Page 4 of The Client
“Why would it even matter?” I ask. “I’m sure this meeting is just to check in. And it’s been three months with the agency now, so maybe I’m getting a rate increase.”
“Yeah, three months. That’s exactly why you should be worried! Come on, Iza. Do I need to spell it out for you? Konstantin Zoric isn’t calling you in himself to give you a pat on the back. Think about it. He likes Russian girls the best.Especiallyvirgins. You need to be careful.”
My makeup bag clanks loudly as I set it down a little too hard on the dresser. “I really don’t see how my…personal situation…has anything to do with my job. All I do is stand there and look pretty. And for the last time—I’m Polish, not Russian.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Same thing to them, right? You’re tall, beautiful, blonde, and you have an accent. That’s all that matters to them.”
Ever since I won an international modeling contest hosted by KZ Modeling three months ago, it seems people have been warning me about one thing or another. Don’t eat too much. Don’t work out too much. Never show up late for a shoot. And the one most often on repeat: you’re going to have to sleep your way to the top, because that’s how the industry works. But that hasn’t been my experience at all.
When it comes to my roommates, the warnings are even more dire. The things they tell me are so genuinely shocking, I can’t even believe them.
Take Diya, for example. She insists that she and several other girls were tricked into sleeping with men to get their first modeling jobs. Her harrowing tale involved being locked in a hotel suite with ten other immigrant modeling contest winners for two days with no way of communicating with the outside world while they were forced to have nude photos taken and undergo virginity exams. Those who passed as virgins were carted off, never to be seen again.
Except for Diya. She said she was auctioned off in a dim room full of older men, and that the highest bidder took her to a penthouse where he kept her tied to a bed, forcing himself on her repeatedly before having his driver drop her off here, as though returning her from a date.
The very next day, she was booked on a shoot with a fifty-thousand-dollar price tag. She netted ten grand after KZ Modeling took their cut, more money than she had ever dared to dream about in her native New Delhi. Which is exactly where she sent the money. To her mom.
I think it’s all bullshit to scare me, like some kind of hazing or rite of passage. Maybe they hope I’ll get scared and go back to Poland. There is a lot of competition in modeling, more than I ever could have guessed. But I signed a contract and I’m glad that I did. I’ve already been given over a dozen modeling assignments; no sex required.
I’m not going back. Not ever. This city is bigger than my entire world had been back home. I want to show it to my sister. I want her to get well so we can be like the tourists I watch every day out the window, laughing and taking pictures of each other, pain-free. And that only happens if I do what I’m supposed to. Keeping my head down and my eyes forward.
“What time are you supposed to meet him?” Diya asks.
I check the time. “Half an hour. I better go.” It’s a fifteen minute walk, and I want to be early. It shows initiative.
She sighs. “Okay. Just remember what I said, yeah?”
Assessing my appearance one last time, I begin to doubt the outfit I put together from the apartment’s shared wardrobe—stylish black trousers with a matching blazer, a low-cut silk tank, and heels—but shut it down. I look professional, with just a hint of sexy. I don’t need to dress for the club. This is a business meeting. Although Konstantin Zoric’s assistant didn’t tell me exactly why his boss wanted to meet with me. And sure, it’s a little odd that the owner of the agency wants to have a one-on-one, considering I’ve only ever dealt with agents. But I figure it must be a good sign. Like I told Diya, it might mean a rate hike. Or a travel assignment, which pays higher and offers more exposure.
I’m not full of myself, but I know I’ve done a good job at the gigs I’ve been sent on—I take instructions well, I’m easygoing, and I’ve been told that the camera loves me. I’m also kind to the photographers, lighting crew, hair and makeup, the wardrobe people, and anyone else on the crew, because the reality is that taking pretty photographs is hard work, and it’s a group effort that I appreciate. Surely I’ve made a good impression so far. Made the agency money.
A thrill goes through me at the prospect of being rewarded with something bigger.
The other girls look up from their phones as I enter the living room to grab my purse, Diya at my heels. Jackie snags my wrist from her place on the couch.
“Don’t go, Iz. Call out sick. Say you have the stomach flu.”
I roll my eyes. “Not you, too.”
Her attention shifts to something on the TV. I look over and see footage of a man getting out of a town car and smoothing his tie with a very attractive, strong hand. The back of his dark head is turned to the camera, and then he turns and looks directly into the lens for a split second before pulling away. His golden hazel eyes smolder. He has a strong, masculine face with a square jaw. My heart flips at the sight.
“Jesus, if the guys who bought virgins looked like that guy, I’d pretend to be one again,” Jackie blurts, collecting a few laughs.
“Yeah right,” Diya says. “They’re never hot like this guy.”
“Nobody’s hot like this guy,” I point out.
He’s exactly the kind of man that I used to think you could meet on any street corner in America…until I got here. Movies and magazines imply that all American men are handsome, successful, ambitious. That definitely hasn’t been the case. Not yet.
One day I’ll meet the successful, kind, honest man of my dreams.
Still staring at the screen, I read the ticker along the bottom of the image. Something about a billion-dollar acquisition and the company’s young VP, rumored to be next in line for CEO.Rhys McConnell. A name that fits his handsome face.
“Anyway, I’m off. See you all later,” I say, edging away from the couch.
Suddenly, all eyes are on me.
“You should lie,” Cat says, not unkindly. “Virgins always get the most toxic men. The sick-in-the-head ones, or the violent ones. The power trip they get off on is ten times worse.”
