The Sham

Luka:

My brother is hiding something.

I look across the dining table just in time to catch him exchange yet another covert glance with his wife Tori and can’t help feeling like another huge bombshell is about to drop. Maybe it’s the recent scandal hanging over my family, but I’ve had this nagging sensation of impending disaster for months now.

Finding out your father was the mastermind behind an elicit, multimillion-dollar prostitution ring will do that, I guess.

Still, this isn’t just paranoia. I knew something was up from the moment Stefan and Tori invited me over—family dinners are my brother’s usual M.O. when he has something serious to discuss. I’ve noticed more than one thoughtful pause from him tonight, but each time he opens his mouth, it’s nothing but small talk, punctuated here and there by Tori’s typical rambling about her linguistics classes at UChicago.

So now here we are, finishing up the last of the world’s most perfect duck in red wine sauce, and I’m still waiting for them to tell me the real reason behind this whole evening.

“Best meal I’ve ever had,” I say, setting my cloth napkin over my plate. “Please tell Gretna that whenever she’s ready to accept my shameless bribery, I’ll be happy to welcome her into my service.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Stefan says.

He knows I’ve tried countless times to woo his personal chef, but so far, I haven’t been successful. Seems like my charms are more effective on women in the 18–35 age bracket. Not that I’m complaining.

“We’re so glad you liked it,” Tori says sweetly. “And I know Stefan appreciates seeing you outside the office. But there’s actually another reason we invited you over.”

And there it is.

“We’ll discuss it shortly in the living room,” Stefan says. It’s more of a command than an invitation. Typical. My brother is what you might call a control freak.

“Sounds great,” I say, trying my best to mean it. “I’ll meet you in there.”

Tori flashes a little smile as she and Stefan rise and begin gathering up the dishes.

My sister-in-law and I had friction when we first met—which I admit was mostly on me. I was too caught up in my manwhoring ways to respect Stefan’s arranged marriage, and I crossed the line with Tori more than once, figuring I’d have a taste of her just like any other woman I set my sights on. In hindsight, I regret how I acted. Tori isn’t just good for my brother, she’s great.

While they clear the table, I move to the couch and mull over the last few months. What could Stefan have to talk to me about? Ever since our father went to jail and Stefan took over KZ Modeling—now renamed Danica Rose Management, in memory of our mother—I’ve shown up every day at the agency, on time and with a can-do attitude, quote unquote.

I still go out to the clubs, but after a brief stint at AA—where I realized that as much as I was using alcohol as a crutch, I didn’t actually need it to survive—my drinking is under control. Hell, I haven’t even been sleeping with that many women. The fact is, the more energy I’ve put into my job, the less I’ve been able to put into all my former bad habits. I’m practically a new man—and it’s been pretty fucking boring.

But I know it’s for the best.

In my new executive role, I audition, sign, and manage talent. On top of that, I also unofficially maintain our client roster, aka schmooze my ass off. Phone calls, dinners, drinks, networking events—I’ve been there every step of the way, reassuring everyone of DRM’s commitment to integrity and transparency, making sure our models keep getting booked.

After a very public fall from grace, I’ve fought tooth and nail to get the agency—and myself—back on track. So if Stefan thinks he’s about to fire me or demote me so he can fill my executive position with someone more experienced, he’s got another thing coming.

He and Tori suddenly bustle back out with overly toothy smiles, Tori carrying a black and gold inlaid tray that holds a glass carafe of coffee, sugar and cream, and three mugs.

“Should we have an after-dinner coffee?” she chirps. “It’s decaf Ospina, ground fresh. Stefan said it’s your favorite.”

“Three-hundred-dollar coffee beans?” I say. “Now I know you two are up to no good.”

“It’s not a bribe,” Stefan says, but judging by the clench of his jaw and the stress lines on his forehead, it isn’t safe for me to relax just yet.

I savor the aroma after Tori passes me a cup and then take a long, satisfying sip. To be honest, I’d prefer the standard after-dinner brandy, but I appreciate them respecting my new limit of two drinks per week—and I’d rather be 100% sober if this conversation goes sour.

“All right, out with it,” I say, eyeing them as they sit across from me in their matching leather chairs. “I’ve been expecting the worst since you two invited me over. Just say it.”

They exchange another glance, and Tori gives my brother a slight nod.

“Fair enough.” Stefan leans forward, clears his throat, and says, “The truth is, the business is…frankly, in an unstable position.”

“I’m aware,” I say coolly. “Dad’s in jail for trafficking, half our models will be testifying against him, and the whole world knows he used the agency as a cover to pimp them out. That’s why I’ve been putting in so much overtime to right the ship. I assume you’ve noticed—”

“You’ve done amazing work for DRM,” he says, cutting me off. “That’s not the issue.”

I frown. “Then what is it?”

“I’ll just give it to you straight, Luka. Our first quarter P&L was ugly, and this quarter looks worse. We’re in the red. I’ve been paying employee salaries out of my own pocket.”

“What?” I sputter.

“I’m trying to tell you, the business isn’t sustainable,” Stefan goes on. “If the company can’t improve its reputation—and fast—we’re going to sink.”

I let out a breath, my mind blown. This job was supposed to be the start of my new life. A chance to finally prove myself. And now it’s all about to crumble.

Finally, I say, “How do we keep Danica Rose from shutting down?”

By now, Stefan has calmed himself. He’s back in his chair with Tori holding his hand.

“It’s going to take a huge act of goodwill to convince the public we’re not monsters,” he muses. “We can’t erase the past.”

It’s no secret that the reason the press and social media have condemned us is because of what our father did. I’ve done my best to combat that, but even with all my schmoozing and my fancy MBA, rescuing a business from a major public downfall is a huge mountain to climb—and I’m still learning as I go. I’d never been involved in running the agency like Stefan was.

But after Dad’s arrest, I told my brother I was committed to the family business. Since then, Stefan has made it clear that co-CEO is in my future if I roll up my sleeves and work hard, quit drinking, and stop fucking around. So that’s what I’ve done. Apparently, it wasn’t enough.

“So what’s our move?” I ask. My coffee tastes bitter now. It’s growing cool in my cup.

“We’re going to take control of the narrative,” Tori says confidently.

“Control the narrative,” I repeat, nodding. “Okay. So we give the media a new story to chew on. Something to redirect their attention and make us look human again. I’m all in.”

“We’re so glad to hear that,” Tori says, giving me an encouraging smile.

Like I said, I wasn’t so sure about her when she’d first come into my older brother’s life via arranged marriage. Who even did that kind of thing anymore? I almost shudder.

Admittedly, though, it seems to be working for him. He’s changed, and I can’t even say anything bad about it. Tori has made him a more level-headed, calmer version of himself. Still, there’s no way in hell you’d catch me shacking up with an arranged wife. Or any wife, for that matter. I enjoy a variety of pussy too much to settle down.

“Okay. A new story. Let me think.” I spread my hands. “How about a few social media ads with our models, talking about how we launched their careers? Maybe I can organize a photo shoot with some of our new diverse models cuddling pets from the local animal shelter. Everyone loves puppies. Or get our employees to do some publicized community service?”

Stefan shakes his head. “No. We need to focus on you.”

“Me? Why?”

He glances at Tori, and she sets her cup down and clasps her hands.

“It isn’t just the agency’s reputation that’s the problem…” She offers a gentle smile. “It’s yours. The media’s been crucifying you lately—”

“They’re assholes,” I can’t help myself from interjecting. “I can’t walk out the door without a camera in my face, and half the time they’re slapping made-up headlines over photos of me getting blackout drunk from a year ago—”

“They hate you,” Stefan agrees. “We’ve all done our best to rebrand, but you seem hell-bent on keeping the Zoric image in the gutter.”

“That’s not fair.” I lean forward, my anger rising. “I can’t be the only twenty-five-year-old who likes to visit the occasional strip club on the weekends or bring a couple women home from the club to f—” Stefan clears his throat. “To entertain,” I finish.

“But you’re the only one who works for a company formerly run by a sex trafficker. And it’s public knowledge that you slept with half the models. It’s not a good look,” he points out harshly. “The last headline I saw called you a sex- and money-hungry monster, following in the footsteps of the fallen Zoric patriarch—”

“So what, then? Are you trying to fire me?” I say, tapping my finger impatiently against my coffee cup. “Look, I do what I want. The media doesn’t like it? That’s their problem.”

Stefan practically jumps to his feet. “It’s not, though, Luka. It’s our problem.”

There’s nothing I can say because I know he’s right. I throw back the rest of my lukewarm coffee as if it’s the drink I so desperately want right now.

“Luka,” Tori interjects softly. “You’re the most notorious playboy in Chicago. We know you’ve changed, but the public needs to see a bigger effort.”

I lean back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I didn’t realize I was the agency’s poster boy. How nice to suddenly realize that I alone am the entire face of our family business.”

“You’re the Executive VP of Talent, and a Zoric who’s unfortunately grown up in the public eye. Of course you’re a face of this business,” Stefan says. “Take this seriously. Please.”

Suddenly, it hits me like a physical blow: he’s disappointed in me. Until our father’s criminal activity blew up, no one in the family had taken much time to be disappointed, or anything else, in me. Their approval never really mattered.

Until now.

My mother died when I was only four, and my father was such a textbook workaholic that my siblings and I were raised by a series of nannies. Even as a kid Stefan was defiant and ill-behaved, and our little sister Emzee was the baby, but our nannies always said I was a perfect angel—I learned pretty early on how to get what I wanted from a woman. They spoiled me rotten. As a result, I grew up doing whatever the hell I wanted, with few consequences.

By the time I hit my teenage years, I had realized that there wasn’t a screw-up horrible enough to make my father notice me. Didn’t matter if I slept with Emzee’s babysitters, crashed one of Dad’s Porsches into a hedge, or drained the entire contents of the liquor cabinet. I was invisible. So the way things are now—going from being mostly ignored, to suddenly being weighed down by expectations and responsibilities—has been an uncomfortable transition. I’m not opposed to doing what’s right for my family, but they could cut me a fucking break.

My shoulders sag a little, and I rest my forearms on my knees. “I’m barely drinking, but if you want, I’ll quit dating so much. Won’t be seen with as many random women.”

I’ve cut back on my one-night stands, and certainly none of the women I’ve been out with recently have been connected to our modeling agency in any way. Even I had the sense to realize I couldn’t keep fucking the models after what my father did.

Tori takes a sip of her coffee and catches my eye. “We need to seem family-oriented. A clean, stable corporation.”

Relief washes over me. That’s easy. “Fine, then you two have a baby. The public loves babies. See if you can shoot for twins or triplets, yeah? Problem solved. We done here?”

I start to rise, but my brother’s voice stops me cold. “Sit down.”

Stefan looks to the ceiling, his jaw tensing, and Tori frowns and says, “We’re not going to have a kid just to fix the agency’s PR status. Besides, we still have our hands full adjusting to Max and Anya’s role in our lives.”

Finding out she had a seven-year-old half sibling was a shock for Tori, and she’s been slowly integrating Max and his mother (Stefan’s ex-girlfriend, if you can believe that) into her life. She puts up a hand to give me pause as if she knows what I might say next. “And we’ve already exploited as much positive PR as we can from that. We don’t want overkill.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” I say. “But you’re both looking at me like you want me to do something. You’re crazy if you think I’m having a baby. And don’t even suggest I get a dog, or I’ll know you’ve both gone off the deep end.”

Tori and Stefan look at each other and I get the sudden feeling like I’d better hang on tight to something.

“We had something a little more demonstrative in mind,” Tori says sweetly.

“Like what?”

Tori clears her throat, then shoots my brother a pointed look.

Stefan looks me square in the eye. “You need to get married.”

Brooklyn:

I never thought I’d get this chance again.

My black stilettos clip loudly on the floor as I stride into Danica Rose Management, formerly known as KZ Modeling. It feels surreal that I made it to these offices. I had a chance to audition with them three years ago, but that opportunity quickly turned into a disaster and I never went through with it. So when a friend told me about this latest call, I booked an immediate flight from LA to Chicago. No way am I missing another stab at making my dreams come true.

Despite all the bad PR lately, this agency didn’t get to the top without knowing all the ins and outs of the business, how to launch huge careers, how to stay relevant. Maybe the bad press will even work in my favor, if it means fewer models are coming to these auditions.

I briefly wonder if he’s going to be here. My stomach does a little flip at the thought, even though I remember him telling me that menial tasks like auditions were beneath him. He only worked with already-established supermodels, he’d said. Looking back, I should have recognized right away that that kind of arrogance wasn’t going to end well for me. Still, a little chill goes down my spine as I imagine him here. This is his domain, after all.

“Are you here for the audition?” The pleasant voice of a woman behind the gleaming black reception desk grabs my attention.

I head toward her and glance at the clipboard lying there. Guess I was wrong about the bad PR. The page is covered top to bottom with names.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice confident despite my anxiety at being here. “Brooklyn Moss, signing in.”

I sign my name, then head toward the waiting area she indicates. The office is exactly how I imagined it: gorgeous, modern, and spacious, with lots of chrome and glass and black leather. There are also huge framed photos on the walls—not of models, but of breathtaking landscapes and architecture, like something out of National Geographic. I can see the city of Chicago spreading for miles out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The open seating area where the rest of the models are waiting is packed. All I see are glossy lips and perfect, shining hair, long legs, and arched brows. I expected no less. I might stand out in most crowds, but at a casting call for models, I’m just another pretty face.

When I was just starting out, I was sure my eagerness and determination to work hard and “give it my all” would get me to the top. That if I just wanted it badly enough, I could make it happen. Now? I’ll be the first to admit I was incredibly naïve. The older me has learned through experience that this is a brutal profession I’ve chosen, that competition is dog eat dog.

Booking jobs is hard, even with a face like mine. I’m not conceited about it; I simply know I have a remarkable face—people have been telling me I should go into modeling since my teenage years. I guess it was easy to stand out in the Midwest with my father’s height and strong jawline, my gorgeous Italian mother’s olive skin and incredible cheekbones. The icing on the cake is the beauty mark set just above my pouty lips—I basically won the genetic lottery. But even with the gift of beauty, I haven’t launched into the supermodel stratosphere. Not yet.

Maybe today will be my big break.

I force myself to look nonchalant as I sweep past a few couches crammed with hopeful young women, all of them pretending they aren’t measuring me up. There’s nowhere to sit, so I lean against the wall and try not to slouch. Then I glance around at everyone else, my expression as warm and open as possible. I might be ambitious, and of course I’m competitive, but I’m not the mercenary type. After all, 99% of us aren’t going to make it. There’s no reason not to be friendly. We’re all in this together.

Unfortunately, most other models don’t see it that way.

I estimate there are about fifty girls here, and I study their faces to see if I recognize any of them. I was relatively successful in the Chicago scene during high school, modeling for local companies, doing print ads, and gaining traction in the tri-state area. Auditions were a breeze for me back then; scouts took one look at my “exotic” face, snapped a few pictures, and threw me jobs so fast it made my head spin. But eventually things stalled, and I realized that I needed representation. Steady gigs and national exposure required an agency like KZ Modeling.

I’ve had KZM in my sights for as long as I can remember, as I suspect most of these women have, but could never get an appointment…until now.

I have a hunch the company’s recent rebranding efforts go a lot further than simply changing their name to Danica Rose Management—that they’re looking for brand new, undiscovered talent to act as the new face of the company. That means they’ll be promoting the hell out of whomever they sign next. Booking huge international campaigns. Maybe even flying them out for fashion events, or to walk the red carpets in Hollywood. My mind spins with all the possibilities. I want this. I’m ready.

The scent of spicy male cologne piques my memory, but when I look around, I don’t see anyone except the rest of these hopefuls, all of them female. Even so, my pulse jacks up, ticking hard inside my chest as my lips begin to tingle. That kiss…those lips on mine…

Shit, Brooklyn, quit this. I give myself a mental shake. I can’t allow the indiscretions of my past ruin my future. I screwed up my chance with this agency once—I won’t do it again.

“Want to sit?” A blonde uncrosses her legs and shifts to the edge of the ottoman she’s perched on, giving it a little pat. She’s in a knee-length black leather skirt and a tight white blouse, her outfit teetering between professional and sexy, and her fresh, dewy complexion screams youth. She can’t be much older than eighteen.

I blink, suddenly feeling old at twenty-two. But I smile anyway.

“Sure, thank you.” I take the seat and keep my posture aligned but relaxed.

“I’m Marin.” She flips through a magazine, while absently handing me one. “You might as well browse. It takes the edge off.”

“I’m Brooklyn,” I say. I accept the media, but don’t open it. Her hand trembles slightly as she flips the pages too fast to be absorbing anything. I don’t tell her I’ve auditioned enough that nerves no longer apply. There is no edge for me anymore. Just steely determination and hope.

I subtly watch her, noticing her profile as she cocks her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s got a classic beauty, a symmetrical face with full lips, rounded cheeks, a perfect brow. I imagine her in a white dress, walking the streets of Bellagio with a gelato in hand. I’d capture her just as the streetlamps come on to soften the already muted golds and yellows of the buildings, the softness of Lake Como behind her as she grins directly into the camera.

What an Instagram photo that would be.

She glances up and catches me staring. Smiles and returns to her ardent page flipping. “Are you new? I’d remember your face if I’d seen you around before.”

I want to laugh. New? Chicago is my hometown. I haven’t lived here in over three years, but my face still graces a few advertisements around the city.

“I live in LA now, but I grew up here.”

That gets her attention. “Really? I’d think this place would have snatched you up already. I mean, just look at that face.” She waves a hand in a circular motion around my head. “You definitely don’t look like anybody else. I actually expected you to have an accent.”

I get another flash of that mysterious cologne scent. Nope, not going there. I’m over it.

“I had kind of a hard time breaking out in Chicago.” It’s true enough. No need to get into the details of my humiliating flop with KZM, the subsequent career nosedive, or the fact that I’d been desperate for a fresh start and a place to lick my wounds.

“What made you decide to try LA?” She closes her magazine and rests her hands, palms down, on top of it. Her expression is eager, as if I might have some wisdom to impart.

“I think I was just ready for something completely different,” I say, “and the opportunity presented itself at just the right moment. I have a pretty big social media network, so—”

“You’re like, an influencer or something?” she interrupted.

I shrug. “You could call it that. I promote modeling, some products, my photography. Over the years I’ve gained a lot of followers and eventually made some friends. People I chat with every day and share personal things with. This cute guy Mateo kept telling me I should fly out to LA for a visit. So, I went. And I’ve been there ever since.”

“Aww, how romantic.” The girl’s eyes light up. “So you fell for each other?”

I laugh. “Not in the way you mean. Mateo is more like…the best friend I never knew I had. We spent the weekend watching 80s movies, eating Mexican food, and drinking champagne out of plastic cups on the beach. When my Uber pulled up to take me to LAX, I realized I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to face another Chicago winter.”

“I hear you on that.” Marin nods sympathetically. “So you stayed.”

“Yeah. We found this French Normandy-style apartment building in West Hollywood, and it’s kind of falling apart, but…it’s just so beautiful there. People say LA is a city of cars, but where we live you can walk anywhere you’d want to go. And it’s always warm.”

“Sounds dreamy,” she says. “Do you book a lot of jobs there?”

I shrug. “Some. Not enough for rent though, so I waitress at a luxury supper club. But then I miss all the go-sees, since I can’t just call out every time something promising pops up.”

“Yeah,” Marin coos sympathetically. “I’m lucky I live at home and work part-time.”

“I just don’t want to waste my prime years hustling for tips when I should be focusing on my big break, you know? Mateo is a model too, and he does great, but I’m ready for it to be my turn. I’m glad I took the leap, and it’s been a ride, but I’m ready for what’s next. So here I am.”

Thinking of Mateo, I fight back a tiny pang of jealousy. He and I used to go to auditions together, and then one serendipitous job modeling for Lady Gaga’s makeup line tossed his career into overdrive. He’s in high demand now, with so many jobs on offer that he actually has to turn them down. I’m proud of his success, but it’s left me wondering if my own ship has sailed.

It’s also forced me to realize that I need to make a choice. I either go all in on modeling, do everything I can to break through, commit myself fully to this career path, or I need to suck up my failure and go to college, maybe apply to an art school for photography. Either way, I need to find something else to do with my life besides waitressing.

Luckily, I have some time to figure it out. Mateo decided to come to Chicago with me and leased an apartment here in Wicker Park. Hopefully, I can make something happen.

I’m curious about something. “How did you find out about this audition today?” I ask.

“My friend’s agent told me,” Marin says. “She said it wasn’t a standard casting call, but she couldn’t provide a lot of details. It’s KZ—I mean Danica Rose—so of course I came, details or not.” She lowers her voice. “Word on the street is, they’re hungry for new faces.”

“Right. I figured as much. Though I don’t see any men here.”

Marin shrugs. “They probably do the calls for the guys separately.”

“Hmm. I guess that makes sense.”

The friend who’d tipped me off mentioned there was some secrecy around the contract it involved. Which only made me more excited. Whatever this is, it’s big. And I need big, before my dreams slip through my fingers—though that’d certainly make my parents happy.

They’d never been thrilled with my career choice. Even in high school, when I was making real money from modeling, they’d tried to convince me to pursue something else. They had signed permissions for my underage contracts, sure, but it had always been reluctantly.

I always thought that if I could just land one huge national gig, they’d finally see that all my hard work had paid off. That I’d made something of myself. They’d finally be proud.

At the far end of the hall, the frosted glass doors sporting the Danica Rose logo open and a curvy brunette in a navy pantsuit strides out. Her walk is confident, but her expression is definitely not. Everyone looks at her, and low whispers go around the room. I’m sure they’re all wondering what went on behind those doors. I know I am.

The brunette goes to the refreshment table and pours a cup of cucumber water from a carafe. She takes a small sip, then clutches the paper cup to her chest as if she’s lost in thought.

“Okay, I’m dying to know.” Marin bursts from her seat and approaches the brunette. Luckily, I’m close enough that I can hear them talk. Everyone else rubbernecks to do the same.

“What happened in there?” Marin asks gently. “Are you okay?”

The brunette takes another sip and tosses the cup in the trash. “I’m fine. I had a couple pictures taken and got asked a bunch of weird questions and…that was it. Time was up.”

“What kind of questions? Like your vital stats, or your experience?”

“No.” She shrugs. “Like…do I own any pets, what do I think about downtown living, do I have any bad habits? Just, weird stuff. Not the usual. I don’t even know who the client is.”

Marin’s face screws up in confusion.

“Brooklyn Moss.”

My attention snaps to those glass doors, where a woman waves me over, a tablet in her hand. I make eye contact with Marin as I rise and smooth my hands down my skinny jeans.

“Good luck,” she whispers before turning back to the brunette.

I shoot her a smile as I straighten my posture and toss back my hair. It’s game on, and I get myself into the zone where I always go when I’m in front of a lens. I feel confident. Prepared. The adrenaline pumping through me is a good thing, a strong thing. I’ve so got this.

I silently chant those words all the way down the hall. The tablet woman nods at me as she pushes the door open, gesturing me through, and I step inside.

And come up short.

What the hell?

The room is empty save for a dark-suited man sitting behind a large black desk across the room. His head is down as he writes on something, but my heart beats with familiarity.

No, it can’t be.

He glances up, and my heart skids to a stop.

It’s him. The man who promised me the moon and then ghosted me after we slept together. The man who ruined my first chance with this company, my first chance at breaking out and skyrocketing my career.

Luka Zoric.