The Contract

Brooklyn:

Six Months Ago…

I sit stiffly in my chair, pulse racing, and try not to overthink what’s about to happen.

Last week I had a great audition with Elite Image, but as days went by without a call back, I figured I hadn’t made enough of an impression with the agents at the casting call…until I walked out of my morning yoga class yesterday to find I’d gotten a voicemail from an EI assistant. When I called Elite back, the assistant told me that the CEO wanted to “personally” meet with me for an interview. I was floored.

I’d gone to plenty of agency auditions during my past two years in LA, and never once had I gotten more than the standard “Don’t call us, we’ll call you” before being dismissed. Could this finally be the break I’ve been waiting for? I wondered.

I’d been driving my best friend Mateo up a wall for the past twenty-four hours asking that same question over and over again. It seemed like Mateo’s career had exploded overnight, while mine had lagged slowly behind. I knew Mateo had a unique look, one that got people’s attention, but so did I—and it wasn’t like I couldn’t book a gig here and there. The problem was that I felt like I’d been treading water in the industry for years.

Part of me had already considered the very real possibility that a modeling career might not be for me. I’d even been researching college programs and taking some of those online “Which Career is Best for You?” quizzes, but every single one of them pointed me toward a job in entertainment or the arts, so I hoped and prayed that it was just a matter of time for me.

Now here I am at the Elite offices, first thing Tuesday morning, ready to find out if this is my rocket to fame or just another false alarm.

I’m in a gleaming black leather chair that likely cost more than my car, waiting on Austin Spears to sit down at his huge desk across from me. My excitement battles with sheer anxiety, a high of adrenaline coursing through me. I’ve been struggling so hard here on the West Coast, to the point that I’ve even considered walking away from modeling altogether. But it seems like my career is starting to look up. Why else would the CEO want to have an in-person conversation?

“Miss Moss, it’s a pleasure.”

Spears saunters in with a warm smile and my hopes skip up a little higher. I begin to rise from my seat, but he gestures me back into the chair and reaches down to shake with me.

“I’m Austin Spears,” he says, though of course I already know that. Even if I wasn’t in his executive office suite, his flashy designer watch, cologne, and tailored suit all scream CEO.

“It’s great to meet you,” I tell him, smiling back widely. “You can call me Brooklyn.”

“Perfect. I prefer Austin, myself.” He gives me a once-over, but it feels professional.

I’m glad I settled on a little black dress and heels for this meeting instead of the skinny jeans and bohemian blouse I’d been debating. He’s dressed in dark navy, his auburn hair slicked back to show off a perfect undercut. As he takes his hand back I notice that his nails are manicured, his skin, baby soft. This is a man accustomed to luxury. Money. Power.

I shiver to think about how a contract with Elite Image could propel me into that same world. I’ve been working my ass off trying to land a decent contract, to get my face out there in a bigger way than I ever could booking small-time gigs back home in Chicago. I’m ready for this.

He leans on the edge of his desk with his hands clasped in front of him, but I’m unable to read his neutral expression.

“Let me preface by saying that we were very impressed with your audition,” he says. “There’s something a little mysterious and inscrutable about you. We see a lot of girl-next-door types and a lot of pouting runway model-wannabes so it’s nice to get something different.”

I laugh along with him, but my heart is fluttering at the compliment. “Thanks. I just try to be myself.”

“Well, it’s working for you,” he says, leaning forward. “Here’s the thing. We have a huge campaign in the works with Maxilene. I’m going to assume you’re familiar with the company?”

“Of course. They’re one of the biggest cosmetics companies in the world,” I say with a nod, my heart starting to pound. “They’re on billboards, they have counters in every department store, and they have a huge international presence. I use some of their products myself.”

“That’s actually perfect,” Austin says. “Because we like your look for their campaign, Brooklyn. A lot.”

He moves opposite me and takes a seat in his chair. My pulse is racing so fast now, I can barely breathe. A contract with Maxilene would set me up for the rest of my entire career.

“That’s amazing to hear,” I manage.

Austin steeples his fingers. “Of course, we have a hundred other girls that would also be a good fit. Girls that we already represent. So…”

He watches me closely as he speaks, gauging my reaction, which is hard for me to contain. My initial excitement fizzles into confusion and uncertainty, and it’s difficult to keep my face from showing it. Just like that, any idea of an upfront contract with Elite vanishes. The saying, “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is” pops into my head.

Still, I try to keep my smile pasted on. “Why did you mention it to me, then? I mean, there’s no point in being coy—I’d love to work with you if that’s what’s on the table, but it sounds like you might have what you need already. Is there another reason for this interview?”

“Maybe,” Austin says. “But that all depends on you.”

“O…kay. Can you be a little more specific?”

This industry routinely chews models up and spits them out. I should be used to the ups and downs by now, but this is the strangest lead-on I’ve ever had. He’s still weighing me up though, seeming to be considering something, his head tilted to the side. A glimmer in his eye makes me think there’s a lot more to his decision than just my face.

“I saw on your resume that you’ve done a lot of work in Chicago,” he says, pivoting.

I nod, my brows drawing together. “That’s right. I started working when I was still in high school, so I stayed close to home for a few years.”

“Ever had the chance to work with KZ Modeling?” he goes on.

My scalp tingles a little. I’m not sure how to answer. Of course I’d dipped my toes in the KZ waters that one night with Luka Zoric, but it hadn’t ended well for me. I really want a contract with Elite, though, so I can’t get into all that. I’d only make myself sound naïve.

I bend the truth slightly. “I had the opportunity for representation, but I turned it down so I could come out here. I wanted to branch out. See new places.”

His eyebrows arch as he leans back in his chair with a knowing nod of his head. “Probably a good thing. You dodged a bullet there.”

“Yes.”

I know he’s referring to the prostitution scandal that rocked KZ, but I don’t need or want to get into the details or participate in any industry gossip.

“What do you think of them now?” he prods. “Have they really cleaned up their act?”

I spread my hands in a gesture of uncertainty. Why does he think I would know? My sole experience with KZ Modeling consists of the one-night stand I had with Luka years ago—during which he made false promises of a contract in order to get me in bed. And there lies the beginning and end of my interaction with KZM.

By all accounts, the Zorics have recently gone full speed ahead in trying to clean up their image publicly, starting with a name change and a rebranding campaign. But as much of a douche as Luka is, I can’t see him or his family carrying on with any sex trafficking now that their patriarch is in prison. I’m sure they’re fully committed to keeping their hands clean.

“They seem to be on the up-and-up,” I say. “I wouldn’t know the full details, of course.”

Austin dips his head. “Of course.” He pulls a document from a folder on his desk and sets it facedown on the top. “KZ Modeling, or should I say Danica Rose Management, is exceptionally vulnerable right now. With all the bad PR and a slew of models breaking their contracts with the company, they’re going to have a difficult time staying afloat. In fact, their first quarter returns were frankly pretty dismal. You’ve heard about all of that, I’m sure.”

“I have,” I admit. “Though the majority of the models were happy to sign on with Danica Rose under new terms. I imagine they’ll bounce back eventually.”

Austin shrugs. “Who’s to say? Their future is very uncertain. Uncertain enough that another agency could swoop in right now and take them over. Buy the company outright. Wouldn’t you think?”

“It’s possible,” I say noncommittally.

The truth is, I don’t really know. I’m not in the habit of spending my time pondering the financial health of the modeling agencies back in my hometown. I have no idea why Austin is talking to me about this. I have zero connection to the Zorics. At the same time, as strange as this interview is, I don’t want to come across to him as indifferent.

“Is this buyout something Elite is interested in?” I ask, watching his face for a tell.

“It’s possible,” he echoes me. He gets up and walks to the huge windows, looking out at the view of the Hollywood Hills, pacing casually like this whole conversation is no big deal. But I know I’ve hit the mark. He’s being pretty obvious. “Could you still get a contract with them?”

My heart lurches again. “Maybe. Though it wouldn’t make much sense, honestly. I’m in LA now and I don’t plan on moving back to Chicago any time soon.”

Austin frowns as he turns back toward me. “That’s too bad. I see something special in you. And if you were to, say, work your way back into KZ—I mean, Danica Rose—and gather valuable information…information that could be used to assist in a takeover…well, you wouldn’t just be special anymore. You’d be Maxilene-special.”

I don’t get a chance to even consider a response as he continues, “Elite will take over Danica Rose with or without your help, Brooklyn. But it will go smoother, faster, and a lot more painless with someone on the inside. Especially if we’re able to make them an informed offer.”

I frown. “I—”

“I’ve read your CV,” he interrupts, walking closer. “Come on. You’ve been pounding the pavement for years. You should be national by now. You’ve got the look, the experience, the attitude. Let us help you. A face like yours is one DRM will take a second look at.”

He flips over the paper on his desk and I take a look. It’s a short summary of the Maxilene campaign…with a lot of dollar signs attached to it. I flick my gaze to his. Austin is smiling as if he’s known all along that I couldn’t turn my back on something this good.

“Are you going to go back to your old agency and be a nobody forever, Brooklyn? Or are you going to finally make a name for yourself? Tell me you’re in.”

No, I don’t want to go back to my old agency. I outgrew them a long time ago. I want more. I want bigger. Better.

I want Maxilene.

I slide the paper back to him as I rise and smooth the front of my dress. Lifting my chin, I try not to let my conscience in. There will be plenty of time for that later.

My mind is made up.

With a cool smile I tell him, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Luka:

She betrayed me. My wife betrayed me.

As I storm through the suite, hands at my temples, my stomach roils at the thought of the devastating message I received from Monica Shore this morning. I can’t stop turning the truth of it over in my mind. Brooklyn has been lying to me all along. And now I’m on my honeymoon with a deceitful, backstabbing liar who planned to sell me and my family out to Elite Image.

They’re not just the competition—they’re our agency’s nemesis. For years, Elite has monopolized all the top talent in the modeling industry, raking in new clients with hardly any effort and scalping all the highest-earning models off of other companies whenever they get the chance. Now that they’ve got their sights set on DRM, I know they’ll stop at nothing to buy us out. It’s no secret that our agency is struggling—but it still feels like a knife to the gut knowing that my wife planned to hand us over on a platter to their vile CEO, Austin Spears.

I don’t know what makes me more enraged: that I never saw this coming, or that I’d actually started to develop feelings for Brooklyn. Both accounts remind me that I’m an idiot. Especially considering the fact that I’ve been with plenty of women before, and I know exactly how they act once they find out who I am and what I can do for them. I should have known.

In the end, one thing’s for certain, though—my heart and my judgement can’t be trusted. Weighing people’s integrity isn’t something I’ve had to do often, I guess, and it shows. Instead of being the decent person she presented herself as, she’s nothing more than a self-serving manipulator.

I try to remind myself that I’m no saint, that I can’t turn my nose up too far. I’ve certainly had sex with women for my own purposes. But the difference between me and my wife is that Brooklyn was malicious enough to actually go out of her way to make me feel something real for her. At least in my case, I never tried to deceive the women I bedded into developing feelings for me. I made it clear that I expected nothing beyond a good lay and some discretion after the fact. I’d say it turned out pretty well for me.

Yet thanks to Brooklyn, I’m now trapped in this decadent Parisian honeymoon suite with the last woman on Earth I want to be with. I never should have gotten close to her. I can’t even look at her, even though I can feel her eyes on me and she won’t stop sniffling as if she’s holding back tears. More manipulation, I’m sure. Women are good at playing the crying game. I’ve never fallen for it in the past, and I’m sure as hell not about to start now.

“Luka, please,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “I wasn’t going to go through with it. I swear. I destroyed that contract; I had no intention of holding up my end.”

“Hmm.”

Refusing to respond beyond that, I continue gathering up her things from the bedroom as she follows me around making excuse after excuse.

I’m barely listening. She’s said the same thing about five times now, in five different ways—but I know what I saw with my own eyes, in black and white. A contract between Elite Image and Brooklyn Moss, offering her big incentives—including a lucrative modeling contract and a deal to work with Maxilene—to provide EI with insider information that would assist them in a takeover of Danica Rose Management. Those assholes actually think they can buy us out.

And Brooklyn didn’t bat an eye at agreeing to help them.

I storm back out to the suite’s sitting room and drop her shoes, her lacy underwear, her jewelry, all of it, into the open suitcase I already hauled out and left next to the sofa. Then I go back for her pillow and a spare blanket. She’s going to have to just suck it up for the next week and enjoy sleeping out here on the couch. Alone.

Brooklyn’s voice pitches higher as I toss the bedding onto the sofa. “Just stop and listen, please! I met with them months ago, before anything even happened between us.”

I finally look up and watch her, my heart thumping hard against my breastbone.

We could have been so good together. I know the feeling of those lips wrapped around my cock, the glide of her thick, glossy hair between my fingers, how she loves it when I wrap my fist around it when I’m taking her from behind.

Fuck! I shake my head and turn away.

She rushes over to the fireplace and falls to her knees to start rifling through the ashes. Curious despite my anger, I give her a cursory glance.

“I burned the contract,” she babbles. “I tossed it in here, lit the fireplace, and burned it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “That was just your copy.”

Brooklyn looks up at me, her hands still buried in ash. “What? I never even signed the damn thing, and I can prove it.”

My mouth is dry, but I manage to retort, “So you held on to that contract for months and then waited until after we were married to decide if you were going to betray me or not. How upstanding of you.”

The fact that she waited makes everything even worse. I’d been getting closer and closer to her for weeks, and the whole time she had the contract in her back pocket, trying to figure out which of her options would benefit her the most. It’s obvious she never felt anything real for me. Not even on our wedding day—which had turned out to be more than I ever expected.

“Luka, I burned it! My loyalty isn’t to Elite, it’s to you—I want to be with you.”

She searches my eyes, her gaze desperate, but I keep my glare cold and steely.

“Marrying you is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made,” I say, watching her jerk back as if I just slapped her. Good. I want her to hurt, more than I am right now.

I’d been so proud that this smart, driven, genuinely kind woman was walking down the aisle dressed in white to be my life partner. But she played me. My own family has done a lot of shitty things to me during my life, but none of it compares to this. The cold shock of betrayal, the gut-slicing feeling of being blindsided by someone so close to you, and for no reason other than to get themselves ahead. I had a weak spot for Brooklyn, and she used it against me.

I shake my head and go into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

As I twist off my wedding ring, the door opens, but Brooklyn just stands at the threshold.

“How did Monica even get a copy of the contract, Luka? Something isn’t right.”

I shrug, setting the ring on the dresser. “I don’t care. It’s beside the point.”

She clasps her hands. “It does matter, though. If Elite can’t get what they want from me, they’ll use someone else to do it. Maybe she’s their next spy. Haven’t you considered that?”

Wow, just moving right along to deflecting her guilt onto the next available person she can find. How did I ever, ever read Brooklyn’s character so wrong?

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Monica and I go way back,” I grind out. “She’s already sitting pretty with Elite, so they’ve got no leverage on her to do their dirty work. And besides, she’s a friend. She’s only got my best interests in mind. Unlike my wife.”

Wife. What a fucking bitter, laughable word. I’m so done with Brooklyn Moss.

I want out of this room, back on the plane where I can consume myself with work and shut her the hell out completely. Instead, I have to suffer through a two-week-long Paris honeymoon that was supposed to be the start of our future together. This vacation was supposed to mean something.

Now, it’s just a prison sentence.

Brooklyn goes to the table beside the sofa, picking up her cell phone and walking back to the bedroom doorway. She scrolls, taps the screen, and then holds it out for me to see.

She’s calling Elite.

“I told you that I’m done with them,” she insists. “And now I’ll prove it to you.”

I stand there watching impassively as she leaves a message for Austin Spears, telling him their deal is off and that she’s no longer interested in what they’d discussed. It hardly matters. My mind is already made up. I spin on my heel and make a final trip into the bedroom’s en suite bathroom for her toiletries. Brooklyn’s eyes shimmer with tears as I drop them on the sofa.

“What’s all this?” she asks.

“Your bedroom for the next two weeks,” I tell her grimly.

“Luka—”

“I’d like to say I’m a gentleman, but you don’t deserve that from me. I hope the sofa’s comfortable.” I start to walk away, and then add, “Oh—and don’t even think about wandering around Paris by yourself. We still have an image to uphold.”

With that, Brooklyn’s eyes flash. “Are you kidding me? You can’t keep me locked up in here! We need to talk about this, like two adults!”

I can’t take her shit anymore. “Enough! This fucking hotel will be prison for both of us until this fake honeymoon is over. If I’m trapped in this hellhole, so are you.”

Making a final gesture at the room—which is pretty luxurious for a prison, to be fair—I storm back into the bedroom and slam the door, locking it behind me. I wish I could lock it a hundred times. For a while, I stand out on the balcony, blankly looking out at the scenery. We should be having the time of our lives right now, and instead I’m trying not to boot her ass straight back to Chicago on the first commercial flight out of Charles de Gaulle.

Finally, I go to the desk and open my laptop, checking my email with a few angry keystrokes. Desperate for busy work, I pull up some documents that need my electronic signature. Then I pass the day sending off a flurry of emails, reviewing new client contracts, and making some overdue calls. But it’s really all a blur.

I can barely focus with my emotions eating me alive.

At some point I hear the shower turn on in the other bathroom, and later Brooklyn knocks on the door to tell me she ordered room service for lunch. I ignore her.

The scent of rain carries on a gust of wind through the open French doors, and suddenly I realize it’s dark outside. The clock on my laptop says 3:54 p.m., though it’s set to Chicago’s time zone—it’s almost 11p.m. local—but I realize it’s been a while since I heard a peep from Brooklyn on the other side of the door.

Anger rushes through me all over again. Did she ignore my demand to stay in the room?

I go quietly to the door and crack it. The living area is shadowed. It takes me a second to realize that Brooklyn has moved all of her things to one end of the couch, her body huddled under a blanket at the other end. The TV is on some French news channel, and she’s fast asleep.

I step over to her, hands in my pockets, heart in my throat. Even asleep, a half-frown tugging at the corner of her mouth, she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.

Something tugs in my chest, but I smash it down. Fuck that. She doesn’t deserve any kindness from me after what she tried to pull. I fight back the urge to move the hair out of her face. To scoop her into my arms and tuck her into the bed where she’ll be more comfortable.

She won’t get any of that from me. This isn’t what I want, but it’s what we’re both going to get.

How the hell did I get her so wrong?