Page 33 of The Client
“It was fine,” I say vaguely.
“What was the name of the place?”
“May Queen Bridal Shop.”
Frowning, he says, “Never heard of it.”
He looks displeased. I wonder what I said wrong.
“How many dresses did you model?”
I shrug. “Nine or ten. I lost track. There were a lot of last-minute changes.”
“Nine or ten? How did they have the time to fit you? No tailor works that fast.”
“They weren’t fitted for me. They were off the rack, pinned into place.”
He scowls. “Who did your makeup and hair?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get their names. Not anyone I’ve worked with before.”
“And with whom did you walk? The other models, who were they?”
“Um. Just two other girls. One named Stormy who I’ve never met before—I think she was the shop owner’s daughter? And then another model from KZM. Stasya Petrova.”
Rhys takes a bite of risotto, so I do the same, hoping he’s done grilling me about the job. The food tastes so good I have to hold back a moan. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I take another bite, then another, and then spear the biggest two pieces of steak on my plate.
When I look up, Rhys is watching me shove the steak into my mouth. Humiliation courses through me as I chew. He must think I’m a pig. I set down my fork and dab my mouth with the fancy linen napkin in my lap.
“What did they feed you today?” he asks slowly.
I drop my eyes, shame burning my cheeks. “Um. They didn’t. I mean, it was so hectic…”
There’s no denying the tension in the room. I’m not sure what this game of one-hundred questions is about, but it’s giving me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Is Rhys going to change his mind about me modeling?
“Who ran the show?” he asks.
I rattle off the name of the producer, and Rhys throws down his fork with a clatter.
“So let me get this straight,” he says. “You wasted your entire day at some third-rate bridal store downtown, modeling off-the-rack dresses with a face full of pancake makeup and an updo that looks like it was done by a beauty school dropout, without a single household name on the set, and they starved you to boot. Does that about cover it?”
I clasp my hands in my lap, my eyes stinging with tears. “Yes.”
“Get your boss on the phone.”
My guts clench with anxiety. I don’t move.
“Izabela, go get your phone and call Zoric.Now.”
Pushing my chair back, I bolt from the room and run upstairs. Once I’m back with my phone in my hand, I drop into my chair across from Rhys and dial the main office, knowing full well that there’s no way I’m getting through.
“Put the call on speaker,” Rhys says.
I do, and we both listen to the call ring and ring and ring.
“I guess no one’s at the off—” I start to say, but then someone picks up.
“Miss Jasinski,” comes Konstantin Zoric’s voice through the speaker, sounding gruff and on edge. “Why are you calling?”
