Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
We answered in unison. “No.”
He shook his head then focused back on the model.
Sebastian’s business card was completely black on one side except for the numbers 13 7 23 3 under his name. Then on the other, gold, side was a phone number written in pen.
But that was it. No email, no title, no company name.
What kind of man had a business card with no contact information?
My insides twisted.
A powerful one, my mind whispered.
I held it out to her again. “Do you know what these numbers mean?”
She glanced at it and shrugged. “Maybe it’s a password code to some secret club.”
Odd.
She called over her shoulder on her way out of the gallery, “Get rid of that lace shirt before you show your face on the floor again.”
I surveyed the gorgeous, elaborate embroidery of my vest. “Mark, don’t turn around.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responded, falling to his knees to get an angled shot.
Tearing at the brass buttons, I stripped out of the vest, pulled off the ruined lace shirt, and put the vest back on.
Huh. With unintentionally teased hair, equally unintentionally smoky, morning-after-the-club eye makeup, and the low V cut of the vest, I actually didn’t look too bad.
With a burst of fresh confidence, I supervised the rest of the shoot and then headed out into the backstage area to select the next outfit to highlight.
Pounding music drowned out all the loud chatter in the staging area as the sound technicians did final tests before the show.
A strange, frenetic tension permeated the staff. The atmosphere was like a rubber band slowly stretching longer and longer as we all stared…waiting for it to snap.
With more of the models already in their first outfit and through makeup, I got caught up in the whirlwind as I snatched them one by one for quick, stylized social media shots.
Since Mark was now occupied with final prep for the show as the official photographer, I took these last photos with my phone, adding fabulous filters before sending them to the social media manager to post.
While I searched for another model who had a moment for some quick shots, I noticed a model waiting to walk the runway.
Her ensemble lacked drama. She wore only an off-the-shoulder, deep burgundy dress. No accessories like the other models. This must have been a mistake.
I glanced at a stunning choker necklace with tightly soldered, square Swarovski crystals ending with a lovely large pear-cut crystal.
I shouldn’t.
But I wanted this look to be perfect.
And maybe I wanted to prove I belonged here…and not just to fucking fetch pastries.
Without overthinking it, I grabbed the necklace.
Then I doubled down…
To add even more drama, I layered a large crystal and pearl necklace over the choker.
The model nodded and smiled before racing up the brief steps to walk down the runway.
I peeked through the curtains to watch, feeling maybe a twinge of arrogant pride knowing I’d played a small part in making that model’s look a success with the audience.
The cream-stone façade of the Cour Marly’s three-story courtyard, crowned by a dramatic glass ceiling, formed the backdrop for the show. Its neutral palette was broken only by sculpted topiaries, making the jewel-toned gowns blaze like forbidden fruit.
As I turned to move back into my makeshift studio to adjust the mirror arrangements for the next round of shots, my head was suddenly snapped back by my long hair.
I cried out as Édouard’s twisted visage appeared before me.
He looked beyond furious. “You stupid cunt! How dare you alter one of my designs?”
He raised his arm. He held the necklace I’d added in his tight grasp, with all its sharp, jagged crystal edges.
In horror, I watched his hand descend before squeezing my eyes shut, terrified he was about to disfigure me.
Before he connected with my face, a large powerful hand wrapped around his wrist. “Get your fucking hands off her before I rip your fucking arm off.”
It was him.
Relief felt impossible—not when my rescuer seemed even more dangerous than my attacker.
CHAPTER 7
SEBASTIAN
Itwisted his wrist until something gave with a deep, grinding pop—loud enough to make him cry out, sharp enough to feel it echo through my palm.
I stopped just before the break. Barely.
The primping peacock fell to his knees with an agonizing wail.
“Apologize.”
Édouard’s eyes widened as his lips opened and closed several times before he screeched, “I’m sorry, Monsieur Diamanti. Please don’t kill me!”
The last goddamn thing I should be doing was drawing attention to my presence in Paris, especially with the judge watching me. And now I had this piece of shit begging for his life while he screamed my name.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
When I saw him raise his hand to Sabrina, I snapped.
Control. I needed to get back under control.
“Not to me. To her.”
Sabrina stepped forward. “It’s fine! It was my fault. I knew better than to mess with his design.”