Page 34 of The Client
My blood runs cold. Since when does Zoric know my cell number by heart? I look over at Rhys, but he’s already leaning across the table, grabbing the phone.
“Zoric,” he says sharply. “This is Rhys McConnell.”
Zoric’s tone instantly changes. “Mr. McConnell! To what do I owe the distinct pleasure of this call? I hope there’s been no trouble with your…merchandise.”
“Merchandise? No, Izabela is perfect. But this modeling situation isn’t working for me.”
My heart plummets, even as a spark shoots through me. Rhys just called me perfect?
“If you need her to step away from the modeling—” Zoric starts to say.
I direct my gaze at Rhys, pleading with my eyes.
“That’s not what I said,” Rhys interrupts. “I said it isn’t working for me. It’s not good enough. I don’t date small-time models. I date Paris Fashion Week models.”
Zoric sputters, “But Mr. McConnell, Izabela isn’t—”
“So make her one,” Rhys says coldly.
With that, he hangs up the call and resumes eating as if nothing just happened. I try to follow suit, but my hands are shaking so badly that I can barely manage to hold my fork.
I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning.
Because Rhys McConnell has power. He has influence. He has clout. And nobody knows this more than my boss, Konstantin Zoric.
That request Rhys just made? It wasn’t a casual suggestion.
It was an order.
The kind of order that could change my life.
13
RHYS
I’ve just gotteninto the back of my private car after work on Friday when my mom calls my cell. We usually chat once or twice a week, but a friend has been staying with Mom on a visit from Florida, so we’re overdue for a catch-up call.
“Hi, Mom. Did you get Helen dropped off at the airport okay this morning?”
I’d offered to send my personal car and driver to shuttle Helen, but Mom had staunchly refused. She likes to do things herself. After years of living in the gilded cage that was her marriage to my father, I don’t blame her for being so stubborn about asserting her independence.
“I did. We stopped for breakfast on the way, at that café you recommended,” she says.
Loosening my tie, I ask, “Which one? Three Arts?”
“That’s the one! I had the loveliest truffle grilled cheese, and they sat us right under the chandelier. But enough about me. How was your week? I’ve been so busy playing tour guide for Helen that I haven’t had a chance to check in on you.”
I give her a brief rundown, sticking to career-related things. Per usual.
“Oh, Rhys,” she sighs. “You’re working yourself into the ground. You’re only young once, you know. Don’t let life pass you by. I’d hate to see you end up like your father.”
“That makes two of us. But I wouldn’t be where I am if I didn’t work hard. And besides, I’m not going to let myself skate by just because Grandpa owns the company.”
“I understand that, sweetheart, but there’s something called work-life balance.”
“I have excellent work-life balance,” I insist. “I’m on my way to the gym right now.”
“That’s another form of work,” she points out.
