Page 157

She left. Vuk wasn’t here yet, and I debated checking out the massage room when I heard my name.

“Ayana.”

Cold slithered down my spine. “Emmanuelle.”

I maintained a neutral expression as the agency head sauntered up to me. She was a vision in red. Red dress, red lipstick, red shoes.

“I didn’t know you were friends with Maya Singh,” she said.

I responded with a tight smile. This was our first conversation since our phone call, and I was half convinced she was planning to stab me in the eye with her heel.

“I hate to talk business during such a lovely party, but there are a few items I wanted to go over with you.” Her smile lacked as much humor as mine. “I spotted you and figured this would be better than a phone call.”

“I’m not taking any more bookings until the new year,” I said.

The agency still hadn’t paid me for the work I’d done, and while I did miss being in front of the camera, I needed a physical and mental break. With the holidays coming up soon, it seemed smart to wait and start with a clean slate in the new year.

Despite my protests, Jordan had paid me for the time I’d put into being his fiancée. It wasn’t five million dollars, but it was enough money in the bank for a small safety net if I left Beaumont and they put up a fuss about it. It was also enough to cover my legal fees. I already had an appointment with my attorney to discuss potential next steps for breaking my contract.

I hadn’t told Vuk about any of this yet. I wanted to figure things out on my own first. I couldn’t always rely on other people to fix my problems for me.

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Emmanuelle said. “You were right. It was wrong of us to slack on our payments to you. If you check your accounts, you’ll see you’ve been paid in full as of this evening.”

I rocked back on my heels. Out of everything I expected her to say, “you were right” ranked dead last. She never admitted she was wrong, which was why I digested her quasi-apology with a healthy dose of wariness. What did she have up her sleeve?

“I mean it.” Emmanuelle gestured at my phone. “Check your account, Ayana.”

I did, and there they were. Every missing payment from the past year—minus agency fees, of course.

“Thank you.” I didn’t lower my guard yet. There was a catch. There had to be.

“You’re welcome.” Emmanuelle finished her drink. “Now that that’s settled, our business is concluded. You’re officially terminated from the agency.” She dropped the bombshell as casually as one might announce they were going out for lunch.

The music swirled around us. My stomach plunged as I gaped at her, sure I’d heard her wrong. “Excuse me? On what grounds?”

I wanted out from Beaumont, so this should be a blessing in disguise. But the shock of Emmanuelle dropping me in the middle of a birthday party with zero warning had me scrambling for answers.

Hank just sent me a booking days ago. Sure, I’d declined, but why would he do that if the agency was planning to drop me?

“Unprofessional conduct and intimidation by proxy,” she said without batting an eye.

My jaw unhinged. “I didn’t do any of that!”

“No? I remember our last phone call. While you were right about the payments, the way you communicated with me—thepresidentand founder of the agency—was deeply unprofessional. As for intimidation by proxy, Hank told me what your new boyfriend did.” Emmanuelle’s eyes glittered. “Vuk Markovic barged into his apartment and assaulted him on your behalf. He threatened him with more physical harm if Hank didn’t prioritize premium bookings for you over his other clients. His building’s surveillance footage will back him up.”

My ears buzzed. “Vuk would never do that.”

Okay, the threatening part, maybe. But demanding that Hank prioritize bookings for me? Absolutely not. Not when he knew I didn’t even like Hank and wanted to leave Beaumont.

“Hmm. Maybe not. Who knows? It’s our word against yours.” Emmanuelle shrugged. “Expect a lawsuit come Monday. Enjoy your booking fees while you have them, Ayana. Once the news breaks and the rest of the industry finds out about your behavior, I doubt you’ll book anything except a sad photo campaign for local STD awareness.” She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

My feet stayed rooted to the floor while she swanned off. A lawsuit? Was she joking?

Be careful what you wish for.That’s what my mother always said, and she was right.

I hated Beaumont, but I loved modeling. The beauty of movement, expression as art. I felt at home in front of a camera and on the runway, and I wasgoodat it.

I’d achieved a great amount of success, but even the most successful models weren’t immune to being smeared and blacklisted by the industry’s powers that be. It was all politics, which I was terrible at navigating. What would I do if I couldn’t model anymore?