The Sham

by Stella Gray

  Luka checks his watch. “Almost time for the walk-through. The photographer will show you the set with the stylist and you’ll get some notes on what’s expected of you. After that you’ll sit for hair and makeup and then go to wardrobe.”

  “In case you forgot, I have done this before,” I say, forcing a smile through gritted teeth.

  “Just trying to help,” he says, walking away from me.

  Things have been a little tense between us—okay, a lot tense—ever since we had hot, angry sex in the limo and Luka thanked me for “helping” with his blue balls. Even still, I was initially kind of excited when he offered to come to this shoot with me. I thought this could be an opportunity for him to finally see what I’m capable of. To prove that not only is he not wasting Danica Rose’s time by signing me to an exclusive contract, but that he made a serious misstep three years ago when he let me slip away.

  But now here he is being a dick to me. Treating me like an amateur and mansplaining things that I know the photographer is going to tell me all about in a few minutes anyway.

  Why did I expect anything different? After forcing myself to get through the remainder of the disastrous Danica Rose party, I’ve stayed in my corner and Luka has stayed in his. Not that I haven’t been aware of his presence 24/7. The penthouse is big and lofty, but I can still smell his damn cologne everywhere. Still hear his footsteps padding into the kitchen every morning when I know he’s walking around post-shower with only a towel around his hips. He also likes to take his phone calls on the upper deck outside, the deep tones of his voice rippling back to me inside. Basically, there’s no place that I can go when I’m at home to be completely free of him.

  He’s always around in one way or another to remind me that I made a huge mistake in that limo. A mistake that my heart and pride still haven’t recovered from. He’s done nothing to reassure me about that night, either, which only serves to remind me what an ass he can be.

  “Brooklyn? I’m Ady, the stylist.”

  I turn to find a gorgeous woman with box braids and glowing dark skin holding out a hand to me. “Hi! It’s great to meet you,” I gush, glad someone has finally said hello.

  “Just wanted to let you know there’s coffee and breakfast over there,” she says, pointing. “Feel free to feast. You’ve still got a few minutes to scarf.”

  With a wink, she’s gone, and I wander over to grab half a bagel and make myself a cup of hot green tea—more to give myself something to do than because I’m actually thirsty.

  Luka wanders back over to stand beside me with his hands in his pockets.

  “You sure you want to be eating right before they start snapping photos?” he asks.

  I shoot him a death glare. “What’s wrong, Luka? Worried I’ll get a cramp?”

  With that, I stuff a huge bite of bagel into my mouth. The fact is, the reason I work so hard at the gym is so that I don’t have to worry what might happen if I eat a bagel before a photo shoot. And I’m not going to let Luka make me any more anxious about this than I already am.

  He’s ignoring me now, looking around and assessing the set. I’ve already studied it myself. There’s an exposed brick wall for the backdrop and a black fainting couch with velvet throw pillows on it. Two antique-looking lamps arch over the couch. A white Persian cat is milling around inside a huge animal carrier, waving its plume of a tail. Spread out on the prop table is a slip of lacy fabric that must be some sort of lingerie, and a fur stole. There are three of the same bottle of perfume carefully lined up on mirrored trays.

  The whole thing has a vintage feel to it, and I wonder how they’ll do my hair and makeup. I’m thinking bold, early-Hollywood movie star style with a red lip and soft waves, or maybe they’ll pin my hair up to make it look shorter. Either way, I love the vibe.

  The photographer, Hans, bald and black-turtlenecked with huge horn-rimmed glasses, waves me over onto the set. I go eagerly, pointedly ignoring Luka.

  “I’m going to have you do a few quick poses for me first, so I can get a sense of how your face and body play against the backdrop and the lighting. Then we can make adjustments while you’re getting ready.”

  I nod and wait for his instructions. Luka is a few feet behind the photographer now, his expression intent as if he’s going to watch and critique my every move. He steps onto the set and waves a hand.

  “The lighting in here is all wrong,” he says, brow furrowing. “Brooklyn’s hair is so dark that you need to put a separate back light on it. Otherwise your key light is going to wash out her skin tone and blow the whole exposure. That thing shouldn’t be over 3,000K.”

  The photog and his assistant whip Luka wide-eyed looks. A tingle goes down the back of my neck. What the hell is he doing? When no one responds, he slowly wanders the space and continues his perusal of the set. Hans ignores his suggestions and positions me a few different ways, then looks through the camera lens. He motions for me to sit on the couch, but before I can get there, Luka moves behind me and pushes the couch to the side, angling it differently.

  “The fill light needs to move now, too,” my fiancé says, grabbing the stand that holds the umbrella behind the light.

  “What the hell is this?” I hiss. I’m mortified, but I have to keep my professional face on.

  Luke frowns. “I won’t have the Danica Rose name on something that looks this unprofessional. None of this is staged correctly.”

  Hans clears his throat and juts out a hip. “The lights may look unorthodox to you, Mr. Zoric, but I was going for a more experimental play of shadow and light—”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Luka cuts him off.

  Hans waves his hand, starts pacing, and simply waits Luka out. A few minutes later, the set is completely rearranged. Luka studies his handiwork and then nonchalantly steps off the set and crosses his arms.

  “If you’re all through now, Mr. Zoric…?” Hans says drily.

  “Go ahead,” Luka says with a nod.

  Hans motions me back into place and nods to himself before stepping back from the camera again. “It’ll do,” he tells his assistant. “What we’re losing in saturation, we’re making up for in contrast. Which is basically what I was going for.”

  “Cool,” the assistant says, looking relieved that she won’t have to break up a fight.

  As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not surprised that Luka was right. I’ve done my share of shoots, and the suggestions he made about the lighting did make sense. He’s grown up in this business. Of course he’s developed an instinctive eye for details.

  Satisfied, Luka finally fades into the background and lets Hans and me do our thing. After a few more minutes, Hans nods and waves me away.

  “Very good. Go see Ady, Brooklyn. And thank you.”

  “Thank you,” I say back, starting to relax.

  I find Ady by a wardrobe rack, scrolling through her phone in a director’s chair.

  “There you are,” she greets me. “Let’s talk styling.”

  She holds up the scant bit of lacy fabric as if she’s imagining what it might look like on me. The situation is professional, totally par for the course, and in no way creepy. Yet all of a sudden Luka is standing here once again, getting in between us as if Ady was about to undress me herself, and plucks the lingerie from the stylist’s fingers.

  He tosses it from hand to hand and holds it up again, before balling it up and throwing it on a table. “No, that won’t work. It’s too sheer.”

  “Excuse me?” Ady scoffs.

  “Luka,” I say tightly. “It’s fine. I’ve worn less. You don’t need to defend my honor.”

  “This isn’t about you being my fiancée, it’s about our reputation,” Luka insists.

  “Ah.” Ady looks between us, her expression going from annoyed to understanding.

  She sighs but exhibits more patience than I would expect in this situation, explaining the concept to him. “Soirée is French for ‘party,’ as I’m sure you know, and the story the client wants to t
ell with these photos is that Brooklyn is a mysterious, sexy woman who’s getting ready for a night out,” Ady is saying. “Hence the risqué, Prohibition-era themed vibe.”

  He nods as he listens, but I can tell by the way he’s tapping his foot that he doesn’t like it.

  Maybe Luka is always like this with his models at photo shoots. The thought gives me pause. Just how many of them did he accompany to stuff like this? Rationally, I know that he’s a one-and-done kind of guy—not the kind to hover, normally. He’s only here today because he’s worried about the agency’s reputation and trying to make sure this campaign upholds the new Danica Rose brand. Still, he might have to concede to things he’s not comfortable with.

  “Why can’t she be getting ready in a robe?” Luka asks.

  Cocking my head pointedly, I widen my eyes to signal him to knock it off.

  Ady smiles. “Believe me, Mr. Zoric, I’m on your side. But I’m not the client.”

  Hans hustles over, exasperated. “What’s the problem?” he asks.

  Before I can say anything to smooth this over, Luka says, “I just don’t see the necessity for this…lingerie.”

  For a moment, Hans just stands there nodding. Finally, he says, “That’s a great point, now that I think about it. And the client wasn’t explicit regarding the model’s wardrobe.”

  I’m stunned that he seems to be agreeing with Luka. Ady also looks taken aback.

  Hans goes on, “The face of Soirée is a sexy risk-taker, the type of woman who draws every eye whenever she enters a room and loves to shun the rules.” He smiles at me, gesturing to the discarded lingerie. “How do you feel about nudity in lieu of wearing the bodysuit?”

  Luka tenses beside me. “That’s not what I had in mind—”

  “I’m perfectly fine with it,” I say, interrupting him. I’ve done nude shoots before. It’s never bothered me to take off my clothes for the right photo shoot. “It definitely fits the vibe.”

  “Excellent,” Hans says, tilting his head as he looks me up and down again with an artist’s eye. “I’m thinking we go black and white, then, with you stretched out on the sofa, relaxed. I can’t think of a better way for a woman to break all the rules than to be naked—”

  “Hell no.” Luka finally breaks in, straightening to his full height. His arms are crossed so his biceps bulge beneath the sleeves of his white dress shirt, and he’s radiating aggression.

  “Luka,” I warn.

  He ignores me. “I said no.”

  I can’t believe him. What the hell is he doing?

  “If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” I tell Hans and Ady.

  Taking Luka by the wrist, I lead him away to a darkened corner of the studio. He won’t look at me, so I get right in his face, making it clear that he’s really pissing me off.

  “What are you doing? This is my career and you’re acting like a controlling, possessive asshole. Are you trying to screw this up for me?”

  He doesn’t flinch. “I’m looking out for DRM’s image. If a shoot featuring one of my models doesn’t feel right, I have the authority to negotiate for change.”

  I spread my hands wide. “You’re not negotiating. You’re just being a dick about everything.”

  “Your job is to do what you’re told. Do you understand that?”

  His words cut right through me, leaving me momentarily speechless. How could I have ever considered that there might be something real between us when he can stand here and be so condescending about my livelihood? He’s not taking my career—or my own feelings about this—into consideration at all.

  “My ‘job’ is to be an extension of the photographer and the client’s artistic construction,” I tell him, my voice raising involuntarily. “I am their prop and it’s my job to do what they need me to do in order to fulfill my contract for this campaign. I’m trying my best to be professional about this and to do what they tell me, but you’re interfering, and you don’t seem to give a shit that my career is on the line!”

  He steps into me until we’re inches apart. I glare up at him, trying like hell to keep my temper under control. I don’t want my face to flush and get splotchy, or even worse—for tears to build up. Taking a cleansing breath, I let it out slowly through my nose. I’ll be mad at Luka later, when it doesn’t matter if it’s etched all over my features or not. His jaw works to the side.

  “I won’t shut up. And I won’t back down. Did you forget about the contract you signed? The family and the agency always come first. My wife isn’t going to look like a slut.”

  And there it is. The truth, revealed.

  I smirk. The irony isn’t lost on me, but it probably is on him. Luka’s worried about me appearing too slutty when he’s the biggest manwhore in Chicago. I’m about to tell him that, but I bite my tongue. Nothing good will come from having an all-out pissing match right now.

  “You know what, Zoric? Fine. You might own the rights to my body in print and behind the camera. But in real life? You’ll never own me, Luka. Never.”

  I storm back to Hans, ready to get to work. I’ve spoken my mind a lot in my life, but I’ve never meant the words more than I did just then.

  Brooklyn

  Chapter 17

  After the almost-disaster that was my first huge modeling gig, I’m ready for a good bitch session with my bestie.

  No, scratch that. I’m dying for one.

  I went straight from high school to professional modeling, and with all the fierce competition and backstabbing that goes on in this business, I’ve never had a ton of friends—though believe me, I’ve tried to make them. But just look at the models at the Danica Rose party the other night. Those women were ready to eat me alive. In contrast, Mateo and I connected from the get-go because he was always so real with me. Nothing about him is two-faced or shady or judgmental. And he’s the one person I can be completely myself with.

  He’s been my lifeline for years: confidant, personal assistant, therapist, teddy bear... A teddy bear with off-color jokes and a therapist who occasionally tries to flirt his way into my bed every now and again, sure, but intense friendships like ours are always a little complicated. Point being, no one else would understand what I’m dealing with. Or at least listen, hug me, and feed me drinks to help me cope with it. I need to vent about what went down with Luka at the Soirée shoot, and Mateo’s the only person I want to talk to. He’s the only one I trust.

  It’s what everyone wants in a partner. Lord knows I’ll never have anything even close to this level of emotional intimacy with Luka.

  I brush off the sting that the thought gives me and pull out my cellphone to text Mateo.

  This is a 9-1-1. A really bad 9-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1.

  Uh-oh. What happened, boo? he quickly texts back. Everything go okay at the shoot?

  I type back, It wasn’t the shoot. It was Luka.

  He sends back a sad face emoji, and I’m already anticipating an evening in with him curled up on the couch, watching horrible movies and eating a pile of cheat food, with some cheap wine to wash it down. He’ll listen when I bitch about Luka and the hate sex we had in the limo, and how he ruined my very first national photo shoot. He’ll crack jokes and talk smack with me while feeding me chocolate. It’ll be perfect, just like old times.

  So here’s the plan… he texts me back.

  Pacing the guest room, I wait for him to fill me in. It’s getting late in the day. Luka is out doing who-knows-what, and I’m feeling more and more cooped up in this penthouse by the minute. At this point I’m more than ready to bolt over to the Wicker Park apartment.

  I have to be at the opening of this new club downtown—Geo Blu. I’m committed, so I can’t bail last minute, but meet me there and we can leave early, k? You need to be vetted to get in, but I’ll handle it.

  I tap a finger against my bottom lip. Ugh. This wasn't the BFF night in I was hoping for. Mateo has been making friends in the industry and always seems to be off to some gallery show or restaurant opening or something. Norm
ally he fills me in on all of his invites, but I don’t recall him mentioning Geo Blu. I’m actually a little hurt that he didn’t ask me to go with him before.

  Sure, I’ve been tied up with wedding planning and getting used to my new life with Luka…but am I losing Mateo in the process? I pause as I stare at the phone. Maybe I’ve been letting my new life get in the way of our friendship. Now that I think about it, that’s exactly what’s been happening. I lift my chin and text back as I march over to the walk-in closet.

  Be there in an hour.

  You won’t regret it, he texts back. Promise. Hit me up when you get here.

  I smile as I run my fingers along a row of dresses, playing a little game of eenie-meenie-miney-mo with my most revealing selection of clubbing outfits. There’s the bodysuit with the sexy shredded fabric along the sides, the micro mini with an oval cutout over the chest. I have an all lace bodycon dress that shows, well, everything. Bandage dresses, little black dresses…

  None of it feels exactly right.

  Going into the bathroom, I plug in my curling iron and twist the ends of my hair into big, fluffy curls. I work a little product through them until I’m satisfied, and then turn to my makeup. I go dark and heavy with the palette. My eyes are all smoky shimmer, with big, black fake lashes. Next I stain my cheeks pink and create bold lips with a slick of deep burgundy gloss. The finishing touch is a spray of body glitter, just for fun, and then I go back to the closet.

  My gaze falls to a matte, metallic silver dress hanging in the back. Plucking it from its place, I turn it over and over, remembering what drove me to purchase it in the first place. It’s a little “Vegas” for me, not something I’d normally wear. Mateo talked me into it back in LA, I think to wear to an audition, but I haven’t worn it since.

  Slipping out of my clothes, I stand there naked for a moment, trying to decide, and then slip into the dress. It’s got a vintage feel, with ruching at the waist, thin halter straps, and a cowl neckline, but the way it hugs my body and flashes my cleavage screams all modern. There’s a slit up the back nearly to my ass. I slip into black heels and do a turn in front of the mirror.