I nod, though my insecurities rear up and choke any hope of a reply. Everyone wants a piece of me. Max, theBeauty and Stylemarketing department, fans—whenever I go out all made up, anyway. And with my stellar history of choosing thewrongpeople to trust, I worry, even though I know I shouldn’t. Not with her.
Marina doesn’t ask for more than I can give—most of the time. I’ll chew off this lip dye before we’re halfway done with the shoot.
“Four outfit changes today, Sloane,” a sweet, matronly woman says as she holds out her hand for my robe.
I don’t remember her name, but she’s quick and efficient, so less than ten minutes later, I’m zipped, taped, and strapped into a shimmering golden evening gown that plunges deep between my breasts. Every step exposes my waxed, moisturized, and body-painted thigh through one slit or another, and though I hate wearing heels, I have to admit…this get-up makes me feel like royalty.
Gliding through the door to the set, I plaster on a fake smile.
“All right, people,” the photographer shouts as he snaps his fingers. “Let’s see if we can get Ms. Sanders out of here in under four hours, shall we?”
Everyone leaps into action, and within minutes, I’m in another world. One where fantasies exist, and every little girl can grow up to be a princess.
* * *
Four hours my ass.It’s closer to six by the time I pull on the ultra-soft tunic dress I wore to the shoot—designed not to leave a single mark or crease on my skin—and am safely ensconced in the back of the agency’s town car.
Here, I can relax. Darius, my driver whenever I’m in New York, knows how exhausting long shoots are, and though he always asks me how I am, he doesn’tdosmall talk.
“Any stops tonight, Ms. Sanders?”
“No, thank you. All I want is some time on the stair master, dinner, and a little peace and quiet.” Forcing a smile, I meet his gaze in the rear-view mirror.
“Gotcha. I’ll have you back to the St. Regis in half an hour.”
Despite my words, the idea of spending the entire night locked in my hotel room or at the gym makes my chest tight. I need to get out. To walk. Breathe fresh air. Blend in among the crowds.
Not more than ten minutes after Darius drops me off, I’m back on the street. Dark glasses dim the beauty of the city, but the energy thatisNew York makes up for it. Disappearing is easy here. A pair of tight jeans, a soft black sweater, running shoes…I look like any other tourist.
If Max knew I was wandering around alone, he’d pitch a fit. Which is exactly why I escape into the crowds whenever I can.
The first time I came to New York after Max saved me, I was twenty-three, and though I believed most of the world was a horrible, terrifying place, Times Square awed me. It still does. There’s a rhythm to this city. A heartbeat I feel deep in my soul.
Maybe it’s because I came from such a small town in Russia. Or because in New York, you can be anyone you want to be. Right now, I’m just an ordinary tourist with my scuffed, broken-in Sketchers, a cheap canvas bag, and a freshly scrubbed face free of all makeup.
Thisis freedom. As much as I ever have since my life belongs to the Ulstrum Agency. At least for another eight months.
Max slides the contract across the table, and though my eyes are puffy from crying through some of the worst of the withdrawal symptoms, I squint at the text until he starts reading it to me. “In public, you’ll always wear your contact lenses, and you won’t speak Russian ever again. You’ll stick to the agreed upon script about your past, how you got into modeling, the loss of your family.”
“Will I be able to call my Mama and sisters?” I ask. “I have not spoken to them since I left Penza.”
“Yes. But you’ll use an encrypted phone, and you’ll make sure you’re somewhere no one can overhear you.” He reaches for my hands and clasps them firmly until I meet his gaze. “This is serious, Sloane. Giving you a new name, a new identity? It’s illegal. I’m risking as much—if not more—than you are. If you have any doubts about this, tell me now. I’ll still help you get clean, and I’ll arrange for you to return to Russia in a way you won’t get in trouble with the authorities. But if you sign this, if we start with the surgeries and the classes, there’s no going back.”
Max—and my contract with the Ulstrum Agency—changed my life. I should be happy. When I came to this country, I feared I’d be dead before I turned thirty. My thirty-fifth birthday is in three weeks, and I have enough money in the bank to live a comfortable life after I retire. Even return to Russia to see Mama and my sisters.
Most days, I wouldn’t change a thing. But when I’m alone, when the pressure gets to be too much, I wish I could be free. Truly free. To bring Mama and my sisters here to visit, to do more than send them money and call once a month.
But if the world found out that Sloane Sanders used to be a heroin addict named Sophiana Lebdev who was forced to have sex with men against her will…I’d be deported immediately and I’d never work again.
Still, sometimes, I miss being just…Sophie.
* * *
Home.The little bungalow not far from the beach in San Diego was my gift to myself after eight years working my ass off—figuratively and literally—as a model. It was a dump when I bought it, but little by little, I’ve turned it into the perfect refuge.
Leaves rustle overhead as I fish out my keys. Five days in New York and three in Dallas. My body doesn’t know what time it is, just that it needs a cup of chamomile tea and my favorite blanket. Once I have those, I can call Mama.
A pile of mail waits just inside the door, and I scoop it up on the way to my bedroom. Despite my exhaustion, I can’t simply drop my garment bag on the chair and forget about it. When you come from nothing, even the smallest possession is too valuable to carelessly toss aside.
