Page 28 of Wicked Duty
A makeshift catwalk slices through the middle of the room, with a judging table plopped at the end like the world’s most intimidating middle school teacher’s desk. Sour-faced and snooty fashion aficionados frown at the contestants from their stiff seats.
We strut for our lives, eager to clinch the chance to become a rising star in an industry more cutthroat than…well, me, this morning, when I literally cut Callum’s throat with my nails. While I absolutely experienced a transient desire to hurt the man, I never meant to claw him like an animal. Every time I think about that, debilitating shame slinks into my consciousness. But then I remember what sent me flying into arage in the first place, and I’m back to square one, attempting to focus on my surroundings and block out the rest.
I pace backstage, practicing my long strides while absently toying with my silver Celtic knotwork bracelet.
This bracelet is the one possession I fought to keep during my captivity, the one thing that reminds me that, underneath the layers of trauma and fear, Lucy Marlow still exists.
The competition surrounds me, along with the familiar aromas of hairspray, face cream, and extra-strength deodorant. The other models are practiced and polished with portfolios of recent work, swishing their hips and manes of glossy hair that fall within nature’s color palette.
I spent extra time this morning styling my own tresses into sleek waves. The purple streaks catch the backstage lights, identifying me as the odd model out.
Instead of recent jobs to flaunt, I’ve got nothing but a social media following and desperate determination. I just need to hope that’s enough?—
Oh my?—
Marco Benetti, one of the world’s highest-paid male supermodels, is walking this way.
His career spans luxury campaigns for brands like Versace, Armani, and Tom Ford.
Every aspiring supermodel on the planet recognizes Marco.
He’s like the Tyra Banks of our generation.
What’s he doing at the Runway Revolution auditions? This event isn’t high profile enough for a model of his caliber. And why are his piercing brown eyes trained on me? My mouth goes dry.
The devastatingly handsome Marco possesses classic Italian features. Dark curly hair, a distinguished, striking jawline, and the kind of thin yet chiseled physique that graces magazine covers worldwide.
His polished exterior mesmerizes me. Every thread of fabric touching his skin is designer. That outfit probably costs what I pay in rent…for a year.
I must be hallucinating, because he walks right up to me, kisses my hand, introduces himself, and asks for my name.
I stutter, my mouth dangling open.
“Lucy Marlow!” A backstage manager waves me over. “You’re up!”
“T-that’s me.” My eyes cling to Marco as I climb the few steps onto the raised stage platform.
Holy shit. How am I supposed to focus on my walk when one of the most gorgeous and successful men alive wanted to know my name?
The stagehand touches his headset. “And…go!”
I venture out onto the runway. The lights rimming the edge of the stage and hanging above blind me. After a brief attack of nerves, a sense of calm infuses my veins.
I know what to do. This is my stage.
Traversing the catwalk with my longest, most graceful strides, I sashay my heart out. Near the turnaround point, I sneak a peek at the judges. My focus frays, and budding panic squirms between my ribs.
My best isn’t working. Not today.
I can sense the judges’ waning interest from here. Their bored expressions inform me I’m just another pretty face with attitude. My heart sinks as their eyes drift toward their notes, dismissing me before I’m halfway finished walking.
My palms start to sweat.
What can I do? I need them tolook. To really see me.
I need to wow them. Now. Or this whole endeavor will end before it ever really begins.
At the back of the room, Callum plays sentinel, arms crossed as he surveys the space in lieu of watching my performance.
