“It’s too late. The deal is done.”
I gulp over the lump of anxiety clogging my throat, and my heart starts beating harder and faster. My chest heaves painfully as I struggle to drag enough air into my lungs. Familiar nausea swims up my throat as the blackness swoops in.
“Hudson!” Freddie yells over his shoulder, keeping his eyes pinned on me, a growing look of disgust washing over his harsh features. “Get her out of my sight.” He roughly thrusts me at his trusted right-hand man. “You know the drill. One week. Ensure that shit is fixed.”
“Please.” I make one last attempt to halt my fate.
Searing-hot pain whips across my face and my head jerks back from the force of his slap. “Shut your mouth, bitch.”
Hudson grips my upper arm, dragging me from the cell, his jagged fingernails biting into my exposed flesh, hurting me on purpose, but I say nothing.
I’ve learned to live with pain.
With punishment.
With the fact that no one cares.
But this is a whole new level of hell.
My mind wanders into scary territory as I map it all out, and by the time Hudson flings me into the room where the doctor and nurse are waiting to tend to my injured, malnourished body, I’ve checked out.
When they strap me to the bed, I stare at the patchy ceiling, counting the misshapen moldy stains, as they talk in hushed voices around me.
The sharp prick of the needle in my arm is a welcome relief, and when the dark fog sweeps along my body, summoning me to the black void, I race toward it, praying this time I never return.
1
Selena – Seven Years Later
“Ican’t believe how much work we have to do already, and it’s only week two,” Kelly complains as we walk side by side, trekking across the Boston campus.
“Tell me about it,” I agree, dropping my eyes to the ground as the group of guys approaching us looks at me with obvious interest. “Sophomore year isnotgoing to be a walk in the park.”
“It serves us right for choosing to study psychology,” Kelly adds, shooting daggers at the group of guys as they walk past.
“I’ve no clue how I’m going to juggle my modeling assignments around college this year—especially now I landed the Miranda Fanning gig,” I admit, my brow puckering in concern.
Jessica—my agent—has already been on my case. During summer break, I worked a lot more than normal, and despite me explaining up front it was only until I returned to Cambridge College, she threw a hissy fit when I emailed her a list of my availability from now until the end of the year.
She blatantly lied to my face, telling me Miranda would rescind her offer, but when I emailed Miranda personally to explain, she sent me a lovely reply, confirming she was aware and happy to work around my schedule. I thought Jessica was going to have a coronary on the spot when she discovered I’d emailed the client directly.
But screw her.
I haven’t worked my ass off the last couple of years, trying to get a handle on my PTSD and my associated anxiety, to have her undermine me at every turn.
I might have to consider switching agents when my contract comes up for renewal next year.
Alex Kennedy was the one who recommended Jessica to me, at the time she sold her fashion empire—Kennedy Apparel—to the Accardi Company, and everything changed for me.
Back then, I only modeled for KA. I only did closed shoots, no catwalk shows, and her son was the only other model I ever felt comfortable working with.
While I still can’t step foot on a runway, I’m more adaptable when it comes to shoots and working with different models even if it hurts that the guys are never who I want them to be.
A pang of longing hits me square in the chest as thoughts of Keanu invade my mind. It’s the same whenever I think of him.
Which is a lot.
Because I can’t get the guy out of my head no matter how hard I try. I knew cutting him loose would be difficult, but I’d no idea it would be this hard.
