by Stella Gray
“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.
Brooklyn
Chapter 11
I’m banging the kitchen cabinets open and shut, pulling out ingredients and lining them up on the counters.
“And how’s married life going?” my mom asks over my cell’s speakerphone.
“It’s…amazing,” I fib, glad she can’t see the lie on my face. I just got done recapping the honeymoon in Paris, but with all the awful parts left out. “Nothing like I imagined, though.”
“Are you two taking good care of each other?” she prods. “The first few months can be quite an adjustment.�
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“That’s actually why I called,” I say. “I’m making Luka a special dinner because he’s been working so much overtime, and I wanted to get your dark chocolate mousse recipe.”
She laughs, and I realize how much I’ve missed the sound. “It’s three ingredients!”
“I know, I know,” I admit. “It’s just chocolate, butter, and eggs. Salted butter and—”
“Organic eggs,” she says along with me.
“Right,” I sigh. “But I need you to explain all the melting and the beating and the stirring! Last time I tried, it was a total fail. The texture was all gritty.”
“You have to let it cool before you fold in the egg whites,” she says. “I’ll walk you through it. And if you have espresso, you can add some of that too. Does Luka like espresso?”
“Agh! Mom, you’re a genius,” I tell her.
Knowing the mousse has to cool in the fridge for a few hours, I get it out of the way first. Thanks to my mom, it comes out perfectly. After lavishing her with gratitude and promises that we’ll see each other soon, I hang up the phone—only to realize the afternoon is slipping by.
I know it’s possible I’ll never win back Luka’s affection, and that whatever seemed to be blooming between us has been irretrievably lost…but even though the sex we have is fantastic, I can’t live my life waiting for the rare occasion he wants me too much to resist. I have to focus on my own needs. Which means moving forward with my modeling career.
Emzee’s advice was solid. Luka may not owe me anything after what I almost did to him, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get what I want. And while I don’t have any regrets about giving up the contract with Elite—even though it came with the offer of the Maxilene account—my dreams haven’t changed. Getting Luka’s help is my best shot at winning the Maxilene job without having to lie, cheat, or steal.
Mousse done, I move on to the marinara sauce with spicy pepperoncini, Luka’s favorite. I give the sauce a boost with some heavenly Italian sausage I picked up at the deli and let it simmer while I spoon the cooled mousse into cut crystal glasses, topping the desserts off with cinnamon and shaved chocolate before setting them back in the refrigerator. Then I take out the dough I made earlier and roll it through the pasta maker, into perfect ribbons of fettuccine. It’s funny; of all the fancy meals Luka has spent his life eating, spaghetti is the one he likes best.
Sweating and overheated now, I take a well-earned break with Instagram, a few texts with Mateo, and a tall glass of iced tea. As I swipe a flour-dusted hand across my forehead, I realize I’m probably a total mess, but hopefully it will all be worth it. My plan is to play the role of a good wife. A model wife. The kind any husband would be happy to come home to. The kind he’d be more than willing to assist when she oh-so casually brings up her next career step.
Time for my side dishes.
I steam some green beans and toss together a Caesar salad, then round out the meal by roasting pears and sprinkling them with nutmeg, cinnamon, and a touch of cayenne before popping them back in the oven to warm. When they’re glistening, the flesh lined with grill marks, I top them with raisin sauce and set them in the warmer. It feels like I just ran a marathon.
I still have an hour before he arrives, so I set the table for the two of us complete with wine glasses and a tumbler for brandy. Then I get in the shower and wash, shave, exfoliate, and condition myself to within an inch of my life.
Standing in front of the mirror, I take my time massaging lotion into my skin, ensuring every inch of me is soft and supple. Then I lightly blow-dry my hair and twist it into a loose knot with some wisps hanging down—just the way Luka likes it.
I keep my makeup simple yet sexy with a sheer bb cream, tons of mascara, and bold lips—the same lip color I wore last time I took him in my mouth, leaving it smeared on his cock. Lastly, I put on a lacy halter bra, my highest black heels, and a tight black dress with a deep V in the front that I know Luka likes. Finally, I give myself a once-over, pleased with my efforts.
Who knows? There might be more than one dessert on the table tonight.
My belly flutters at the thought.
Shaking off the heat that line of thinking sends through me, I return to the kitchen just in time to hear Luka opening the front door. Quickly, I pour him a brandy and stride into the living room, offering the glass as I drink him in.
My mouth goes a little dry. I didn’t see him before he left for work this morning. I never forget how hot my husband is, but seeing him again after even a few hours’ break always reminds me just how spectacular he is.
“That suit looks great on you,” I say as I offer him the glass.
He hesitates before taking it, narrowing his eyes slightly as if he’s rightly confused.
“Thanks.” He holds the glass as if he’s not sure what to do with it. Then he takes a sip and sets down his work bag, strides to the table to give it a once-over, and turns to look at me.
“What’s going on, Brooklyn?” he asks, suspicious.
I smile wider. “Do you smell that? The marinara is ready. I hope you’re hungry.”
It’s obvious how startled he is. “Wait. You cooked…for me? Why?”
“Maybe I’m just taking my role seriously for once.”
He follows me as I sashay into the kitchen, drawn by his curiosity or his stomach. Probably both. I stir the sauce and lift the lid off the noodles I’d drizzled in olive oil and sea salt.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve had dinner together,” I add. “Go. Sit. I’ll bring you a plate.”
“Brooklyn.” The warning in his tone is weak and I know, at least for right now, I’ve got him. He’s hungry. He’s tired. And I have the cure, in the form of a big plate of made-from-scratch pasta and sauce, and a glass topped off with aged merlot.
The way his eyes rove my body also suggests he’s hungry for more than just the meal. Well. If it comes down to it, I’m willing to let him do anything he wants—not just because I want to insure he hears me out, but because I miss the feel of his body on mine.
He pulls out a chair and sits, eyes tracking me through the doorway. I prepare his plate and bring it over, bending to display my cleavage as I set his food in front of him. I see the muscle in his jaw tighten as he forces his gaze away. Suppressing a smirk, I go back for my own plate, then serve us both a glass of wine. Snapping my fabric napkin, I set it on my lap after I sit.
“How was work?” I ask.
“It was…fine,” he says, then clears his throat. “And how was your day?”
“Excellent,” I chirp. “Now please eat. You’ve earned it.”
My behavior is all very wife-like and proper, and it’s clearly confusing the hell out of my husband. He gives me a steady look as he starts on his salad, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his mind. He knows I’m after something. But it doesn’t stop him from digging in to his pasta. I can tell he’s enjoying it by the way he pauses after the first bite, sighing softly.
I try to keep up with Luka, but I’m so nervous about talking to him that I don’t have much of an appetite.
When he finally finishes his meal and sits back with his wine glass in one hand, his expression is more relaxed. Maybe some of the fight in him has gone.
“So,” I say slowly as I set down my own glass, “I overheard something interesting while I was at the DRM offices visiting your sister the other day.”
One of his brows immediately shoots up. “Oh really. And what was that?”
“Oh, just that the agency is looking for the next Gisele so they can take on Maxilene’s ad campaigns. Exclusively. I mean, if all goes according to plan.”
Luka sighs and starts pushing away from the table. “I knew you were after something. Don’t even ask; the answer is no.”
I put a calming hand on his forearm. “Stop. Stay. Finish your wine and hear me out.”
He pauses, probably thrown by how authoritative my voice was just now. To my relief, he sits back again and reaches
for his glass. “Fine. I’m listening.”
“This isn’t just about me wanting visibility or a paycheck. Think about it. Isn’t it better for your image if I’m successful? A wife reflects on her husband and vice versa.”
He grins but there’s no humor in it. “Obviously.”
I ignore his sharp tone. “Having a strong new model go out for the job would also reflect well on the company, and prove what it can deliver to the industry as a whole. That’s the main goal here, right? Making sure Danica Rose succeeds and presents its best face to the public?”
He sighs but doesn’t say anything. He has to listen to reason, and he knows I’m right.
Taking his drink with him, he retreats to the living room and settles onto the sofa. I follow him, watching him lean back against the leather cushions, his gaze intent on me.
“Well?” I say.
“If you want the job, you’re going to have to do what every other model has to do—audition.”
My heart flutters at the deep huskiness of his voice.
“Haven’t I already proven myself?”
“You want this, you need to do it properly,” he commands.
I go damp between the thighs watching him work at his tie until it pulls free. He tosses it to the side, then slowly loosens the buttons of his dress shirt. I want nothing more than to crawl onto his lap and ride his cock until we both explode. Instead, I set my glass down and move to stand before him, waiting for instructions.
“This is a nude audition. Show me how DRM’s prize new model takes off her clothes.”
I don’t hesitate—in fact, I have to force myself to slow down—as I reach behind my back and lower the zipper on my dress. He watches, eyes dark with lust, as I hold the dress to my chest and pull the straps over my shoulders with my other hand. Slowly, I spin in a circle, glancing at him over my shoulder before I bend low. I can feel the hem rising high up my ass cheeks, exposing the plump lips of my bare pussy, before I stand and complete my rotation to face him. I lower the dress by fractions, showing the firm swell of my breasts, and then I drop it.