Page 23 of Jenna's Protector

“What’s with the security?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“It’s for your protection, of course. We want to keep you safe from theoutside world.” Lucian’s hand on my shoulder is meant to be reassuring, but his touch makes my skin crawl.

I nod, desperately wanting to believe him. The heavy doors close behind us with a resounding clang that echoes in my chest. The smell hits me first—antiseptic and sterile—nothing like the perfumed chaos of the world of fashion I imagined.

The interior is stark and clinical. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh glow on the polished floors. Rows of identical doors line the hallways—dormitories, classrooms, training rooms. My footsteps echo in the oppressive silence.

“These are the rules. Read them carefully.” Lucian hands me a booklet, the glossy pages cool against my sweaty palms.

As I flip through, my eyes widen. Curfews, restricted areas, mandatory training sessions. This isn’t the glamorous life I dreamed of. It’s regimented and controlled. A lump forms in my throat.

“Modeling is hard work.” Lucian’s dark eyes bore into mine. “You’re here to work, not goof off. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice small and trembling. “I understand.”

The days blur together. We’re isolated, cut off from our families, and subjected to relentless training and indoctrination.

The constant drone of instructors, the squeak of markers on whiteboards, the rhythmic counting during exercise routines—it all blends into a cacophony of control.

My initial excitement turns to dread, but I cling to the hope of fame and fortune.

I’m going to be a supermodel.

I repeat it like a mantra, trying to drown out the growing voice of doubt.

If only I had known. This wasn’t an escape. It was a nightmare, and I walked right into it.

Shame washes over me. How could I have been so foolish? The signs were there, glaring and obvious, but I was young, desperate for a way out, blinded by promises of a better life.

The memory fades, and I blink rapidly, the office coming back into focus. My heart races, and I struggle to catch my breath. The taste of fear lingers in my mouth, metallic and bitter.

“Jenna? Are you okay?” Carter leans in, his hand gentlytouching my arm. The warmth of his fingers grounds me in the present. His voice is low, concern etching his features.

I meet his gaze, finding myself momentarily lost in the depth of his eyes. There’s something there—understanding, maybe even a hint of protectiveness—that makes my breath catch for an entirely different reason.

“Yeah,” I manage to say, though my voice wavers. “Just—memories.”

Carter’s hand remains on my arm, a comforting presence. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin. “You’re safe.”

For a moment, the world narrows to just us—Carter’s touch, his steady gaze, the subtle scent of his aftershave. It’s a bubble of safety amid painful recollections.

Joe clears his throat softly, breaking the spell. “It can be triggering when recounting details of those who’ve hurt you,” he says, his tone gentle. “Do you need a break?”

“Yes, please.” I’m grateful for the suggestion.

Max nudges my leg, his warm presence a comfort. I reach down to pet him, my fingers sinking into his soft fur, anchoring me further to the present.

As I sit there, trying to steady my breathing, I can’t shake the lingering smell of sterile antiseptic and lingering fear.

Shame burns hot in my chest—shame for my naivety, shame for falling for their lies, and shame for trusting too easily.

Beneath it, a tiny spark of determination flickers to life. Maybe by facing these memories, I can help others avoid the same trap.

“You have an incredibly vivid recollection of this person’s face,” Joe says. “That’s pretty incredible.”

“I’ve got a thing for faces.” I shift uncomfortably, feeling exposed.

It’s more than athing.

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