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Scouring the designer clothes, I select an outfit that demands the most attention—a stunning, slinky silver minidress. The fabric is almost sheer and clings gracefully to my curves. Delicate spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline add a tempting allure. Completing the sex appeal is a pair of four-inch heels I long ago became an expert at walking in.
The attire may not be ideal for the New York fall weather, but it conveys the message. It hides my pregnancy and proves I’ll have no trouble gracing the runway.
It also screams—fuck Jackson O’Reilly.
I eat when Ricky puts food in front of me every four hours like clockwork, along with a prenatal pill in the morning, and I soak up all his affection and motivating words.
Wherever he leads, I follow.
We exit the car to meet Felicity and the designer, and I don’t evade the cameras. My heels hit the sidewalk, and Ricky takes my hand so delicately, that for a fleeting moment, I can pretend I’m appreciated, cared for, and loved, even if it’s just an illusion born out of desperation.
I wear a playful smile, masking the storm of emotions that rage within me.
When the paparazzi mention Jackson, I arch a brow and ask, “Who?” with feigned indifference.
They laugh and snap their photos until the elevator doors close, and I sag against my bodyguard.
He gives my fingers an encouraging squeeze. “Deep breaths. Nail this contract, and you can go home to a bubble bath. I’ll even order you some books.”
I gaze up at him in awe, wondering how he knows I enjoy reading. Before I can verbalize my thoughts, the bell dings,signaling our destination, and he breaks contact, dropping my hand.
Once we step off the elevator, Felicity waves me into her office and shuts the door.
She wraps her arms around me. “I’m so sorry, babe.”
“Don’t be. Everyone warned me. I didn’t listen.” I pull out of her embrace, afraid if someone holds me for too long, I’ll break down. I won’t let Jackson’s betrayal overshadow a day that’s all mine.
“What are you going to do?”
“Never talk to him again.” What else is there?
“And the baby?”
I had forgotten about our lie, the façade of him being the baby’s father, and the curiosity in her voice turns my stomach sour. It’s no one’s business.
“We’ll be fine. Let’s move on.” I gesture with my hand, a dismissive wave. I refuse to satisfy anyone’s need for gossip.
“Certainly.” She holds me at arm’s length and scans me from head to toe. “Stunning! Paulo is already in love with you. You’re going tokillthis.”
She draws me in for another embrace, and I exhale in relief, releasing the tension in my stiff shoulders.
The designer, Paulo, kisses my cheeks, his ruddy face lit with enthusiasm despite my predicament.
Our meeting is straightforward. He only has two requests: I walk the runway and work in New York through Fashion Week.
Winter Fashion Week is seven weeks away, and surprisingly, being in New York for such an extended period is a weight off my chest. It’s the first overwhelmingly positive emotion since seeing my boyfriend snorting cocaine with a pair of puck bunnies.
I glance at Felicity for confirmation. Her urgent nod reminds me of all the commitments we’ve canceled to appease my ex.
Since I’d love nothing more than to avoid LA, staying in New York is a fan-freaking-tastic idea. Ethan will either understand or not care, considering his busy schedule.
Besides, I’m still determining the direction of our relationship.
A selfish side of me needs him to be here, and his absence adds to my sense of abandonment. But a rational—or critical—part of my mind tells me I’m ridiculous for even thinking that.
Why would he neglect his responsibilities to console me over a breakup, for fuck’s sake?
Felicity widens her eyes, and I realize Paulo is talking to me while I agonize over men like an idiot.