Page 2 of Oliver
"Seven."
"Seven years,” she repeated, the gravity in those two words heavier than any threat she would have made. “And in those seven years, have you ever turned down a bookingjust because?"
"There's a first time for everything."
"Not in my business, there isn't. Not without a damn good reason."
"I have a damn good reason."
"Let's hear it, then."
I paced the length of my office—three steps one way. Three steps back.
The room felt suffocating, as if the distance between the walls was suddenly not enough for the words lodged in my throat.
What could I possibly say? That Zahra Nazarian was the girl who had made me believe in something greater than myself, only to tear it all down? That she'd carved out a piece of my heart and left me incomplete? It sounded pathetic even in my head.
"We have history," I said finally.
"History," Foxy repeated flatly. "What kind of history?"
"The kind that makes working together impossible."
A heavy sigh filtered through the line. "Beck, I'm not your therapist. I don't have time for cryptic bullshit. Did you date her? Sleep with her? Kill her cat? What?"
"High school," I muttered. "We went to high school together."
A beat of silence, then Foxy laughed. The sound grated against my already raw nerves.
"High school? You're turning down a premium booking because of century-old teenage drama?"
"It wasn't just?—"
"Do you know what this client is offering? Eight weeks of premium bookings. Mixers, parties, family functions.Awedding, Oliver. Prime work. The kind of steady income most of the guys would kill for."
My jaw tightened. I knew exactly what it meant financially, which was precisely why seeing her name had hit me like a celestial collision. The timing couldn't have been worse.
"I understand the value of the booking."
"But you're still saying no."
"I’m still saying no."
Foxy let out another long-suffering sigh. "This isn't like you, Beck. You're one of my most reliable people. Professional, punctual, willing to take on the difficult clients no one else wants."
I closed my eyes. She was right. In seven years, I'd built a reputation at RAD for being unflappable. Rich divorcees with wandering hands, nervous clients attending their ex's weddings, the occasional celebrity who needed someone discreet—I handled them all with detached professionalism.
But Zahra Nazarian wasn't just another client.
"I'm sorry, Foxy. Find someone else for this one."
"There is no one else," she said, frustration edging into her voice. "The client specifically requested you. By name."
My stomach dropped. "That's not possible."
"Clearly it is, because that's what happened."
I sank into my chair, mind racing. How? My profile was designed for anonymity—photos were from the neck down, first name only, a short and vague pitch with no identifiers. She shouldn’t have recognized me.
