Page 73 of King of Envy

The feel of his palm against my bare skin shocked me out of my stupor.

My stomach heaved, and a swift surge of rage swamped every other emotion. In that moment, I didn’t care about my job or reputation. Men like Wentworth Holt had been taking advantage of others for far too long, and I wassickof it.

I shoved him off me and slapped him. The resoundingwhackechoed through the empty studio.

“Don’ttouchme.” My heartbeat slammed hard enough to bruise. A sticky, sour film coated my tongue, and the lights buzzed like wasps in my ears.

Compared to other models, I’d been “lucky” so far when it came to creeps like Wentworth. I’d been the subject of suggestive stares and comments, and I’d endured the occasional wandering hand, but no one had dared be this brazen—until now.

Wentworth’s face twisted with an ugly scowl. He wasn’t used to hearingno, and the combination of rejection and drugs turned him into an even more monstrous version of himself.

He lunged for me again. I tried to dodge him, but I had limited space and he had the superhuman strength that came from being high.

He grabbed hold of my arms and pushed me against the wall. A scream rose in my throat, followed by a fresh wave of fury.

I was hungry and exhausted after the all-day shoot, butfuck himif he thought that meant I would let him do what he wanted without a fight.

When Wentworth tried to kiss me again, I summoned all my strength and headbutted him. The sickening crunch of bone mixed with his howl of pain.

Blood fountained from his nose and dripped onto my skin as I pushed him aside and scrambled for the door.

“You bitch!” He grasped my arm on my way past. His hand was slippery from the blood, and I was able to twist out of his hold.

I didn’t give him time to try to corner me again; I didn’t even think. I acted on instinct and slammed my knee into his groin as hard as I could.

Wentworth doubled over with a high-pitched howl. Just in case that wasn’t enough to incapacitate him, I swung my bag into his face. It was my Shoot Day bag, and it was stuffed to the brim with makeup, travel-size hair products, a water bottle, a physical planner, a phone charger, snacks, a backup pair of heels, and a thousand other things I kept on me in cases of emergency.

All that to say, the bag was heavy as hell, and I heard a deeply satisfying thud when it connected with Wentworth’s face.

I didn’t wait to see if the hit knocked him out completely or simply slowed him down.

I turned and booked it outside. We were on the sixth floor, but I took the stairs instead of the elevator because I needed to move, needed tokeepmoving in case he caught up with me and made me pay.

My lungs were burning by the time I reached the lobby and burst into the middle of Chelsea.

A passing couple gasped when they saw me emerge, frazzled and blood-stained, but in true New York fashion, they left me alone. I ignored the curious gawks of other passersby as I sped walked far, far away from the studio. I passed street after street and made turn after turn until I lost all sense of direction.

I finally stopped at a random corner by a Chase bank. My calves ached from how fast I’d been walking, and it wasn’t until my vision fogged that I realized my cheeks were wet.

My chest heaved with silent sobs. I tried to wipe the tears away, but they just kept coming, and I eventually gave up.

I sagged against the wall. My earlier boost of adrenaline drained away, leaving my limbs so heavy I could hardly stand.

I’d been running on fumes for months, and my altercation with Wentworth had sapped me of my remaining energy.

I stared straight ahead, the world muddling into a blur of people and traffic.

On a day-to-day basis, when I had a packed schedule to follow and mindless entertainment to distract me, I could convince myself I was okay. But when I was alone, stripped raw and vulnerable, I could no longer deny what I’d refused to acknowledge: I was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

My life was spiraling, and every attempt to regain control only put it further out of reach. First, it was signing Beaumont’s contract to save my family from financial duress. Then it was agreeing to marry Jordan to get out of that contract. Now I had my feelings for Vuk and the Wentworth situation to deal with. I was sure he was going to try and twist what happened to make me look like the villain.

A migraine bloomed behind my temple.

I should file a police report. Call Sloane. Figure out what to do when my agency came down on me for “attacking” Wentworth when it’d been self-defense.

I’d long disabused myself of the notion that Beaumont was on my side. To them, models were at the bottom of the hierarchy because there was a never-ending supply of us.

Somewhere, always, there was a pretty young girl with stars in her eyes and dreams of fame and fortune—or, at the very least, of ways to put food on her family’s table.

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