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Evil Overlord: Do you have time tomorrow morning?
* * *
Thanks to Richard Sullivan’s cryptic text message, I’m on edge for the rest of the night and can barely eat dinner. Thankfully, Dejonae brings Niko—Sazuki’s daughter and my newly minted niece—over to visit.
Niko’s an absolute delight and my parents are beside themselves now that they have a granddaughter. She takes most of the attention off me so I can slink away after the meal with the excuse that I have an early photoshoot the next morning.
My bed vibrates at five a.m., shaking me hard enough to yank me out of my dreams. Eyes cracking open, I yawn. Each of my limbs are heavy and my body is craving more sleep, but I force myself to a sitting position and slump to the bathroom.
Sullivan wasn’t clear with his request, so I can only assume this favor is why he’s been liking all my photos.
The lack of information is killing me, but it’s not my first time booking a gig with no idea what to expect. Being a model is far from glamorous, especially if you’re not a big name. Designers are rude. The conditions are poor. And no one cares because all you are is an interchangeable human clothing rack.
Not to mention the rampant sexual assault crisis that plagues this industry like a disease.
I can’t control pervs who promise to ‘open doors’ if only I’d visit their penthouse suite after-hours. But Icancontrol whether or not I’m immaculately dressed.
For one thing, being put-together immediately tells everyone at the shoot that I’m someone to be taken seriously (even if I’m not quite a household name yet or even close to it). For another, it gives me a needed confidence boost.
Patting my face with cold water wakes me up and I go through my shower and makeup routine. I do my hair next, which doesn’t take long thanks to the expensive sew-in.
My watch buzzes.
Sullivan must be here.
I tiptoe out of my bedroom. The air is peaceful. Warm. The dawn is my favorite time of day. The sun sprays a golden path on everything, giving it a magical glow.
Mom and dad’s bedroom door is closed. They’re tired after doting on Niko yesterday. Smiling, I grab an apple and slip it into my sea-foam green Chanel purse before skating out the door.
Instead of a limo, there’s a town car parked on the curb.
José is there again.
So is Jenny.
Excitement makes my smile grander, but they both return my enthusiastic wave with a stilted nod.
Weird. I thought we had a co-worker, ‘talk bad about the boss behind his back’ connection.
“Good morning, Yaya,” Jenny signs, standing formally.
José dips his head like I’m some kind of princess.
Which is totally wrong. If anything, I’m more rocker chic today. Short black vinyl mini skirt, thigh-high boots, and a leather jacket over a lace camisole with a peek-a-boo bra. I finished it off with a black beret to add a Parisian vibe.
José stares straight ahead with the concentration of a London guard outside the British royal palace.
Huh.
Maybe they’re not morning people.
Movement around the side of the vehicle catches my eye. I stiffen when I see Richard Sullivan. He sees me too and stops abruptly.
I wait for him to say something, already inclining my head toward Jenny. Her slight eyebrow raise in Sullivan’s direction has me returning my attention to him.
He’s so tall I can see most of his torso above the town car. A living sculpture. And, like a sculpture, he’s frozen. Staring at me.
I fiddle with my purse strap as his gaze lowers by several degrees, taking in my face, my outfit, my shoes and back up again.
