Page 99 of Wicked Duty
“Good. I’ll meet you in the foyer in a bit.” He grabs his plate and mug and heads down the stairs. After a few seconds, a door thuds shut down the hallway.
He left to go eat by himself. While I eat alone in the kitchen.
My heart sinks all the way down to my navel. A gnawing sensation nips at my mind.
He’s avoiding me.
He’s hiding something.
But what?
Half an hour later, we head to the garage in uncomfortable silence. Callum pulls open the Range Rover’s back seat door and waits for me to climb in. Yesterday, I rode shotgun for the firsttime, sitting in the passenger seat beside him, but this morning, we’re back to the chauffeur routine.
I scramble in without protest, my anxiety weighing on me like winter clothes in seawater.
During the drive to Runway Revolution, I stare out the windshield but can’t resist sneaking peeks at his granite-like profile. Not a single ounce of warmth to be found in that icy facade or the grim line of his mouth.
When he pulls up outside the set, my body shudders in relief. I can’t escape the suffocating tension quickly enough. With clothes, staff, fellow contestants, and photographers buzzing about, it’s easy to forget the turmoil bubbling in the pit of my stomach.
Mostly.
Another hotel ballroom sprawls around us, decked out as a photoshoot set. Runway Revolution banners hang in every direction. A makeshift dressing room dominates the center of the plush red carpet. Various avant-garde sets—like playgrounds for the modeling elite—surround it.
The final runway competition is still a few days off. In the meantime, we’re taking promotional photos for the ads they’re planning to put up around the city and on social media.
There’s no official elimination today, and the judges aren’t technically taking notes. But these ads will plaster our faces across the world and will count toward the final tally. A bad shoot will ruin any chance of winning if you don’t get enough online votes.
Competition staff usher the remaining contestants toward the dressing room, where our outfits for the day hang off a long rack in front of a large black curtain.
Once they herd us into place, I slink to the curtain and peek out. Callum occupies an empty corner of the room, monitoring the entrances and exits.
His blank, impenetrable mask is back in place. Stiff posture, faraway eyes. Curiosity and intuition howl through me, demanding I uncover what’s going on with him.
But now isn’t the time or the place.
We work until lunch, rotating between sets and photographers and outfits. A long table with a buffet spread of hors d’oeuvres stands on the far side of the ballroom, and staff and contestants alike migrate over to graze. I’m still full from breakfast. Or maybe the anxious knots in my stomach usurped my appetite. So I bypass the buffet and claim a nearby spot.
I’m praying my photos come out well despite the minuscule amount of focus I managed to muster this morning. I scan the heads of chattering team members and models, searching for Callum, and jump when he taps me on the shoulder.
While my heart rate crashes back down to earth, I spin around to fix him with a glare. Then I blink. A burly man hovers over Callum’s shoulder. His dark hair is short and neat like Callum’s. A scowl distorts his features, but his hazel eyes and laugh lines hint at kindness.
My gaze flits between them. “Yes?”
“This is Ryan Murphy.” Callum’s tone is cold and professional. “He’ll guard you in my place for the next few hours.”
“What?” Alarm rings through me. “Why?”
“I have business with Darren at the Gallagher estate this afternoon.”
This isn’t like Callum. Leaving in the middle of the day? He’s never done that before. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s a routine check-in.” Callum glances at his watch like I’m slowing him down. “We had this planned before the competition schedule was announced. We didn’t know there’d be a conflict.”
He’s still avoiding my eyes, and his words are clipped. Not like the man I’ve spent the past few days with. My stomach churns. “When will you be back?” I hate my nervous, wife-esque whine.
The flicker of surprise in Callum’s eyes suggests that he heard it too. He clears his throat. “I should finish long before you do, and then I’ll return to take you home, but if for any reason plans change, Ryan will call me, and we’ll make arrangements.”
I lack the energy to fight him, so instead, I stand still as a mannequin while he disappears, leaving Ryan in his stead. With every passing second, my mood dampens.
