At Mr. Cartwright's Command

by Ash, Ingrid

  “Here you go. Be careful because it's piping hot,” I say as I hand the mug to him.

  He pulls himself up until his back is propped against the wall, still grimacing from the pain with his eyes half shut.

  “Thank you, baby,” he says as he reaches for it and carefully takes a sip.

  “Hey, T?” he asks.

  “Yeah?”

  “Could you maybe do one more little tiny favor for moi?”

  What have I gotten myself into? “No.”

  He points to his closet. “Could you take that dress to set for me today, pretty please?” he asked anyways.

  I flash him a warm smile and reply, “You know I love you, Marcus, but no.”

  “But it has to be on set in like, one hour, and there's no way I'll be up and able to function by then! I'm going to be in so much trouble with Sarah if that dress is late!”

  Sarah is Marcus's boss; she's a pretty successful stylist in London, and Marcus has been interning as her assistant for the past couple of months. Something tells me that gig isn't going to last much longer.

  “No! I can't keep picking up the slack for you. Besides, can't one of your friends take it.”

  “You're my friend, T. You're my only friend.”

  Now that is a damn lie. “What about your boyfriend?”

  He pauses. “Robert and I broke up. I told you that.”

  “Again? I can barely keep track.”

  “Hah. Funny. Real fuckin' funny,” he replies sarcastically.

  “I'm sorry,” I say, and I mean it because he seems pretty sad about it. “Alright, fine. How far away is the set?”

  He instantly peps up. “Just a few stops away on the blue line.”

  “And it's just the one dress?”

  “You betcha,” he replied.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Alright. But this time is the last time.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I'll never ask for another thing from you as long as I live!”

  Now that right there was a damn lie too. “You don't have to thank me,” I reply with a chuckle. “Just text me the address so I know where I'm going.”

  *

  Just a few stops on the blue line my ass. It takes over an hour on the train just to get across town, and then a good 20 minutes of walking and searching to find the damn lot. All with a heavy dress in tow, that only feels like it's getting heavier as each minute passes. Never again, I tell myself. I'll have a bone or two to pick with Marcus when I get home.

  The actual shoot location is a huge warehouse that's rather tucked away in a desolate area. Not exactly safe, and not exactly the type of place I'd go alone by choice, especially since I'm still adjusting to living abroad.

  I eye the surroundings and the door to the warehouse, making sure everything appears safe and normal. I can hear commotion coming from inside and I reluctantly push the door open, having no idea what I'm about to step into.

  It looks like pretty much any other abandoned warehouse on the inside, except built up to be an intentionally dingy looking set for a fashion shoot. There are giant studio lights everywhere making the place a hell of a lot brighter than it should be. People and models are rushing by like there is a fire, and not one of them seems to have the time to pay me any mention. I scan their faces as best as I can—I don't know Sarah, but Marcus has shown me her photo a couple of times; I'm pretty sure I'd be able to pick her out of a crowd. However, I'm not having too much luck thus far.

  A young girl just a few feet away catches my eye. She has on a headset and seems pretty focused.

  “Hi,” I say as I approach her.

  She looks up at me, eying me from head to toe. “Model's changing area is that way,” she replies shortly, pointing to the other side of the room.

  “I'm looking for Sarah, actually. I'm here to drop off a dress.”

  “Oh,” she says, clearly preoccupied with some other matter. “Well last time I saw her she was back with the models so maybe you can find her there.”

  “Alright, thanks,” I reply, heading off into the direction she points.

  There's a curtained-off area on the south side of the building, which I figure is the area she referred to, based on a number of half-naked models scurrying in and out. I peep my head in and see a guy with glasses pinning a model into a dress. Great, he must be Sarah's other assistant.

  “Are you here for the shoot?” he asks when he notices me.

  “No, I'm just looking for Sarah. Any idea where she might be?”

  He shakes his head. “Haven't seen her in a while. Last time I saw her she was up front with the photographer. Maybe ask him?”

  I suppress the urge to groan. “Alright,” I reply as I back out with the gown slung over my arm. They sure do love giving a girl the run around here.

  It's not hard to spot the photographer—there's only one guy standing up front and he's poised behind the camera. I swear, if he doesn't know where Sarah is, I'm just leaving the gown with him.

  “Excuse me,” I say loud enough to be heard of over all the noise as I approach him. He doesn't bother to turn around from the camera to face me. “Um, I'm assuming you're the photographer? I'm supposed to drop this gown off with Sarah and someone told me you might know where she is?”

  He sounds agitated when he starts to speak. “I have no idea where Sar—“

  My eyes flare when he turns and I fully see him. And he's speechless when he sees me.

  “Mr. Cartwright?” My voice spikes. I never expected to see him again; I sure as hell didn't expect to see him here, doing this. What was he doing here?

  He stares me down for a long time without speaking a word. He looks at me like I'm a ghost or some sort of phantom of his past, which I guess I am, when you think about it.

  “It's Owen,” he says softly.

  It's been a little over a year since I've seen him and he looks the same, yet completely different, if that makes any sense at all. His usual tailored suit and well pressed button down are gone in favor of blue jeans and a v-neck that clings to his chest all too well. And a dark five o'clock shadow lines his perfectly sculpted jaw. I suck in a breath as my mind goes to mush for a split second. Mr. Cartwright—I mean Owen—somehow managed to get even better looking.

  “I...what are you doing here?” I blurt out.

  “I suppose I could ask you the same.”

  And then it clicks. I suddenly realized what was happening. This was all a hoax. An elaborate hoax so that Mr. Cartwright could find me again, and Marcus was in on it.

  “You know what? It doesn't matter,” I reply, feeling frazzled and my mind reeling with a million different emotions. I fumble with the dress and shoved it at him. “Here's your gown,” I mumble before turning and rushing out of the building as fast as I can. I think I bump into and brush past at least a dozen different people, but I don't care as long as I get out of there. And out of there fast.

  The second I made it outside I am practically gasping for air. Over the course of just a few minutes, my whole world has been sent into a tizzy. Mr. Cartwright is the last person I expected to see, especially here, and I wasn't prepared to face him again. I have spent an entire year getting over him and trying to make myself forget. I thought I was pretty successful at it too, but now I feel as if that's all undone and my world is shattered.

  “Tamara.”

  I would know his voice anywhere, and I feel my whole body tense the moment I hear him say my name from behind me.

  I spin around, my hair whipping my face as I go. “How did you know I was living in London?” I asked with an accusatory tone.

  He approaches with hesitation. “I didn't. Believe me I'm just as shocked to see you as you are to see me.”

  I take a step back, my eyes narrowing as I go. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I'm working.”

  “Working? On a photo shoot?”

  “Yes, I'm the photographer, in case you didn't notice the camera I was standing behind.”

/>   My lips quiver but nothing comes out. Mr. Cartwright never quite told me what he did outside of the modeling agency, but I know photography wasn't it.

  I glance down and catch a glimpse of his hand and realize there's no ring on his finger.

  “I didn't marry her, if that's what you're wondering,” he says. “I couldn't do it.”

  I look up at him with bewilderment. “But why?”

  “You're shocked that I didn't go through with marrying someone I hate? Glad to know you have a lot of faith in me.”

  “Can you really blame me?” I ask.

  He raises his shoulders. “I suppose not.”

  “And your inheritance?”

  “Gone. All of it,” he says, and he seems strangely proud.

  It was hard to imagine him as anything other than a rich guy in a fancy suit. As good as he looks now, it's still bizarre to see him this way. It's like talking to a completely different person.

  “So are you poor now like the rest of us?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Not exactly,” he remarks cheekily.

  “And you randomly decided to become a photographer?” Something didn't add up. The change seems too random and out of nowhere.

  “The only reason I didn't become a photographer to begin with was because of my father. And I seem to remember a certain someone encouraging me not to let my father control me anymore.”

  My mind flashes back to the first time we met in his penthouse, and how he told me of his love for photography. The last thing I ever expected from him was that he'd actually pursue it.

  “So you aren't tracking me.” I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed...

  “No, Tamara. You can sleep soundly tonight knowing a crazed billionaire isn't stalking you halfway across the world.”

  Now I feel a bit silly; silly and slightly embarrassed. “Oh. I thought you were...”

  He shook his head. “I stopped chasing things that clearly don't want me a long time ago.”

  My heart feels heavy in my chest when he says those words. The hurt in his eyes is evident, as hard as he tries to hide it. That's when I realize that I broke him. I broke Owen Cartwright's heart, and a year, an engagement, and an entire continent apart hadn't put it back together yet.

  Truth is, I never stopped thinking about him. It was harder at first, but over the past handful of months I learned to make room for the pain and cope with the emptiness. I successfully managed to ignore it and push it back to the recesses of my mind. But it was always there. Yet, for some reason, I assumed he forgot about me a long time ago.

  I take a step towards him. “Mr. Cartwright, I—“

  He holds his hands out in front of him, as if to stop me and cut me off. “Again, it's just Owen now. And I have work to do, so if you'd please excuse me,” he says as he marches back towards the warehouse door.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Owen,” I say with emphasis. He stops in the doorway. “I'm sorry I hurt you. And I mean it. That's all I wanted to say.”

  “Hurt me?” he says with fire in his eyes. “You think you hurt me?” he continues, with a laugh that sounds almost maniacal. He begins to shake his head wildly. “No, no, Tamara, you didn't hurt me. You destroyed me. You nearly obliterated me. I told you that I loved you and you walked away from me.”

  “You already know why I had to leave,” I reply, my voice shaking.

  He closes his eyes tight, pausing a beat. “I know,” he says, his voice calmer than before. “I don't blame you for leaving. But it still hurt like hell when you did.”

  He sighs and stretches his hand towards me, hesitating for a moment before brushing a long stray curl away from my face. My breath grows shallow and heavy just from him being so close to me again. His fingers graze my cheek, light enough to send shivers down my spine. I can't help but flinch away from him, not because I don't want him to touch me, but because of the unexpected intensity of his touch.

  His shoulders slump and he withdraws his hand.

  “I did not treat you the way you deserve to be treated. Not once from the start. And for that I'm sorry,” he says.

  I'm taken aback and at a loss for words. The last thing I expected from him was an apology.

  “I'll respect your wishes and not pursue you. And if you want me to leave I will.”

  I'm stunned. I shake my head and say, “No. You don't have to do that.”

  He nods and looks down. He opens his mouth to speak again but before he can I close the gap between us, holding him by the waist and resting my head against his chest. He doesn't respond or even move at first, but then he pulls me in closer, cradling my head with his hand. I feel his lips press against the crown of my head.

  “I meant it when I said I loved you, Tamara,” he whispers to me. “And I still do.” The tears I tried so hard to hold back flood my eyes and spill on to my cheeks.

  He pulls back and thumbs away my tears. “I'm not worth crying over and you know that,” he says.

  If only that were true.

  He smiles down at me with regret in his eyes and pulls away. “I should be getting back.”

  I nod, wiping what's left of my tears from my cheeks. “Okay.”

  He looks back at me from the doorway and says, “Maybe one day we can be friends.”

  Seriously? “Friends?” I reply with a snort. I shake my head slowly. “You and I can't be friends. You know that.”

  He shrugs and says, “I could really use one.”

  So could I.

  “Or maybe...we could start over. From the beginning.”

  I wait and watch him for what feels like a life time. His eyes trail downward as he considers the proposition. Maybe, at this point, we're both too broken to make this work. Maybe I've hurt him too much for him to even want to try.

  He steps forward, letting the door shut behind him. “Only if you'll have me,” he says.

  I nod wildly, my heart filled with so much joy it could burst. “From the beginning,” I say, extending a hand towards him. “I'm Tamara,” I say.

  He glances at my hand and back up at me. Then he takes my hand and pulls me in close, our lips colliding and mingling in the middle. I cradle his face as he holds me tight, and I willingly lose myself in him.

  When he breaks the kiss I still feel connected to him—by our hearts, and by our souls.

  “I meant to say, I'm Owen.”

  I can't help but giggle. “I liked that more, actually.”

  “You were right,” I mumble against him as he holds me.

  “Hmm,” he responds, breathing in my scent.

  I lean back and look up into those beautiful green eyes of his. Those eyes that were once full of so much pain and sadness, now replaced only by love.

  I touch his cheek softly and say, “I always have been and always will be yours.

  Epilogue

  OWEN

  My father always said I looked good in a suit. That's one, and quite likely the only, positive thing the man has to say about me. And I never thought to disagree; a suit was like my second skin. Or perhaps, it was more akin to a mask. Because in his eyes, I'd always be a failure. But if my suit was expensive enough, at least only he would know that.

  Now, staring down at the gray pieces of cloth, laid out on the edge of my empty bed with care, everything about it seems completely foreign. I stand over it, observing it for much longer than I should. I'm not admiring the fine textiles or the made to measure tailoring that was designed for only me. What was once a symbol of success is now a remnant of my past.

  I make my way across the empty room and retrieve a pair of jeans from the closet instead. And I find out soon enough that my newly adopted casual style of dress comes with it's own disguising properties. When I arrive at the agency, I receive plenty of curious glances from the throngs of potential models lined up out front, but not a single one seems to realize I own the place.

  Well, co-own.

  I slip easily past the crowd and step inside. The interior of the London branch of the
Cartwright Modeling Agency is almost an exact replica of the New York branch, down to it's wide open lobby, shiny wood floors, and modern furnishings. My office is all the way at the back, with two more offices on the second level, right above it. There's a plush waiting area, and the walls are lined with empty frames, just waiting to be filled with head shots of our impending A-list roster. And on the right sits an L-shaped wooden desk, complete with a beautiful girl seated behind it.

  “The open call doesn't start for another 30 minutes,” she says in a rather stern voice, not bothering to look up over the screen of her sleek silver computer. “I'm going to have to ask you to step back outside and wait in line like everyone else.”

  I turn towards her and hold her in my gaze until she eventually cracks a smile. Finally, she looks up at me with those beautiful brown eyes of hers. With a smirk she adds, “Plus, I think you're too old anyways.”

  I can't help but crack a bit of a smile myself. “Good morning, Tamara.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Cartwright.”

  Indeed it is. “Pretty good turnout so far,” I say, not taking my eyes off her as I remove my coat and place it on the rack behind me.

  She leans back casually in her high backed office chair, nodding slowly as she not-so-subtly resists the temptation to let her eyes wander. “So good that your first appointment is already in there,” she says, pointing towards my office with the tip of her ball point pen.

  I raise an eyebrow at her, glancing up at the clock to make sure I didn't have the time wrong after all. “We don't officially open until 10.”

  “True, but he insisted.”

  “He? We're not repping any men.”

  “Trust me you're going to like what you see,” she says with a sheepish grin and a twinkle in her eye. Perplexed, I open my mouth to speak but she cuts me off. “That's all, Mr. Cartwright.”

  Only she can speak to me like that. Only her.

  My curiosity piqued. I turn back towards her when I reach my office door and say, “Oh, and Tamara—”