Page 7 of Knot for Sale

“You got a backup plan if that happens?” Jessica’s tone was matter of fact.

Elijah chewed and swallowed a mouthful of crunchy cereal. “So far we’ve come up with selling some of her clothes—”

“That’s a Band-Aid, not a plan,” Jessica interrupted.

“And trying to monetize a YouTube channel on makeup tutorials or something,” Elijah finished.

Jessica tilted her head, considering. “What do your subscriber numbers look like?” she asked me.

“On YouTube? Dismal,” I said. “I’ve got decent numbers on Insta, though.”

“Not an immediate fix, then,” she observed. “Still, it might be worth doing.”

“I thought maybe the clothing sales could bridge the gap,” Elijah said. “And who knows, maybe the meeting won’t be as bad as we’re thinking.”

I was pretty sure it would be. “Look, I know how all this sounds. I’ll start applying for jobs right away if it’s bad news tomorrow. Waitressing... or I hear bartenders can make pretty good money. It’s just... well, even if I get something right away, it will be a couple of weeks before I get paid.”

Elijah groaned, leaning back in his chair dramatically. “Em. Donotbecome one of those models who waitresses on the side.” His spoon clattered against his empty bowl as he dropped it. “This whole thing makesnosense. Look at her, Jess—why is this girl not inundated with clients beating down her door?”

At least he wasn’t trying to talk me out of the modeling industry completely, like he had last night. I huffed.

So did Jessica. “You’ve got a hot look, babe. I dunno what the problem is either. But I stopped trying to second-guess the bigwigs a long time ago. Give me whatever you’ve got for the rent, for right now. But I can’t front you. This place may be a dump, but it costs a fuckin’ fortune.”

I slumped. “I know. I’m not asking to become a charity case. Let me see what happens in the morning. I’ll know more then.”

Bright and early on Monday morning, I dabbed extra concealer over the bags beneath my eyes and dressed to kill while I still owned the clothes to do it. Squeezing into the rush hour press of bodies, I ignored the occasional wolf-whistles and unsolicited comments about my appearance.

I presented myself at the IMGE offices promptly at five minutes to nine, pulling my beta fashion model persona around me like a cloak.

I’d learned the skill of becoming someone else early on. My stutter had manifested late, after my mother’s death in a car crash when I was thirteen. That made it harder to treat, despite access to the best speech pathologists that money could buy. I’d never truly shaken it, but I’d found workarounds.

The most useful was the one I employed now—namely, playing a role. It wasn’t foolproof, but as long as I could be Emma Hope, Professional Model ™, I could probably get through this without making a fool of myself. It was Emma Huntwell, orphaned omega living thirty-five hundred miles from home, who was the basket case.

“You can go in, Ms. Hope,” chirped the receptionist. “They’re expecting you.”

“Thank you, Staci.” I offered my most professional smile.

The conference room was very beige and very modern. I hated it, like I hated most spaces designed solely for beta sensibilities. The wall of windows facing east probably added an extra ten grand a month to the lease on the place, and it made me want to curl up and hide in a corner.

I stuffed the reaction down deep, because Emma Hope, Professional Model ™, didn’t care about windows. Paul, my agent, rose from his seat at the table in an awkward show of chivalry, fiddling with his too-wide tie. For someone who worked in the fashion industry, even indirectly, he seemed not to have much of a sense of personal style. I’d never seen him ina properly tailored suit—only unflattering jackets that were too wide for his narrow shoulders and bulged over his middle-aged paunch.

“Emma. Thank you for coming, sweetheart. You’re looking lovely as always.” He indicated a chair across the table, isolating me like a prisoner in front of a tribunal.

I smiled and took it. “Thank you.”

Jared and Clio Verlicci hadn’t risen. The owners of IMGE Ltd. were a married beta power couple in their forties. They were sharp as nails and dressed to the nines, as different from their agent Paul as it was possible to be. I knew, with a creeping sense of sick dread, that they hadn’t built this company from the ground up by being sentimental.

“Mr. and Mrs. Verlicci,” I began. “May I ask why you called this meeting?” There was no point in dragging things out, after all.

Clio Verlicci’s smile could have cut glass. “Ms. Hope.” Her thick Italian accent caressed the name. “I’m certain you already have an inkling. Unfortunately, our clients don’t seem terribly taken by you recently. And that is a problem at an agency like this one.”

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. “And have these clients explained why they don’t wish to use me? I assure you, I strive for the utmost in professional behavior. I’m never late. I don’t argue or otherwise behave in a difficult manner. If there’s something I need to change—”

“They have not specified a reason,” Clio cut in. “Sometimes, a model simply falls out of favor. It happens.”

My heart thudded in my throat, so hard and fast I worried they could see it thrumming from across the table. “Are you letting me go?”

Paul looked down, arranging his pen and notepad in precise harmony on the table.

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