Page 32 of Twisted Prince

She takes her time looking up from whatever fascinating content must have her attention. When she does, she eyes me with a level of interest that says she could care less why I’m here. “The Boston Chic office is on the forty-sixth floor,” she states.

“Um. Thanks.” Collecting my bag, I head toward the bank of elevators and press the call button.

I shouldn’t be this nervous. After all, they’ve already seen my headshots. I’ve done the interviews. Hell, they’ve hired me, for god’s sake. This meeting is just a formality, Mr. Henry’s assistant assured me. Part of the onboarding process. He likes to meet each of his new models before handing them over to his photographers.

But it’s daunting meeting the editor-in-chief regardless. And a wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm me as I ride the elevator up to the forty-sixth floor alone.

Not now, I scold myself, swallowing the taste of bile.

And with sheer determination, I succeed just as the doors ding open onto the smaller reception area that belongs to the Boston fashion magazine. It’s my first time at headquarters since models are hired through a recruiting office. I look around the unfamiliar space, trying not to panic.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.

I smile at the sharply dressed, bespectacled man who looks to be in his late twenties. “Yes. Thank you. I have a meeting with Mr. Henry?”

“Oh yes, Miss O’Mara? He’s ready for you. Just through there.” The receptionist gestures to a glass-enclosed meeting room, and my heart flutters as I spot another finely suited man sitting at a round table. He looks distinguished with combed-back gray hair and a well-trimmed beard.

A woman sits beside him, her red hair pulled into a tidy French roll.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to hide the quiver in my voice that surfaces whenever I’m nervous. Striding toward the room with a confidence I don’t feel, I grasp the handle and open the glass door. “Mr. Henry?” I ask.

“Ah, Melody, please, come in,” he insists, smoothing his tie as he rises from his chair. “Let me introduce you to Susan Bentley. She’s our head of HR.”

“A pleasure,” I say, shaking both their hands even as my nerves spike. Why would the head of HR want to sit in on a casual meet-and-greet?

Mr. Henry clears his throat uncomfortably as we settle into our chairs, and then he turns on an almost pained smile. “Miss O’Mara. It really is a pleasure to meet you. Um… but it has come to my attention recently that we may have had a misunderstanding when we hired you.”

My heart sinks as I struggle to keep the smile on my face. “Oh?” I ask.

“Yes. See, in the paperwork you filled out during onboarding, you mentioned you’re pregnant?”

“Oh. Well, yes, but that’s temporary, I assure you,” I say lightly, hoping my humor might break some of the tension and give me time to think.

Ms. Bentley hums her amusement, but the discomfort on Mr. Henry’s face tells me all I need to know. Another of my modeling opportunities is about to die a painful death. After the first three let me go right there during the interviews, I figured this was too good to last. But it’s not like I could hide my condition for the entire nine months. And no one seems interested in giving an inexperienced pregnant model a chance.

He clears his throat uncomfortably again. “Yes, well, I believe congratulations are in order,” he says awkwardly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we hired you to model for the teen section of our magazine.”

“Right…” I say. I know where he’s going with this, but I’m not about to let him off the hook without saying it—that having a pregnant teen modeling for their magazine might hurt their image. Wouldn’t want to promote irresponsible choices, now would we? The sarcastic thought is enough to revive the nausea creeping up my throat.

How can no one see that this is the responsible choice?

Did I intend to get pregnant? Of course not.

Would I go back and make better choices if I could? Absolutely.

I never should have had unprotected sex with Gleb. Obviously. And I sure as hell should have remembered to pick up an emergency contraceptive. But I’d had too much on my mind at the time to be thinking clearly. So here we are.

I’m dealing with the consequences, and I’m not asking for any handouts. I plan on raising this child as a single mom. But for fuck’s sake, does everyone have to kick me while I’m down? How am I supposed to support a child on the income I make at a grungy little diner?

“I’m sorry, Miss O’Mara, but that’s just not the image we were looking for when we hired you. But if we’re looking for models to pose for a maternity line, I’ll let you know.” The words are well rehearsed. I’m sure Ms. Bentley was coaching him right up to the moment I opened the door.

And as I watch my modeling dreams shatter across the floor, I can’t hold down the nausea any longer. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I state, covering my mouth.

“Oh,” Mr. Henry says, his chin drawing back in disgust.

“Do you have a… bathroom or… trash can?” I ask, between heaves, I fail to suppress.

Ms. Bentley scrambles for something beside her and barely launches the small office trash across the table to me in time. Burying my head in the flimsy plastic, I bring up the remains of my meager breakfast.

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