Seeing Stefan up close, I suddenly realize that what sounded like condescension a moment ago is probably just the verbalized anxiety of someone who’s under an extreme amount of stress and pressure. Luka had mentioned that Stefan was the one who turned their father in to the feds, and it’s obvious by the speech we just heard that the man has a lot of weight on his shoulders. Trying to repair the reputation of a company brought to its knees by such a huge scandal is no small feat.
Still, even though Stefan seems nice enough, I don’t totally trust him. He’s too eager to cover up his father’s corruption, sweep it under the rug, and make it all go away. He doesn’t seem like as much of an asshole as my future husband, but he’s definitely cold. I think back to my phone call with Tori, and I shudder to think about what it’s like for her to be married to Stefan.
“We’re both all in,” I reiterate, hoping to keep things smooth between the brothers. “Whatever it takes to turn things around for the agency, we’re here to help. Just tell us what you need.”
Stefan smiles, and it seems genuine. In fact, it transforms his chiseled features so completely that I almost think Luka could have some serious competition in the hottie department.
“I appreciate that,” he says. “And as it happens, I’ve got a list of places I’d like you two to appear after your engagement is announced,” he says.
“I can’t wait,” I say. I mean it, but I still catch Emzee rolling her eyes.
Stefan continues, “You’re going to get a lot of celebrity press, which is what we want, but we need to curate that and make sure the engagement is nothing but positive if we want to shift focus from the scandal. So going forward, don’t ever let yourselves be seen out in public together without huge smiles and lots of PDA.”
Emzee groans sarcastically and mimes sticking her finger down her throat. Stefan gives her the side-eye, his voice hard. “Something you’d like to add, Emzee?”
“I think it’s pathetic that you dragged me down here and made me cancel a gig withChicago Readerto shoot engagement photos for a fake wedding. Why are we doing this again? Oh, right. Instead of pimping our models out as prostitutes, we’re pimping them out aswives. Fantastic.”
Ah. That explained the attitude. She obviously didn’t approve of the fake marriage. And despite her harsh, flippant comments about the prostitution, I’d bet anything that finding out about her father’s criminal behavior had been a bombshell that had probably destroyed her. No wonder she seemed so angry and aggressive.
“Ignore her,” Luka murmurs to me under his breath. I just shrug, even though I’m stung.
“Mara.” Stefan’s voice is edged with warning.
“Leave her be,” Luka interjects. “Let’s just get on with this.”
“Excuse me. I’m going to run to the restroom.” I don’t wait for their permission before I dart from the hall and find the closest ladies’ room.
The tension is through the roof, not at all how I used to daydream my engagement photos would go one day.None of thisis the way I imagined it. Yes, I’m getting hitched to a super-hot, uber-wealthy celebrity type. But what we’re going to show to the world is an illusion.Someday, I tell myself,I’ll do it right. Have the love, the fairy tale, the dream. All of it.
Next time will be perfect, I tell myself as I check my lipstick in the mirror. Next time.
I arrange my curled hair over my left shoulder and mentally replay the moment I signed my modeling contract, which helps me to smile like my life is about to change irrevocably and for the better—which is exactly what I want Emzee to capture.
Then my brow furrows as I realize that my new sister-in-law probably hates me. Which is extra disappointing, since I was hoping we’d get along. As an only child, I always thought it would be fun to have a sister. It could have been a nice perk to this relationship, one that didn’t require the marriage to actually be real. I’d have a built-in buddy to help me navigate this crazy new world—someone to open up to, to have girls’ nights with, to support and be supported by.
Clearly that’s not going to happen now.
I take a deep breath and nod confidently at my reflection. Okay. I can do this. A couple of months from now, when I’m getting calls for assignments and my face starts popping up in national advertisements, I’ll know that getting through this was worth it. My goals are set and all I have to do is keep moving forward to reach them.
Feeling a little more settled, I go back into the hall and find Emzee has set up her tripod and is adjusting the settings on her camera. Luka waits by one of the arches. A beautiful cream-colored velvet curtain is draped inside the arch, which makes a perfect backdrop to my lace dress and Luka’s dark silver Armani suit, his hair perfectly combed to the side. His profile is masculine perfection and I swear I can see him in black and white, modeling that suit on a magazine page.
He’s barely spoken to me since we got here. I’m sure he’s nervous, maybe second-guessing things a little. It’s natural. I mean, we’re going to be tied together in a fake marriage. Of course we’re nervous. His gaze moves over me as I walk toward him. The sides of his mouth twitch as if he wants to say something, or smile, but he doesn’t.
“Face each other,” Emzee orders.
I move to do as she asks and Luka’s hands grip my hips, his fingers pressing into my hip bones and pulling me into him so our pelvises touch. His breath pulls in hard and slow as he drinks me in, and for a moment, I forget that Stefan and Emzee are even here.
“Not that close,” Emzee scolds. “This is for a PG-13 audience.”
I try to take a little step back, but Luka holds me tight. “No, this close. I want people to believe that I can’t keep my hands off her.”
“Whatever. At least you’ve got the ‘staring deeply into each other’s eyes’ part right.”
Emzee snaps some pictures and I panic a bit because I wasn’t ready. I’m not smiling because I can’t stop thinking about what Luka said, about not keeping his hands off me. The way he’s holding me so tightly, his breathing notched up, his eyes shaded with that veil of desire suggests that he wants to put his hands a lot more places than my hips.
His palms move up to my waist, his fingers drumming lightly over my lower back. I bring a hand to cup the back of his neck as my breath stalls.
“Smile, Brooklyn,” Emzee says. “Like you mean it this time.”
