the things I didn’t like. The stinky soft cheese, the duck pâté, the caviar, and anything that ended with tartar. My palette for expensive, acquired tastes was underdeveloped, to say the least.
We marveled at every inch of Notre Dame for a full six hours, naming as many gargoyles as we could. We found a pop-up book of the city in the gift shop there and went on a tour to visit every single sight we hadn’t already seen. We went over and under the Arc de Triomphe, through the Centre Pompidou, Sacré-Coeur, and Les Invalides.
We took a silly selfie at each one.
Paris was a new chapter for us. I didn’t know why it was so, what had shifted, what was growing between the two of us, and we didn’t speak of it much, as though afraid we’d talk ourselves out of this spell.
It wasn’t my first time in Paris, but it was the first time I saw it through the eyes of a lover.
There was something in the air, a softer filter over the skyline day and night. Rose-colored glasses indeed.
I admitted to him that I loved the French custom of greeting with a kiss on both cheeks. He kissed my cheeks until I giggled and at least twenty times a day after that.
And we talked. He told me about his business interests. The fortune he’d made and lost, the one he was building again. He was passionate about it, which I had a cursory understanding of. He tried to explain it to me. He bought valuable, calculated pieces of land and built on them, then leased out the buildings and made a steady fortune in the bargain. It sounded a bit boring to me, but it clearly drove him. I gleaned that he was just as driven to surpass his father someday.
It was mid-morning. We were still abed. It was my only full day off on the trip, and we were taking full advantage.
I told him about some of my business ideas, things I’d been working on with his father. My ventures were adding up quickly. What had started out as a small idea to collaborate with Morphe for some signature matte liquid lip colors with my name attached had quickly sprouted into a full-on cosmetics line, brushes included. And I’d gone from modeling for Stuart Weitzman to designing my own shoe line.
As I spoke he watched me intently. His eyes were so soft. All that cold gray had gone melting warm.
Why were they melting at me? Why were they melting me?
“Can I ask you something?” he asked me. “I’m not trying to fight, I want to keep this truce. I’m just curious.”
“That sounds ominous, but go for it.”
“Why’d you do it?”
I couldn’t help it, I flinched just the slightest bit. Things were going so well. Why did he want to drag this up? It was bound to happen sooner or later, I supposed.
I chose my words carefully. “I guess I saw the writing on the wall. Models are a dime a dozen. We’re throwaway creatures. For most of my career, I’ve shared a tiny room in a tiny apartment with eight other girls.”
“You make good money,” he pointed out.
My mouth twisted bitterly. “I make great money now. And I did well enough before, I suppose, but most of the money I’ve made has gone toward my family, in one way or another.”
“Tell me about them. Your parents.”
Eyeing him warily, I did. “My dad was laid off at his job at GM exactly one week after my mom was diagnosed with bone cancer. I had the opportunity to move to New York for modeling. I did it. I wanted to be with her, but I felt useless staying when I could leave and help make ends meet.”
“Jesus. How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Is that even legal?”
I shrugged. “My parents agreed to it, so yes, and my agency helped me get set up in an apartment, like I said, with eight other girls. For that they got a percentage of my jobs, and what I didn’t need for food or transportation, I sent back to my dad. Every spare cent I made went to my mother’s bills. None of it saved her. My dad swore it helped, but it clearly didn’t help enough. My mom didn’t last a year.”
“My god. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I regret leaving her. I was so busy working to help that I didn’t see her much in the end. And when she was gone, I still didn’t go back home. I wanted to stay busy. Distract myself out of my grief, ya know? So I stayed, kept working, figuring my dad still needed help with his bills anyway.”
“You were a good daughter.” He had the grace to look sheepish. “I’d heard they passed, but not all the details. Tell me the rest.”
“On March 26th.” I saw him flin
ch at the date, the same day as our wedding. “The two year anniversary of my mother’s death, my dad’s crappy old truck broke down on the side of the road. It was below freezing and his cell didn’t have any service. He fell asleep in his truck and never woke up. Strangers found him a full day later. I was saving up to get him a better car. I was too late by two months,” I finished bitterly. “After that I became obsessed with planning for a better future. I planned how to never be two months behind surviving again.”
He stroked my hair comfortingly and I let him. And I kept sharing.
“Modeling’s a volatile industry. We’re young, vulnerable, and for sale. This business is full of corruption, especially for a single girl without any protection. Not a good scene. When I lost my parents, I felt very alone. And far from safe. I didn’t have anyone. I was so alone. That’s why I’d never had a drink before the wedding. The parties my agency sent me to . . . I was afraid of being drugged. It happened to girls all the time, and they’d just shrug it off, like it was part of the job. I wasn’t willing to shrug that off. Modeling’s not known for its job security. And say I get a nasty scar or gain fifteen pounds. It’s all over. I won’t even get into how fast I’ll age out of it.” I paused. “I wanted security.”
“You could have tried to find security and love.”
I stared at him. “How naive do you think I am?”
“Touché.”
“I’ve seen how it works. Models are treated like commodities to rich men. I decided to make that work in my favor. I wanted to matter,” I continued. “People like you matter. People like me and my family suffer and die tragically and no one cares. Both of my parents died with only me to mourn them. If I became one of you, I knew the world would care when I died.
Anyway, I heard of the Bride Catalogue somewhere along the way. Models talk about it a lot in certain circles, though none I knew ever admitted if they’d submitted their profiles for it. You know, sometimes when girls disappear into harems for a few years, I always wonder if that was the Catalogue. And of course whenever I see a model in her prime hooking up with an eighty-year-old billionaire, I do wonder if it was the Catalogue that set it up. Regardless of all the rumors, though, I was always reassured that the girls had the final say in the arrangements. By the time I turned eighteen, I’d already made up my mind. It certainly turned out differently than I pictured. No one’s ever going to suspect us. You’re too young and gorgeous for anyone to believe you’d need or want to buy a bride.”
“I wasn’t the only one who saw your profile,” he pointed out. “You know there was a bidding war.”
I couldn’t hold back the barest flinch. “I’d heard there was some attention, but I’d never heard it worded precisely that way. Do you think someone will talk?”
“No,” he said after a time. “No one bidding would be well served by outing the Catalogue. Well? Did it work out how you’d hoped? Does this make you feel safe?”
I couldn’t meet his eyes. “In a way, yes.” Mostly. That had been the point of it, anyway. And I did feel safe. Every part of me except my heart.
“I wanted a family,” I said in small voice, still trying to make him understand. “Dysfunctional. For convenience. But there. Present in my corner when the chips fall, as they always do.”
“I get it,” he said softly.
After a time I spoke again. “What about you? Why’d you do it?”
He took a breath so deep that both of our bodies swayed with the motion. “For all the wrong reasons, if I’m being honest. My parents were pressuring me to get married. Their nagging and . . . other things convinced me it was time.”
“Money.”
“Yes. Bribery was a big part of it. Getting my inheritance back had its appeal. Now that I see your side of it, I can admit that your reasons were far more admirable than my own.”
It was a gratifying concession on his part, to say the least. It was all well and good to say you didn’t care whether or not you had someone’s approval. It was another thing entirely to mean it. “Why the Bride Catalogue?”
“I didn’t want to drag an innocent into this. I wanted a wife who knew the score. Who knew I could never be a loving husband. Not some insufferable debutante with stars in her eyes.”
“Why is that?”
“I gave my heart away once. I’m not about to do that again.”
“So you’re still in love with Fatima.”
“I am not. I hate her for lying to me. For tricking me. I hate that I had no idea she was a fucking fortune hunter, when that’s all I’ve ever wanted to avoid.”
It was a dig at her, but of course, I felt it in my own ribs.
“For that matter,” he continued brutally, “I’m not even sure love exists, but if it does, I certainly don’t want to go through it again.”
I kept my face stoic but it was a struggle. “You’ve had every sweet, tender thing you ever felt about love turn sour,” I observed.
“It’s not even about that. It’s about the fact that you can fall in and out of it. It’s the idea that, now that I know it’s not a permanent affliction, it doesn’t mean anything to me. After I realized that, I knew it was all a lie, and that I’d never fall for it again. Once was enough for me. I didn’t want to hurt anybody, so I found someone who knew the score.”
“And here we are.”
He was silent for so long that I didn’t think he’d respond. “And here we are,” he uttered softly. “We make a strange pair, Goldigger.” His tone was rich with affection.
I smirked. “Indeed we do, Spoiled Rich Boy.”
Only a few sour notes drifted into our sphere during those brief, golden days, all of them coming from the same direction.
I got a call from an odd number. I should’ve known better than to answer, but I was on guard with Asha out of the picture and no one yet to replace her, I constantly worried I’d miss a job opportunity if I was too hard to get ahold of.
It was good timing, as I’d just finished a shoot, so I took the call. It was the last person I wanted to hear from, especially with Banks standing a scant few feet away.
“Hello?” I answered, a question in the word.
“Noura,” a warm, poisonous voice poured over the voice.
We’d only interacted once, but I knew instantly who it was. I didn’t say her name. I couldn’t bear to. My eyes were on my husband, who was sending me a questioning look as I said, “Why are you calling me?”
Her delighted laugh was mocking. “A few reasons. But mostly, I didn’t want you to forget about me. Your husband hasn’t. He never stays away from me for long. And don’t take it too personal that he’ll never grow fond of you. His heart’s just not in it. It’s always been occupied elsewhere.”
“He’s fond enough,” I said stiffly. Every word she said was a dagger to the heart. It was little consolation that that was so obviously her intention.
“Don’t let him fool you. He can fuck like a prize stallion, but he’ll always hate you for the simple reason that his father picked you out.”
I was studying my husband’s curious face as she spoke, but I was still listening critically, and I caught the fault lines in what she was trying to convey. She believed her own words. She needed to believe them. And they were wrong. I smiled. At last I had the upper hand. I didn’t hold onto it. Impulsively, I played the hand instantly. “Who told you that? Pasco didn’t pick me out.”
She sucked in a breath audibly through the phone, a ragged, desperate sound.
I’d shaken her; I knew it in my bones.
“Liar,” she hissed back.
I just shook my head. Banks had moved closer and clearly caught some of the gravity of what was happening from my end of the conversation. His brows were drawn together, storm clouds in his storm gray eyes.
“Banks chose me,” I said firmly. “His father had nothing to do with that. Don’t believe me? Ask Banks yourself.” I handed him the phone and left to change.
Of course that wasn’t the end of it. I wan
ted it to be. I wanted to pretend I’d never spoken to Fatima, never heard her words, never knew she existed, but Banks just had to bring it up again.
We were being driven back to the hotel in one the family cars, sitting farther apart than we had since our unspoken truce had begun.
“I’m sorry she bothered you,” Banks said stiffly, not looking at me. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
“Me too,” I said quietly.
He wasn’t finished. “But please don’t provoke her like that. In fact don’t speak to her at all. If she calls, just hang up or hand the phone to me.”
I felt like he’d slapped me in the face but I responded like a pro. “As you wish.”
BANKS
It wasn’t getting better. I’d thought the reason I was becoming obsessed was that the sporadic, addictive bits of contact we had were leaving me too hungry for more. I’d thought if I took a few concentrated weeks to fuck her out of my system, that would nip it in the bud, but it’d had backfired in a big way. My craving for her was getting much, much worse. Not just for her body, either, which was the most worrisome thing of all.
I craved her company as well. Night and day. Waking and asleep, I wanted her next to me, breathing the same air, responding to my every action.
But back to her body. I was insatiable for it. I went to sleep spent and woke up hard again. I told myself that’s why I had to keep her close, but it didn’t explain why I had to hold her while we slept, like I was afraid she’d slip away.
Afraid. That was a funny word, but fear filled me with every bit of emotion she woke up inside me. What did I fear, though? Not her, not anymore. Not her intentions or motivations. The fear came from inside, from the fact that the more good I realized she was, the more I knew I didn’t deserve her. I’d bought her, but I hadn’t earned her.
I was as filthy as she was innocent. The things I’d done in just the first month after our marriage were beyond the pale.
It made the hair rise on the back of my neck just to think about. Had I changed so much since then that I was disgusted by my own behavior now?