Page 34 of King of Envy

At age fifty-two, the owner of one of Manhattan’s preeminent modeling agencies could’ve passed for a woman half her age. Not a single wrinkle marred her porcelain skin; not a single hair dared stray from her sleek blonde bob. She possessed the same elegance that had made her such a phenomenon in her modeling heyday, but there was a sharpness to her that prevented me from relaxing in her presence.

She reminded me of a beautiful serpent lying in the grass, waiting to strike.

“Yes. It’s your six-year anniversary with us,” Emmanuelle said. Her lightly accented voice was as smooth and crisp as her perfectly tailored blazer. “You’ve achieved enormous success over the years, and I couldn’t be prouder.”

“Thank you.” I crossed my legs and forced myself to maintain eye contact.

Emmanuelle’s inner sanctum was deceptively warm. Small potted plants lined the shelves next to her desk; photos of her husband and son dotted various surfaces.

In all my years with the agency, she’d called me into her office twice—once when I signed with her, and once after I booked my first multimillion-dollar campaign.

It was enough for me to know the welcoming decor was a trap.

“I wouldn’t be where I am without you,” I added. I knew how to play the game. “Your mentorship over the years has been invaluable, as has Hank’s hard work and guidance.”

It was a bald-faced lie. My real mentor was Fabiana, the former Brazilian supermodel who’d taken me under her wing after we met at the Model of the Year awards five years ago.

Admittedly, we no longer talked as often now that she was remarried and traveling around the world with her new husband, but she’d personally done far more for me than Emmanuelle had.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Emmanuelle didn’t blink an eye at my obligatory flattery. “Perhaps that’s why I’m confused to hear that you’ve been unhappy with your compensation timelines. That doesn’t sound like the attitude of a grateful model, does it?”

Bone-deep cold stole through me.

Crap.I had to tread carefully.

My engagement to Jordan afforded me a semblance of leverage, but until we were married and I got my money, Beaumont held all the cards.

“Of course I’m not unhappy. I’m so grateful for all the agency has done for me over the years.” I placed as much sincerity as I could into my voice.

Pushing Hank was one thing; antagonizing Emmanuelle was another. She was one of the most powerful and well-connected people in fashion. The last time one of her models pissed her off, the girl disappeared overnight. The agency said she returned to Wisconsin for “mental health reasons,” but rumors abounded about what really happened.

I was skeptical of the sensationalism, but one could never be too careful. Regardless of what happened to the girl, it was a well-established fact that Emmanuelle could ruin anyone if she put her mind to it.

“As you know, I’m in the midst of wedding preparations,” I said. “Part of it includes discussing my finances with Jordan. That was how the status of my payments came up.”

“I see.” Emmanuelle’s smile returned. “I’m sure those payments pale next to the Ford family fortune, but I understand why you’d want to bring something to the table. I’ll speak to accounting. We wouldn’t want to tarnish your big day with such a little hiccup.”

My fingers curled around the edge of my chair. Thatlittle hiccupwas my career and financial well-being. “I appreciate that. Truly.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Emmanuelle returned her attention to her computer. “You can go.”

I stood and walked toward the door. My skin felt like it was stretched too tight over my body.

“One more thing.” Her voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “The denim campaign with Wentworth Holt. Will that be an issue?”

Ugly little shards wedged into my chest. “No.” My mouth formed an approximation of a smile. “Not an issue at all.”

I spent the entire elevator ride down picturing Emmanuelle and Hank’s faces when I quit. I wanted to take a hammer and smash those big glass windows of hers on my last day here. Return every bit of gaslighting and condescension they’d thrown at me tenfold.

The simmer in my blood matched the alarming violence of my thoughts.

I forced a deep breath through my nose. I couldn’t afford to get too worked up. Even if I quit, I had to maintain my professionalism.

Once you reached a certain height, people looked for any excuse to tear you down. I’d be damned if I handed them the opportunity myself.

That was why I’d agreed to Jordan’s proposal. It gave me enough money to buy out my contract, and covering my financial bases with Beaumont before I left was the only way I might appease Emmanuelle enough to keep her from badmouthing me all over town. When she talked, people listened, and as much as I despised the bad actors in fashion, I loved the actual art of modeling.

My relationship with the camera, the way I came alive when the shutter clicked, the exhilarating rush of slipping in and out of different personas the way I slipped in and out of dresses—those things weremine. I couldn’t lose them.

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