I tried to focus on my strut, my eyes fixed in the distance, my trademark Mona Lisa smile on my face. But still, it took every ounce of self-control I had not to look into the crowd with a triumphant grin while I was on the catwalk. Just knowing all those agents were out there, looking at me, was everything.
Now, it’s all over. I’m euphoric and high on adrenaline, still wearing one of the designs from the show. A black satin dress with a low-cut bodice, thin straps of fabric interwoven across my chest and down my hips, with a flouncy skirt that barely covers my ass. It sort of resembles a sexy bondage fairy costume, but I like it. The designer asked me to wear it to the afterparty and I had readily agreed. Looking around at the fashionable bodies around me, I’m glad I did.
I’ve never been to a party like this, and simply being invited to attend after the show is messing with my head. I feel giddy, and a little out of myself. Some of the faces are familiar, but I don’t really know anyone here. Mingling will change that. Networking is something I’ve never been great at, but I’ve made it a goal to be more outgoing. You have to be, in this industry. There’s plenty of beauty and talent to go around. Who you know is everything.
The rooftop terrace has been decorated to perfection with strings of softly glowing overhead lights, thick velvet curtains, and exotic potted flowers and tropical shrubs creating a magical backdrop that’s dotted with tiny lights in the shapes of stars. A full bar wraps around one side of the terrace, and a band plays on a stage on the other side. Plush furniture is scattered in clusters, allowing people to sit and mingle. There are even a few private spaces tucked into dimly lit corners. I only know this because the people inhabiting them don’t seem to realize there’s more lighting than they think.
After adjusting the camera settings on my phone for the duality of dark and light, I snap a few test images of the décor. Subtly moving to the edges of the crowd, I find my muses and take a few more shots until I’m happy with the results. The floral and greenery backdrop is stunning in my photos, like something from a fairy tale. My social media followers will love it.
They’ll love all of these pics.
My follower base is in the thousands, and it’s growing every day. It might be because of what I do for a living, but I like to think it’s also my photography skills. I’m drawn to more than how things look, but how they feel, and the more I practice getting angles and arrangements and lighting just right, the better I get at capturing those feelings. See, anyone can take a picture of a melting ice cream cone at Navy Pier in July—but my goal is to get the picture that makes you feel the pure, childlike joy of devouring that ice cream cone on a perfect summer’s day.
“Excuse me.”
I do a double take at the rude voice, suddenly realizing I’m blocking the people trying to use the photo backdrop. As usual, I’ve lost myself in taking pictures. My face heats as I apologize and move out of the way. A stunning couple poses stiffly while a professional photog takes their picture.
I peek at the digital snap with a critical eye—I’d move the woman slightly to the left to show off the dazzle of her sparkled bodice, adjust my own position until I caught the flash of the diamond necklace resting in the hollow of her throat, instruct her partner to gaze at her. Then I’d mess with the depth of field to achieve that slightly blurry, dreamy quality for the background—
“Champagne, miss?”
A smiling waiter gestures with one hand while holding a tray of elegant flutes in the other. I nod and grab one before he realizes that I’m not of age. But he walks away without question, and I figure he couldn’t care less how old I am. He’s paid to pass the alcohol, not worry about who’s drinking it.
The excitement is back as I take a covert sip of the champagne. It bursts full and sweet on my tongue, the effervescence tickling my palate. If this is what afterparties are like, sign me up.
“Don’t tell anyone,” a masculine voice whispers conspiratorially into my ear, the close heat of the man’s mouth and the spice of his cologne sending shivers down my spine, “but they’re serving two-hundred-dollar bottles of Louis Roederer in fake crystal flutes. How gauche.”
I grin and turn toward the source of that sexy voice, only to come face to face with a pair of green eyes, slicked-back dark hair, and a body that’s perfectly made for a tux…or maybe it’s the other way around. I can’t ponder it, though, because I’ve apparently lost my ability to think.
Or breathe.
Luka Zoric flashes his dimples at me as if he’s just spilled a dirty little secret. I’ve never met him, but I know exactly who he is. Everyone in this industry knows who he is. He’s the playboy second son of Konstantin Zoric, owner of KZ Modeling. I’ve seen all the Zorics in the tabloids and on social media more than I want to admit. I follow their pages, of course, and with the face of a god, Luka makes for some nice eye candy when you have idle time to browse.
“Well,” I finally manage. “That’s…a shame.”
Oh, God. Is that the best I could come up with?
“It really is,” he goes on, “considering the host of this thing rakes in fifty-mil a year.”
My eyebrows lift and I take another sip, because I’m not sure what else to do. Suddenly, he’s thrusting one perfectly broad and strong-looking hand my way. And I take it, feeling a frisson of electricity as I slide my palm against his, praying I don’t say anything else too lame.
“Luka Zoric. It’s a pleasure to meet you…” He leaves space for me to introduce myself. My mouth is so dry that I have to take yet another sip of the bubbly before I finally feel like I can offer a genuine smile, instead of one born from awkwardness.
“Brooklyn Moss,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him, as if I’m thinking hard. “You know, I think I may have heard of you.”
Oh, so now I’m flirting.
He laughs, open and unaffected, turning him even more impossibly handsome. He drinks from his flute and I do the same, barely realizing mine is almost empty now.
“You looked stunning out there earlier, Brooklyn Moss. Like you were actually having fun. Most of the models put on the sour face when they’re on the catwalk. Not you.”
My chest tightens as I weigh what he just said. A bigwig at KZ Modeling noticed me on the runway! Don’t panic. Do. Not. Panic. “Thank you. To be honest, it was a lot of fun.”
“You’re a natural,” he says smoothly. “I’ve been doing this long enough to spot those who are made for this industry, and those who aren’t. You’re definitely in the first category.”
“Is that so?” I say with a smirk, my body language indicating how confident I already am.
“It is,” Luka says, his sly grin matching my own.
He licks his bottom lip for a fraction of a second. Just enough to make me notice his lips and how perfect they are. Everything about him is perfection. Right down to the cut of his midnight blue tux and the Hermès pocket square expertly tucked near his lapel.
I’m young, but I’m not naïve. I know a line when I hear one. A man like this, especially with a reputation like his, says anything to get pussy. It’s the one thing my parents repeatedly warned me about. So yeah, I know the game. Any woman in this industry knows the game. You learn early which moves to play and which to pass.