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I hadn’t scared her off.

“People change, and you were forced into your position. I don’t blame you for that. But all ofthis…” She gestured around the room. “It’s a lot to process. I need time. I just…just give me some time to think, okay?”

It was a reasonable request.

Space would be good for both of us. With the escaped Brother on the loose and Jordan’s life hanging in the balance, there was too much uncertainty for us to do anything except wait and see where the pieces fell.

Still, my stomach sank at the thought of leaving her.

“Okay.” I stood, hiding my disappointment. “I’ll let you get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

I was halfway out the door when she stopped me. “Vuk.”

I turned.

Ayana’s face softened. “Thank you for holding me.”

A thick, foreign sensation invaded my chest. It was so warm, it was almost uncomfortable. I had no words to describe it, so I responded with the simple truth.

“Always.”

CHAPTER30

Ayana

“What happened was a tragedy. I sincerely hope Jordan wakes up soon. His death would be a great loss for the fashion world.” Emmanuelle’s voice oozed with fake sincerity over the phone. “That being said, it’s been almost a month since your last job, darling. The people are impatient.”

By people, do you mean you?I bit back my snarky response and stared out the window. It was the perfect fall afternoon. I should be outside, enjoying the sunshine, but I was holed up in my apartment. I’d barely left since I returned home on Tuesday against Vuk’s strident objections. I couldn’t stay in the suburbs forever. I needed a sense of normalcy.

“There’s no better distraction than work,” Emmanuelle continued. “Sage Studios is thrilled with the denim campaign. We should lean more into the commercial angle. You’ve done enough editorials this year, and commercial pays more.”

I barely heard her. My mind was back in Westchester, listening to Vuk disclose his past.

Hitmen. Murder. Poison.

I felt like someone had plucked me out of my life and dropped me in the middle of a Nate Reynolds thriller.

I struggled to wrap my head around it days later. My family had reluctantly returned to D.C. after reassurances from both Vuk and the police that the “gangs” had been taken care of, and I was safe. I didn’t want to know how Vuk got the NYPD to go along with his cover story.

I’d promised my family I would visit this weekend after I checked in on Jordan and finished some “work.” So far, the only work I’d done was knitting half a blanket and reorganizing my perfume collection.

“Ayana!” Emmanuelle’s silken voice grew fangs. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” She usually intimidated me, but I’d survived a church shootout andprofessional assassinslast week. A pissy agency head was the least of my worries. My patience snapped. “I’m listening, but unfortunately, I won’t be able to accept any new jobs at this time. As you so kindly mentioned, my fiancé is in acoma. He got shot at our wedding six days ago. Six. Days. I need time to grieve and heal, so unless you want me to show up and break down on set, I suggest we table any discussions of new campaigns until after the holidays.”

Emmanuelle sucked in an audible breath. I doubted anyone had spoken to her like that in years. “You?—”

“But since we’re on the subject of work,” I said, interrupting her. “I would appreciate it if you paid me for all the shoots Ihavedone over the past twelve months. I’d like the money before the end of the calendar year. I’ve sent multiple emails to Hank and accounting, and I’ve only received a quarter of what I’m owed. As a businesswoman yourself, I’m sure you understand why that’s unacceptable. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some personal matters to attend to. Thank you for checking in.”

I hung up on a spluttering Emmanuelle and tossed my phone on the couch, my heart jackrabbiting.

Oh. My. God.

I brought my hand to my mouth.What did I do?

Emmanuelle Beaumont was one of the most powerful women in fashion. If she blacklisted you, your career was over. If she dropped you from her agency, your career was over. If she…well, you get the idea.

I wouldn’t have dared talk to her the way I had a month ago. However, near-death experiences had a way of putting things into perspective. My career was important, but it wasn’t more important than standing up for myself. If I died tomorrow, what would I be prouder of—winning Model of the Year or knowing I’d fought for what was right?