by K. A. Linde
She heard him loud and clear. Loud. And. Clear.
Asshole.
Chyna passed the sign, ignoring the woman who commented on how pretty the model was, and walked down the street toward Madison Avenue. Tourists flitted around outside of Barneys. Some were walking purposefully with their cell phone plastered to their ear while others were moseying along, occasionally snapping photos. Why they were taking a picture of a department store was beyond her. Didn’t people have department stores at home? Granted this was Barney’s, but still.
She pushed past a crowd of people debating whether or not to go inside and she walked through the doors toward the elevator. The elevator deposited her on the ninth floor, and she strolled into Fred’s for her afternoon luncheon.
The hostess asked for her name, and Chyna was thankful that she had a reservation. The restaurant was packed. She never came here on Saturday afternoons, but some exceptions could be warranted. This was definitely one of them.
She followed the hostess to her table and took a seat. The past two weeks had gone by painfully slow, and she was ready to get back to modeling. She had gone to Milan to prove to herself that she could do something great, and she had done it. Modeling was something she was great at. She had never known how much she would love it though.
She tried to act like she was going to move on and do some other mindless activity like she always did. Alexa was seeing through her act though. She was thankful that she had a friend who would give her space and let her deal with her problems on her own. After Chyna had landed on her doorstep when she returned from Milan, Alexa had been giving her the time she needed. She wanted to help, but they had known each other long enough to know that Alexa needed the push, and Chyna rejected it.
She shrugged the thoughts away, wanting to concentrate on the present. What mattered now was moving forward. She couldn’t change what had happened with Marco—that she had left him…and that note.
How could she have left that? No. She wouldn’t regret it. That note was perfection. It was something he needed to hear, and it was something she needed him to know. She wasn’t going to be tossed aside. Even though he was playing his card by pulling down her picture, it was the only card he had.
She had left him, after all.
Her thoughts vanished as her quarry walked through the restaurant entrance. Cassandra Corsa was a slight woman with more style than anyone Chyna had ever met. A brown dress tied around her neck, cinching in her dangerously slim waist, and pleated slightly into a perfect A-line just past her knees. She wore white peep-toe heels and a white signature Corsa purse. Her hair was parted on the right and pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore accentuating makeup. Chyna couldn’t have guessed her age if she had tried.
Cassandra was a woman who knew the inside and outside of beauty. She could take something ordinary and create something beyond what you could have ever expected. Her family line was made of designers, and she had been in Corsa designs since she was an infant. The Corsa name carried weight and power in the world that Chyna wanted back into, and Chyna wanted nothing more than to use that to her advantage. Plus, she liked Cassandra.
The hostess smiled at Cassandra and walked her back to Chyna’s table. Chyna stood gracefully, leaning forward, as she kissed both of Cassandra’s cheeks.
“Good to see you, dear,” Cassandra said with a smile.
“And, you as well. I’m fortunate that you are in New York this weekend,” Chyna said, mirroring her smile.
“Ah, yes. Business calls,” she said, taking a seat across from her.
A waiter arrived promptly. They both requested water and salads, the customary model diet. Cassandra started haggling the waiter about their variety of wine, and she ended up ordering a bottle of some vintage import. Chyna was hoping that the conversation would be shorter than a bottle of wine. She hadn’t really been drinking much the past two weeks and couldn’t afford a slip up.
“I was surprised to hear from your mother,” Cassandra mused aloud. “I wasn’t even aware that you were related at first.”
Chyna smiled, sitting up straighter in her chair. “Well, I’m glad she was able to reach you.”
“Your Marco wouldn’t give you the number?” she asked, her face giving away nothing.
Chyna breathed in sharply, not wanting to have this conversation. She wanted the modeling job. That was all she was here for. She wasn’t here for Marco. Forget about Marco. He put her on the map, and she damn well was going to keep herself there.
“It didn’t come up,” she answered honestly in as vague a manner as she could muster.
“I saw your spread,” Cassandra noted.
“I think everyone saw it,” Chyna said. “Isn’t he extraordinary?” She wasn’t sure why she was using the same phrasing Cassandra had used at the Glam Ball, but it seemed fitting. She wanted to stay in comfortable conversation.
“He’s young,” she said with a shrug.
She had probably seen many talented young men come and go. Chyna doubted many of them had Marco’s flare. She needed to stop thinking about him. She was obsessed with an imaginary dream, and she needed to let it go!
“A young visionary. I think many have started as such,” Chyna said as Cassandra’s wine arrived.
The waiter popped open the bottle and poured each of them a full glass of red wine. It was truly incredible—sweet but not too sweet and as smooth as butter. She could have drunk the whole bottle herself. Probably not the best idea under the circumstances.
Cassandra sipped from her glass and sighed. “If only it was Italian,” she purred, her face a mask with a smile that didn’t seem to fit her.
“I miss Italian wine,” Chyna agreed. But, this shit was fantastic.
“I always miss my home when I’m away,” she said, swirling the wine around in her glass before taking another sip.
“I can understand that. I’m back in New York after all.”
“This is your home?” she asked, studying her face.
Chyna nodded.
“I would have thought…well, it doesn’t matter.”
“You would have thought what?” Chyna prompted.
“Just something…more. I can’t explain it,” Cassandra said, flourishing her hand to close the conversation. “Well, let’s get down to it. I’ve been up to my ears with meetings since I’ve been here. Why did you call this one?”
Chyna set her glass of wine down on the table and looked back up at Cassandra. She wore the strangest smile on her face. In a way, Chyna wasn’t even sure if you could call it a smile. It was just her face.
“I wanted to talk to you about that job offer. You mentioned that you were looking to add me to your collection, and I just needed to contact you. So is that spot still available?” Chyna asked, finding that she was rambling more than she had thought. Why was she so nervous?
Cassandra reached forward across the table and touched Chyna’s hand. Chyna looked down at it. She was a little surprised that Cassandra would touch her. It seemed out of place.
“What happened?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?” Chyna responded. She was getting irritated for no reason. It seemed like Cassandra was trying to sympathize with her…or pity her. Not only did she have no idea why Cassandra would do that, but it also wasn’t the appropriate response when asking about a job offer.
“With Marco. You were at the height. You were the center.”
“You offered me a job, and he didn’t. Plain and simple,” she said. Nothing about it was plain and simple, but it was the truth. She hadn’t given Marco the opportunity to get that far.
“But, why? What happened? He should have offered you that job. I saw the spread,” Cassandra reminded her.
Why was she reminding her though? Why was she digging? Everyone had seen the spread! Every fashion designer in the world knew what her picture looked like at this point. What did that have to do with anything?
“I don’t know,” she spoke flatl
y. “He just didn’t.”
“Huh,” Cassandra said, releasing her hand and leaning back in her chair. “You don’t know?”
“No,” Chyna lied. She knew damn well what had happened. She had walked out on him. She had ruined it. “But, Marco doesn’t have anything to do with this meeting. I just came to talk to you about the job you offered me.”
“I know, but unfortunately, Marco Moretti has a whole hell of a lot to do with this meeting,” Cassandra said, tipping her glass back and finishing off her first glass of wine.
Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no! This could not be happening. What did Marco have to do with this? What had he done? She could feel the vibrations on the train tracks, but she couldn’t move. The train was coming whether she wanted it to or not, and she couldn’t stop it or slow it down.
“Why?” was the only thing she managed to get out. She was pretty sure that she looked shocked.
“You really don’t know,” Cassandra muttered softly. “Interesting.”
“Care to enlighten me?” she asked dryly.
“You’ve been blacklisted across all design markets. You’re unhirable.”
Chyna’s head swam, and she rested her hand on the table to keep herself from spinning. Blacklisted. All markets. Unhirable. Her throat ceased. She didn’t understand those words, especially not all together in relation to her. She…she couldn’t be. She just couldn’t be.
He wouldn’t do that. She had been on top. She had been everything. Then, one fuck up—leaving him—and that was the end? That couldn’t be the end!
This was what she wanted! He couldn’t steal the one thing that she wanted. It’s not like she had taken anything from him except the break up. She would gladly go back to Italy and let him end it if it meant that he would change this.
She didn’t even know that he could do this. How could he blacklist her? What did he have on her that would justify murdering her career before it had even officially begun?
And, Cassandra was somehow going along with it. After offering her the position at the Glam Ball, Cassandra was now…retracting her offer. Was a blacklist so disruptive that even someone who had already made her an offer could recant the statement?
“So…he didn’t tell you,” Cassandra said.
That was pretty fucking clear!
“Did you come to this meeting just to find out if he had?” Chyna asked her desperately, surprised she still could form words.
“To be perfectly honest, I assumed that you would try to talk me out of it. I thought it might be worth a shot to hear you try. I didn’t expect to be the one to break the news to you,” she said plainly.
She was a plain woman. So plain. Why was she fortunate enough to not be on a blacklist? How did one even get on there?
Chyna was pissed. She had given up so much to go, wanting to find her piece of greatness. And, she still managed to lose it. She lost everything that ever mattered to her.
“Did he say…why?” she asked, clenching her teeth to keep herself together. She was ping-ponging between uncontrollable, fierce anger—the rip-your-throat-out kind—to hyperventilating, soul-crushing depression—with big, fat ugly tears.
“You don’t want to do this,” she told her warningly. “If it were me, I’d let it go and find a new profession. No one in this town or the next is going to hire you.”
“So, he said why,” she muttered, wondering how far he had dragged her name through the dirt to make her unhirable. What did it take?
“He did,” Cassandra confirmed. “But, it might be best if you—”
“What were his reasons?” she snapped, cutting Cassandra off. She could never work for the woman. Who cared what manners looked like when she needed nothing from her? What was she going to do…keep her from a job? Oh, wait…
“Breaking-and-entering and theft mainly, but also, you apparently quit the modeling contract two weeks early without a word, causing him to have to rework his entire layout and lose money,” Cassandra told her flatly. “I don’t know what to think about the first two, but losing money in our business, in any business, will be a good enough reason for most designers. You must have done a real number on him.”
“He’s totally fucked-up!” she told him. Of course! It all made sense now. Theft—she had a one-of-a-kind million-dollar dress tucked away in her closet as they spoke right now. Not to mention, she had confiscated the sex tape and modeling pictures from his apartment before departing. And, she had ended her contract early. The breaking-and-entering was just icing on the cake, but everything else he had said was true. He was trying to make her out to be the worst kind of scum.
What was worse…was that it was working.
“So, you’re not going to hire me?” Chyna asked, just wanting to clarify.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Seriously? Because of one man?” Chyna scrunched her eyebrows together.
“It’s more than that. You don’t understand how the blacklist works.”
“But, I certainly know that you’re following a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Chyna spat at her, furious with Marco for what he had done. “And, you’ll regret it.”
“Why would I regret it?” Cassandra asked plainly.
“Because I’m the best.”
“Every model thinks that.”
Chyna scoffed. “Go back and look at that spread. The only reason he put me on that list is because he can’t have me,” Chyna said, pushing her chair back, “and he doesn’t want anyone else to either.”
“That may be,” Cassandra conceded. “But, in your position, I would just be glad that he’s not pressing charges,” she said softly. She actually looked a bit sad.
“And, isn’t that strange? I mean, all things considered,” Chyna snapped, knowing it was a better defense than denying the charges.
“It is,” Cassandra admitted.
“Right,” she said, popping the t at the end of the word, as she rose from her chair. “I would think about what I said. You’re the one letting him win.”
Cassandra slowly stood, too. She extended her hand toward Chyna who reluctantly shook it. Chyna was surprised she was even receiving this much hospitality. It wasn’t quite the warm welcome she had received at the Glam Ball.
“I’m sorry about Marco,” Cassandra finally said.
“Don’t be,” Chyna said viciously, trying to pull her hand back.
“I think he was madly in love with you,” she whispered, staring intently into Chyna’s green eyes.
Chyna’s mouth popped open in surprise. She was not expecting that. “Then, you don’t know the first thing about love.”
Cassandra sighed and shook her head, releasing her hand. “I wish you did.”
She wrenched her hand back from Cassandra. How dare she! What a nosy little bitch! She had no right to presume anything about her or Marco. She certainly had no right to dash her dreams and then shove the stupid L-word down her throat. How would she even know if Marco loved her? He was a player, and she wanted to be played. When she didn’t want to be played any longer, she left. There was no added complication and no secret devotion between them. They were just two people who wanted to be fucked as they tried to get ahead.
Chyna grabbed her purse off the ground, took one last fleeting glance at Cassandra Corsa, and then left the restaurant with her last shred of dignity. She was barely keeping it together.
By the time she made it out of Barneys, Chyna thought she was going to combust. Her hands were balled into fists and shaking. Her jaw was set, and she thought she might scream any second. Short angry bursts escaped her mouth, and people passing by glanced at her nervously. She let out a string of expletives, cursing everything under the sun for her existence today. More people stared, but she didn’t care. She was seeing red.
She took a seat on an empty bench and pulled out her phone. Alexa would make it better. She would understand…except Chyna hadn’t told her everything that had happened. They had breezed over the details when she had landed at her door. Of course,
she knew about the cover spread, but that was what she had been in Milan for in the first place. Not that she was trying to hide it from Alexa. She had told her about Marco, but Alexa had assumed, as most people would, that it was a just a fling. Nothing more. She just hadn’t gone into the details.
Plus, Alexa was leaving for Atlanta today. Another harebrained idea to deal with her men. Why couldn’t either of them manage relationships?
Chyna figured that at least she had one person left whom she could always vent to. Pressing Frederick’s number, she waited for him to answer.
“Sugar, it’s been a while since I’ve heard your sweet voice,” Frederick crooned into the phone.
“Hey,” she said, her voice lacking her normal pep. “Can you talk?”
“I’m at work but sure,” he said, kind of taken aback by her somber tone.
She usually took her lows to Alexa, but she couldn’t right now. Maybe she just wanted him to call her a bitch and be done with it.
“I can’t sugarcoat it,” she said, swallowing. She had cried once before, and the crumbling of her dreams should have warranted the same emotional breakdown. But she would not cry over this. At least this time, she found her anger. “I really fucked up.”
“What else is new? Tell me?” he said.
She could hear him adjusting the phone, likely holding it up against his shoulder while he reupholstered a couch or sewed a pillow or wherever his interior decorating skills took him.
“Where to start?” she grumbled. “I fucked Marco Moretti.”
“Shut up!” he cried.
“He likes it kinky.”
“Shut up!”
“I let him chain me to the bed naked, photograph me, and make a sex tape.”
“Shut the fuck up, you dirty little slut! Can I have your life, please?!”
“Please take it,” she told him, trying hard to keep breathing properly.
“What could possibly make you want to give that shit up?” he demanded.
“That’s the thing…I did give it up. I stole a million-dollar dress, the pictures, the sex tape, left him, and came back to New York,” she whispered the whole explanation. It sounded less and less believable every time. How had she actually gone through with that?