Page 21 of King of Envy

We checked out of the hotel and rode to the airport in silence.

Vuk’s staff was ready for us when we arrived, and it didn’t take long before we were in the air and on our way back to New York.

I swallowed my nausea and avoided looking out the window at the clouds below. I’d taken an anti-anxiety pill before wheels up, but it took a while to kick in. Until then, I was stuck with rampant images of plane crashes and twisted debris.

My apprehension over flying wasn’t debilitating. If it were, I wouldn’t have been able to do my job.

However, it did stress me out to the point that I was secretly a wreck unless I had a companion to distract me. My aunt had nearly died in a plane crash when I was fifteen. After her accident, I’d delved down a rabbit hole of crash research, and the images I’d seen had seared themselves into my brain. Every time I stepped on an aircraft, I was convinced those would be the last moments of my life.

Vuk, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease. He sat across the aisle, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. A welcome glass of champagne sat untouched on the table in front of him.

“Why do you hate me so much?” My question cut through the silence with one neat slice.

I would say it just slipped out, but it’d been simmering beneath the surface for months. There was no better time to ask the hard questions—and to distract myself from my sick imagination—than when we were trapped on a six-hour flight together, I suppose.

Vuk opened his eyes and turned his head. His expression was unreadable.You think I hate you?

“Don’t you?” I gestured between us. “You go out of your way to avoid me. When you can’t avoid me, you barely acknowledge me. You’d rather spend the night in a hotel gym than in the same room as me, for Christ’s sake. And don’t try to feed me any bull about how you don’t like anyone. There’s a marked difference between the way you treat me versus other people.” I took a deep breath. “I know I don’t come from a rich family, so maybe you think I’m not good enough for Jordan. Regardless, we’re engaged, and wearegoing to get married. You’re the best man. The least you could do is act civil until the wedding is over.”

My frustration spilled out in its full glory.

I wassickof his hot and cold attitude. While I’d read him a similar riot act at yesterday’s tasting, we were alone now. I didn’t have to hold back, and it was time to tackle the root of his issues with me once and for all.

Something dark flickered in Vuk’s pale eyes. He turned away deliberately and wrote something on a notepad.

A moment later, he unfolded himself from his seat, and I instinctively sank deeper into mine. My heart rate kicked up when he moved toward me.

Why had he written his reply instead of signing it? Had I finally pushed him over the edge? Was he going to murder me right here on his private jet?

There was no one else around except for the pilot and flight attendant, both of whom were in his employ. I doubt they’d come running to my aid.

Vuk stopped in front of me. He was so tall I had to crane my neck to look at him.

I held my breath as he unclenched his fist and dropped the crumpled note in my lap. It wasn’t until he disappeared into another cabin that I allowed myself to relax and read what he wrote.

My pulse fluttered at the words scratched in bold black.

I don’t hate you. But I wish I did.

* * *

Vuk didn’t explain his note; I didn’t ask.

Someone wishing they hated you was almost worse than actual hate, and I was too exhausted to chase him down for an explanation. Trying to pry a direct answer out of him was like trying to pry blood out of stone.

Hours later, while he locked himself in the bedroom suite, I stared at my bank account.

Objectively, it wasn’t terrible. I made a substantial living compared to the average person, but I knew whatshouldbe in the account versus what wasactuallyin there. There was a huge disparity between the two.

Beaumont paid for all my costs and expenses up front—hotels, transportation, test shots back when I was a new model. So on and so forth. However, like most modeling agencies, they expected full repayment for those costs, and I was indebted to them for years until I booked enough high-paying jobs to climb out of that financial hole. Sort of.

My post-debt years with Beaumont had been marked with late or missed payments, excuses, and subtle threats whenever I tried to chase them down. I was still owed money for jobs I completed a year ago.

Unfortunately, the modeling industry was a largely unregulated one. Financial exploitation and other forms of abuse ran rampant, and there wasn’t much the models could do.

I was lucky to have a decent nest egg and family close by. Even so, I was held captive by my contract, which prohibited me from leaving the agency without “mutual consent.” If I did, I had to pay them an eye-watering sum for breaking their terms. It was money I couldn’t spare—not when New York was so expensive and my income from modeling was so unstable. I was doing great now, but future success wasn’t guaranteed.

That was why I needed the money from my arrangement with Jordan—to buy out my contract, cover my legal fees, and maintain a financial safety net.

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