Prologue
Emzee
It’s funny how some things can change…but others? They only ever stay the same.
And sometimes, something that looks exactly the same as it always has from the outside can turn out to becompletelydifferent on the inside.
Like when your favorite French fusion restaurant on the North Side suddenly revamps its entire menu out of nowhere (even though it was already literal perfection). Or when you find out your scary-tough—but financially indulgent—workaholic father is actually a shady-as-hell international criminal. Or when the modeling agency you do photography work for decides to wholly switch up the way they operate, thanks to the arrest and removal of said father/international criminal as CEO, yet the media still wants to paint the place as an evil sex trafficking empire because they have no idea what’s really going on behind closed doors.
You know. Just as an example.
The sign in the lobby was brand new, and so was our management team, but beyond that, the offices on the twenty-ninth floor looked basically the same. My brothers and I had stopped doing business under the name KZ Modeling over a year ago. Henceforth, we relaunched as Danica Rose Management, named after our late mother. Getting a new sign made was easy—everything else, everything on the inside, well, that was a lot harder.
Still, I liked the familiar comfort I felt when I walked through the lobby of the fancy high-rise we worked out of. The way it felt the same as it did when I was a kid.
I used to love visiting my father at work when I was younger. Everything was so exciting back then. Back when I was too little, too naïve, too sheltered to know the ugly truth behind the agency’s astronomical wealth and success.
It was still crazy to me how oblivious I had been to things that now seemed so utterly obvious. And it was hard not to be angry about all the secrets everyone had kept from me. Not just my father, but my two older brothers as well. They hadn’t taken part in the crimes, but they’d known about the whole thing long enough to join forces with the feds in order to take KZM down and get our dad thrown in jail. Meanwhile, I’d been left totally in the dark.
The ensuing trial had been lengthy, public, and very ugly. Stefan and Luka had both testified. After being found guilty on about a million felony charges, our dad was sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole, and Stefan took over as the new head of the agency and the family. It was still completely mind-blowing to me.
I didn’t know if I would ever really get over it.
As I headed across the lobby toward the sleek bank of elevators, I waved to Jorge, our head of security.
“Morning, Emzee!” he said, waving back. “You look ready to kick someculotoday.”
He said that every day, about me kicking ass, and it always made me smile.
“You know I rock these shitkickers just to impress you,” I said, shaking a combat boot for emphasis.
“You tease,” he said. “I’m sure you have plenty of other men to impress.”
Ha. If only. No men. No boys, even. The only males in my life are my brothers, Stefan and Luka. Well…and Ford, I guess. But he’s definitely not impressed by me.
Technically, Ihaddressed up today, but not for Jorge. The truth was, the agency wasn’t the only thing undergoing a change. From budding professional photographer to part-owner of my family’s company, I knew I needed to start looking—and dressing—the part.
I still mostly wore black, but instead of jeans and artfully distressed T-shirts with a blazer or leather motorcycle jacket on top, I had added a few actual suits and skirts to my closet. I’d never give up my big black boots, though. They wereme.
And yeah, I didn’t need to do much more than sit at a conference table today, but if the zombie apocalypse were to hit in the middle of a PowerPoint, you better believe I’d be ready for it. The only time I’d be caught in a pair of heels would have to be for a wedding (not mine, lol) or maybe a fancy date (which, ha. I wish.). Plus, they helped balance out my lack of height.
My suit was a perfectly tailored black St. John’s with a pencil skirt and a silk blouse underneath. My dark hair was pulled over my shoulder in a fishtail braid instead of hanging loose around my face, which made my gray eyes stand out, and I’d applied my signature winged eyeliner and a touch of nude gloss. Anything more dramatic, I saved for nights out.
Not that I’d had many of those lately.
It would have been easy to blame my perpetually on-the-prowl status on my hectic work schedule—and I was more focused than ever now that we all had something to prove—but the truth was, I’d never been the kind of girl that settled down long-term. I could casually date until I was blue in the face, but rarely did I reach the point of being in an actual “relationship.” Things always seemed to fall apart before then.
Probably for the best. Lord knows the media had devolved into a frenzy over the relationships of my older brothers. At least one of us Zoric children was happy to keep a low profile and stay out of the limelight.
The only exception was for my charity, See Yourself, which I’d founded to help former KZM models. I’d do just about anything to keep operations running. Including going out and getting attention.
The new clothes helped with that, too.
Still, I hated being noticed.
Growing up, I’d been told many times that I’d be a great asset to my father’s company if I decided to give modeling a try. I couldn’t do runway—I was too short for that—but, people suggested, I’d be great for print work. I was lucky to have inherited my mother’s hourglass figure, and my entire Serbian family had been blessed with good looks.
But what was beauty, anyway? I’d grown up around models, around photographers, and around all the people that flocked to them. Beauty was fleeting, and subjective.
