Chapter 20
“You’re not wearing that.”
Luka gestures at the thong I’m wearing. I start to protest but then stop myself and take a deep breath. We’re in the lobby of The Platform, a brand new, sixteen-story luxury office complex with exposed steel beams and floor-to-ceiling windows. The lighting is perfect right now, and Jane Otembe, the famous fashion photographer I’ve been dying to work with, is more than ready to get started.
Unfortunately, I’m having some trouble managing my fiancé’s douchebaggery.
I look down at myself and put my hands on my hips. The set assistant took my robe, leaving me in a demi bra and dental floss-style thong. My hair sports huge, elegant curls that flow down my back and around my shoulders, and my makeup is shimmery and gorgeous. I feel sexy and confident, not easy emotions to drum up considering the whispers going around the room about my fiancé. There are two other models here beside me, but I’m the headliner, so makeup and wardrobe have been fussing over me for most of the morning. The attention hasn’t won me any favors with the other models, who have made it perfectly clear they’re jealous, despite my efforts at chatting casually with them and learning their names (Heather and Sasha).
I don’t let it bother me. I’m still feeling amazingly better after lunch with my almost sisters-in-law yesterday. For the first time, I feel as if I have this whole situation under control. If I could only figure out how to get Luka out of my modeling life, everything would be great.
He glances around, spots the wardrobe assistant, and snaps his fingers at her. “Get her a full bottom panty. She’s not wearing this.”
The young girl gives him a deer-in-the-headlights look. “I’ll have to check with—”
“I don’t care if you have to ask the Pope. Just make it happen. Now.”
Okay. I’ve had it. It would be bad enough if it were only the styling crew staring at us, but it’s literally everybody in the entire room.
“Luka!” I grab my robe and slip it back on as I approach him.
Over by the windows, I see Jane throw her hands up and storm away with her phone in her hand, mumbling something that I’m glad I can’t hear.
“You’re not doing this to me again,” I hiss. “No one is going to want to work with me if you keep this up.”
He folds his arms, clearly not budging an inch. “Keep what up? Demanding perfection? Wanting what’s best for you?”
Irritation washes over me in a flood. “What’s ‘best for me’ is for you to let the other professionals in the room do their jobs.”
He smiles but it’s icy. “I’ve been in the game for years, Brooklyn. I know what I’m talking about. And I’m not going to let a DRM model get a reputation as a slut.”
I scoff. “Well, you’re very likely going to end up with a reputation as an asshole.”
Before I can say another word, he’s walking away. He goes straight to the set, ponders for a moment, and then starts rearranging the furniture. Jane darts back over, waving her hands. I tap my foot, listening to the steady clip, clip, clip of my three-inch heel as I take deep yoga breaths, attempting to gather my frustration into a little ball and toss it away.
The other models chatter behind me, sighing and laughing in animated whispers. I hear one of them say something about Luka’s ass—or maybe that he’s being an ass—but I don’t eavesdrop. I’m not going to be pulled into their gossip.
Striding over to the set, I stand there making my presence known as Luka plays with a light meter to gauge the temperature of the bulb. I try to give an apologetic look to the photographer, but she won’t hold my gaze.
I can only imagine how hard it’s going to be to please her after this. None of the shots will meet her expectations, or else I won’t pose right. Hell, I might not be able to get inside my own head enough to play my part effectively. Suddenly, the set designer comes running over, yelling at Luka in what sounds like Portuguese. They get into a shouting match over the position of the bar stools, and I look to the ceiling.
I’m going to get totally blackballed because of him.
I can’t stand here and let this happen. My heels click loudly on the tile floor as I stalk over to Luka. He and the set designer pause to look at me, and I place both hands on my fiancé’s chest before he can say another word, pushing him back. His eyes flash daggers at me but he doesn’t resist.
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this. You’re fucking this up for me big time. I need you to stop, I’m saying please, and I won’t say it again. I know that you’re worried about my image, but you’re overdoing it.”
“I won’t have you walking around with your ass on display. It’s gratuitous.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve worn a similar outfit clubbing before, Luka.” That gets his full attention. “And I’ve worn a string bikini on the beach, okay? This thong isn’t scandalous. It’s just an undergarment. All models wear them.”
His hands go to my hips. “Well, you won’t be. You’re going to wear something with full coverage.”
Kicking Luka in the shin right now wouldn’t do anything but make me look like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but I’m seriously tempted. “Why are you so worried about my virtue? I’m a model. I’m paid to wear what the client wants. And this is what the client wants!”
His fingers press into me through the thin robe. “The only person who gets to see you running around looking like a little slut is me. That sexy-ass bombshell who sucked my cock while I took pictures?She’s mine.”
My breath hitches at his crudeness. Yes, he’s being an asshole, but it’s hot to hear him talk about me that way. He’s displayed possessiveness before, but he’s never actually claimed ownership over me until now. His eyes drop to my lips and I watch him with anticipation. There might not be love between us, but lately there’s been something new, something neither of us can deny—a flirtatious awareness of each other, a spark. His behavior on these shoots might be annoying, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s his passive-aggressive way of displaying his emotions. It’s obvious that he cares enough to not want my body on display for everyone to see.