by Stella Gray
I can barely breathe, my head spinning from the force of the orgasm. Brooklyn palms my body as she gets to her feet and slides a look over me. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then wordlessly picks up her dress and tosses it over one shoulder, her perfect ass swaying as she walks away to her room.
I run a hand through my hair as a thought suddenly goes through my mind.
Who owns whom?
Brooklyn
Chapter 19
I’ve always loved the movie Pretty Woman.
Who wouldn’t want to be Julia Roberts in that role? All the luxury and wealth and the company of a handsome Richard Gere in exchange for pleasure. Seems like a no-brainer. Yet she was never quite comfortable, too afraid that the higher-class social circle would sense that she didn’t belong, would see her for what she really was.
That’s how I feel sitting in the back of the private car taking me downtown. Like this isn’t my world at all, and everyone can tell just by looking at me. I didn’t even realize I had access to my own car and driver until it showed up this morning to take me to my lunch reservation with my future sisters-in-law, Tori and Emzee. The driver introduced himself and gave me his cell number so I can call him when I need a ride, any time of the day or night.
No more cabs or Ubers for me now.
When I showed him the address that Tori had texted me, he’d looked impressed, seeming to know exactly what the place was. I didn’t have a clue, nor did I ask. I’m still a bit shell-shocked by my new life and all the privileges that come with it. The penthouse is starting to become more comfortable, but I still don’t really think of it as mine. It’s just a place where I keep my things and go to bed at night. Although I’ve been venturing out to the other rooms a bit more, watching TV on the sofa, making small meals in the kitchen instead of ordering out.
I even learned the housekeeper’s name—Denise, a different woman than the one who’d kicked me out the morning after my disastrous one-night stand with Luka all those years ago, thank God—and left her a thank-you card and a small plate of chocolate chip cookies that I made. Acclimating to my new life is taking effort, but I’m trying.
Taking a compact out of my bag, I do a last quick check of my hair, which I’ve left down in loose waves, the light touch of makeup I put on, and my teeth. Check, check, double check. But I still can’t shake my nerves no matter how much I try to tell myself I’m not an imposter.
My outfit is a sleek jumpsuit in dark navy and a few pieces of gold jewelry. I hope it’s appropriate. Luka gave me a heavy black credit card with no limit and set up several store accounts for places he thought I’d enjoy shopping, but I haven’t taken advantage. I don’t want to feel like I’m in his debt any more than I already am, and on top of that, I don’t love the idea of running around town blowing money on shopping sprees just because I can. That’s not me.
I grew up in a modest home on the outskirts of Chicago, born to a middle-class family. Peanut butter and jelly was my school lunch standby, my recreation was school-sponsored activities, and I took the bus. No fancy dinners. No drivers. No private schools. I look at the back of my driver’s gray head now, feeling a twinge of guilt and hoping he gets paid well enough that taking care of his own family isn’t a struggle.
Rationally, I know that paying people to take care of your needs is part of the package deal. This is what it’s like when you move up in the world, and I should lean into it. But I’d always imagined I’d get myself here, one step at a time, by way of hard work and modeling gigs.
Not by signing a marriage contract.
The car slows in traffic and my stomach twists in knots. I don’t know Tori and Emzee very well. Tori has reached out a couple of times, wanting to get to know me better since we’re going to be family. We’ve had a few short conversations that were nice, but nothing too personal—Tori’s always studying or working on a school project or rushing off to one of her linguistics classes at UChicago. Emzee, on the other hand, made it clear she wasn’t interested in any sort of relationship with me at Luka’s and my engagement photo shoot, and I haven’t spoken to her since. I understand. She’s probably worried about my intentions with her brother.
Maybe they see me as a gold digger, or some kind of modeling mercenary. Which I guess I am. I mean, furthering my career is the whole reason I agreed to this marriage, isn’t it?
My throat goes tight as my mind begins to race. Tori’s husband Stefan pushed for Luka to get married, of course, but I’m not sure my soon-to-be sisters know the details of our contract, or if they even care. As long as our union helps Danica Rose’s reputation, they’re probably happy to stay out of it. They have no idea how hard Luka had to push to get me to agree.
The car pulls up to a nondescript modern building with one side all gray brick and the other side all windows. A bifold sign on the sidewalk is the only indicator of where we are, but I know the name as soon as I see it. Alinea is an exclusive restaurant, accessible by (impossible-to-get) reservation only. I’ve heard about this place, of course, but I’ve never been here. It’s always being mentioned in the papers and Chicago society and culture magazines, but I never imagined I’d dine here. By the looks of it, it’s not even open for business this time of day.
“Are you sure this is it?” I ask as the driver opens my door.
“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll follow me.”
I glance down at my jumpsuit and nude sandals and wonder if I should have dressed up more. But the driver opens the front door of the place and gestures for me to go up the staircase to the right. I step inside and hear the door close behind me, leaving me alone to climb the stairs.
Hearing laughter, I follow the sound up and find the intimate dining area basically empty, with the exception of Emzee and a gorgeous blonde who must be Tori. They’re nestled side by side in a plush velvet booth, laughing about something, and a pang hits me. I’m an outsider about to intrude on their fun. Tori’s eyes light up when she spots me, and I feel a little relieved.
“There you are! Come, sit!”
Emzee’s smile fades but her calculated expression isn’t totally unfriendly as she watches me cross the room toward them. Something about Emzee unnerves me. Probably because she’s Luka’s sister and I want her acceptance, even if I won’t admit that to anyone. It matters to me that the important people in his life like me. Luka and I will be spending a lot of time together, after all, and we both need their support in order to make this whole marriage thing work. I lay my beaded clutch (a vintage Melrose Avenue find) on the table and sit, unsure what to do next.
“Isn’t it nice they opened early just so we could have a private lunch?” Tori goes on.
And there’s the difference between rich and rich-rich. Alinea opens early just for you.
“I’ve always wanted to come here,” I say, nodding.
“Nice bag,” Emzee says, eyeing my purse. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic, especially given her edgy style—a too-cool black leather jacket and silk blouse—but I thank her anyway.
A server comes by and pours wine for us, then sets down heavy glass bowls filled with a scant amount of something purple and gelatinous with little orange beads glistening on the side, a few slices of parsnip sticking straight up from the pile, and a garnish of some kind of flower. He quickly gives a description and then he’s gone.
The bowl is pretty, but the food doesn’t look like anything I want near my mouth. I take a sip of perfectly chilled white wine. It has a delicate sweetness that hits every corner of my palate. I take another sip just as my stomach growls and kick myself for not having breakfast.
“This, um…looks interesting,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
“Oh, come on, Brooklyn,” Emzee teases. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had trout roe with grape paste before?”
I’m fairly certain roe is another name for fish eggs. “I’ll try anything once,” I say, hoping I come off as adventurous and fun rather than inexperienced and ignorant. It earns me a giggl
e from Tori, but Emzee cocks a brow, seeming unimpressed.
“Well, it’s two-hundred a course,” she says, “so for the love of God, eat up.”
It’s obvious there’s no room for argument. Emzee may be younger than me, but she definitely makes her dominance known.
I pick up a small spoon and hover it over the dish. “How many courses are there?”
This draws another laugh from Tori. “We’re only doing five. You’ll live.”
Emzee adds, “Normally there’s like sixteen.”
Tori takes a small sample of the roe, her expression delighted. “We’re mixing art and food today, ladies. I asked the chef to surprise us with the menu, so make sure you save room to try it all.”
Truth be told, I would have no qualms whatsoever with trading whatever this is for a Big Mac right now, but that wouldn’t go over well. I need to fit into my new world, not sidestep it. Forcing a smile, I take a small bit of the roe, mirroring Tori, who tried the paste separately. I do so too, chewing quickly, not sure I want to taste it. To my surprise, the roe bursts cleanly in my mouth, leaving a briny but not unpleasant flavor behind. I don’t love it, but it’s okay.
I go in for a second taste, mirroring the other women so I don’t make a fool of myself. Before I know it, my bowl is empty save for the flower. Emzee eats hers but I let mine be.
Our dishes are taken away and I catch Tori nudging Emzee, tilting her head in my direction. Emzee sighs, clears her throat, and says, “So Brooklyn…I want to apologize for getting off on the wrong foot with you. I know I was a brat at the engagement photo shoot.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. When it comes to good manners, sometimes it’s more polite to play dumb.
“You know what I mean,” Emzee says, narrowing her dark-lined eyes at me. “Nobody told me about the deal with Luka, and I thought you were just another greedy model trying to land my brother and take advantage. Stefan told me later that he organized the whole thing.”
Tori tosses her hair, looking a little peeved, and leans forward to add, “I think what Emzee means is that she’s super protective of her brothers and she tends to be a little quick to jump to conclusions when it comes to people who try to get too close, too fast.”
“I really get it,” I tell Emzee, meaning it. “It’s obvious you love them like crazy, and I can’t be upset that you’re looking out. In fact, I’m kinda jealous. I always wished I had siblings.”
“Aww,” Emzee and Tori chime in unison.
“Well, now you have us!” Tori says.
I smile. She’s sweet, and I wish it really were that easy, but I still feel a million miles away from the women sitting across from me.
All of a sudden, the server comes over to our table to set down a bundle of branches—actual tree branches—with feathery greenery coming off them. On top is a piece of burlap covered by an arrangement of what appear to be sandwich cookies topped with toasted pine nuts, herbs, and little dabs of honey.
“Wow,” I blurt. “I’ve never eaten anything off a branch before.”
Emzee and Tori start cracking up, and for a moment I think they’re laughing at my expense, my cheeks going hot, until Emzee reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
“This is pretty…extravagant,” she says, dabbing a tear from the corner of her eye. “But whatever it is, it smells amazing. Is that cedar?”
The server, who has been waiting patiently this whole time, gestures at the dish and gives us another rundown, spooning sauce along the branches as he talks. I have no idea how we’re supposed to utilize this to our advantage. Apparently, it’s some exotic bean and sassafras pâté sandwiched between celery root, chervil, and sumac crackers served over fresh juniper. When the server walks away, we all exchange perplexed glances.
“Screw it, I’m using my hands,” Tori finally says, reaching for one of the cracker sandwiches. She takes a bite and grins as she chews, clearly enjoying whatever it is.
Emzee and I join in, and soon enough we’ve devoured the course in all its bizarre deliciousness. As out of my element as I am, this whole concept is kind of fun.
Next, we’re served huge round plates with intricate Moroccan-style designs around a painting of a cow’s head. At the tip of the cow’s nose is a tall, round pastry holding a soft filling. Some herbs poke out of the top, and two smears of paste on the plate resemble yellow petals.
I poke at the food without thinking. “Who’s down to hit up the nearest Taco Bell on our way out of here?” I cut through my pastry and take a bite. They both laugh.
Emzee takes a long drink of her wine and then shakes her head slowly at me. “You’re actually really funny. And fun. I feel like I was completely wrong about you.”
“In what way?” I ask, keeping my tone light, not sure I’ll like what she has to say.
Crossing her arms at the edge of the table as she chews, Emzee regards me and my apprehension grows. “I guess, when I first met you,” she says, “I assumed you were like all the rest of my brother’s harem.”
Tori puts down her fork and looks between us, her mouth puckering as if she’s concerned about what her sister-in-law might say.
“Every woman he’s with ends up using him,” Emzee says. “Money, photo shoots, contracts, that kind of thing. And probably sex, but I don’t even want to think about that.” She grimaces in disgust.
“Emzee,” Tori chirps, overly cheerful. “Why don’t we tell Brooklyn about that cool avant-garde florist shop you found on Insta—”
But Emzee’s already picked up where she left off. “You’re different, though. He actually seems—and this is insane to me, only because it’s Luka—but he actually seems invested in this marriage. In you. I didn’t think he’d last a week before breaking off this engagement, but…”
Our server is back with a helper this time, and they start clearing our plates. Then they set down what looks like a chunk cut from a log. The top is smooth and glossy, the center hollowed out and holding a single, hot coal. Three pieces of meat on skewers sit on top of the coal. Other finger-food type items are arranged around the outside. Emzee wastes no time digging in.
“The thing about Luka is,” she says between bites, “he never had any stable female relationships growing up. Our mom was gone. We had plenty of nannies, but they were all temporary, and our dad sure didn’t keep any women around long enough to get attached to.
“Point is, I know Luka can be a real dick, and I’m not trying to excuse him, but he never had a solid relationship in his life to look at and learn from. I don’t expect you to understand and I’m not going to explain it any more than I have. But I can see that you’re different in a way that counts to my brother…so it counts with me, too. Even if this whole thing was arranged by Stefan and has, oh, a ninety-percent chance of being a disaster.” She laughs.
I’m reeling from Emzee’s words, my chest gone tight. I don’t know how to respond.
Tori circles her fork in Emzee’s direction. “Need I remind you that my own arranged marriage started out as my dad trying to land me a Zoric?”
“You guys had an arranged marriage, too?” I ask, totally floored by this revelation.
“Yup,” Tori says. “And it’s turned out fine.”
“Has it?” Emzee teases. As she grins at me, I realize she’s accepted me into the fold, as much as she can, I suspect. Warmth floods through me, pushing out the doubts I had earlier.
“Yes, it has!” Tori says. “I didn’t expect to fall for Stefan. We went into our marriage with our own goals in mind, and they had nothing to do with love.” She takes a bite of food and savors it before continuing. “Just goes to show, you never know when love will find you.”
“Right now, I’m just worried about Luka keeping his nose out of my photo shoots,” I say.
Falling in love with Luka? I can’t imagine our relationship will ever develop to that point. We have attraction, sure. Okay, fine, it’s lust. But love is a whole other part of the brain, and the heart. Changing the subject i
s the only way I know to not think about that right now.
“Oh, do tell,” Tori says. “How have the jobs been going, by the way?”
Our conversation turns to my latest modeling gigs and Luka’s domineering alpha mentality in making sure everything goes his way during each shoot. By the time our dessert course of freeze-dried fruit, chocolate mousse, and various edible flowers arranged on a slab of rock arrives, I feel light and warm and completely included.
Tori and Emzee like me. They believe in me and in my ability to help DRM’s image. I’m on the right track, I’m a player in this game, and I’m this close to having the career of my dreams.
And maybe things will progress with Luka in a way I never thought possible.
My driver arrives and I give Tori and Emzee hugs, feeling more optimistic and energized than I have in weeks. Slipping into the back seat, I realize that I really might have it all.
Now, if I can only keep Luka in check at my next photo shoot, things will be perfect.
Brooklyn
Chapter 20
“You’re not wearing that.”
Luka gestures at the thong I’m wearing. I start to protest but then stop myself and take a deep breath. We’re in the lobby of The Platform, a brand new, sixteen-story luxury office complex with exposed steel beams and floor-to-ceiling windows. The lighting is perfect right now, and Jane Otembe, the famous fashion photographer I’ve been dying to work with, is more than ready to get started.
Unfortunately, I’m having some trouble managing my fiancé’s douchebaggery.
I look down at myself and put my hands on my hips. The set assistant took my robe, leaving me in a demi bra and dental floss-style thong. My hair sports huge, elegant curls that flow down my back and around my shoulders, and my makeup is shimmery and gorgeous. I feel sexy and confident, not easy emotions to drum up considering the whispers going around the room about my fiancé. There are two other models here beside me, but I’m the headliner, so makeup and wardrobe have been fussing over me for most of the morning. The attention hasn’t won me any favors with the other models, who have made it perfectly clear they’re jealous, despite my efforts at chatting casually with them and learning their names (Heather and Sasha).
