Arranged(52)

“And people,” Diana added with unexpected vehemence. There was a bitter twist to her mouth I’d never witnessed before. “They make people disappear as well. They’re nothing but common thugs.”

Pasco just nodded like that was secondary to the rest, continuing, “Within a month, she’d left him and married someone else. A French Count, as it happens. A billionaire, of course. Banks took it badly, as you can imagine. After that it was clear my son was heading in the wrong direction. He had been for a while. He wouldn’t listen to anyone, bullheaded boy. Even after she married someone else, it was clear they were carrying on for God only knows how long. And he was not getting better. When an opportunity arose, I grasped it. He’d sniffed out a golden real estate venture and came to me for the money. But I wouldn’t give it to him without a condition: Get married to someone who was not Fatima. He could have chosen anyone, an old girlfriend, a new one. The Bride Catalogue was his idea. He wanted someone who knew the score.

I know my actions seem drastic, but I was desperate. I felt that I had to interfere in his life. To shake it up a bit. Anything was better than leaving it to him.” He shrugged eloquently. “He won’t forgive me. Truth be told, I figured there was a good chance your marriage wouldn’t last, but anything to shift his attention away from that poisonous woman was enough for me. I apologize that you were dragged into it.”

“Please don’t apologize,” I said, voice level but sincere nonetheless. “I wasn’t dragged. I’m here of my own volition. I knew there was little chance any of this would be smooth.”

My words seemed to calm my agitated father-in-law. He nodded once, twice. “You’re more than we could have hoped for. You two could suit very well. I wish my stubborn son could see it.”

“I wish that too,” I said, with absolute, uncomfortable candor. “And thank you for sharing all of this. I think I can understand his behavior a little better now. It helps.”

We said our goodbyes, and I left.

I was surprised to run into my husband at the elevator. I’d thought he’d be long gone. He was using the wall to prop himself up. I couldn’t tell if he was really that drunk or if he was just that pissed off.

“Do you need help?” I asked him calmly, pushing the button to go down.

He straightened and glared at me. “Gold digger,” he spat out. So it was both.

The car arrived and I stepped inside, looking straight ahead. I was so sick of his judgements. His double standards. Finally, I snapped. “I may be a gold digger,” I said succinctly. “But you’re a spoiled rich boy. I heard what your father said about your startup capital. You do know that means that you married me for exactly the same reason that I married you. You’re a hypocrite judging me like that for doing the same thing you are.”

I geared myself for his reaction before stealing a glance.

He looked like I’d slapped him. And I had. Not literally but with the truth.

And shock of all shocks, I’d left him speechless.





CHAPTER





TWENTY-THREE





The VS fashion show happened the next evening. I felt more nerves than I had in a long while on the job.

It was more than a world-wide televised runway show. It was a circus of epic proportions. A camera crew followed every model working the event from their homes to the red carpet, through the extensive press gauntlet, and (once you got through all of that) the backstage, which was as much of a show as the event itself.

All in identical baby girl pink bra and panty sets, with an occasional tiny blush silk robe to cover up outside.

Asha had quite a bit to say about that, but I was getting increasingly good at ignoring her. “Take it up with your boss,” I told her every time she tried to tell me to cover up more.

It all went by in a sort of teeth-clenching blur. I got through it with a smooth poise fueled by my own sheer determination to make a mark.

I had to kill it for this. This was my shot at the big time. The difference between being an ‘it girl’ for fifteen minutes and launching into a full-on lifetime supermodel hall-of-famer. Like my mother-in-law minus the romance.

I’d never had any other talents, so I wanted to be the best at modeling, and this show was my make it or break it moment. If I did well, I’d achieve a long wished-for goal.

Backstage was an absolute madhouse, more of a party than anything else. It wasn’t even just the model chasing usual suspects (though they were there of course) it was a who’s who of tabloid fodder celebrities, men and women both. I spotted famous singers, actors, reality TV personalities, and YouTube influencers and that was only within the first minute.

Someone handed me a glass of champagne, and I toasted and pretended to drink with some random, gorgeous VS models in matching pink. Everyone was very friendly. More so than at any show I’d ever done.

I didn’t have to wonder at the reason for it, since there were cameras everywhere.

One of the show’s staff waved me down and started to lead me to my prep station. It was so crowded that I had to squeeze between strangers to follow.

Some random guy (I thought I recognized him, from television maybe?), tried to wrap his arm around my waist as I attempted to press past him.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he murmured, lips on my ear, hand gripping my ass, voice delighted. “Where have you been all my life?”