Page 7 of The Client
Lifting my chin, I drop into the chair again, crossing my legs. Thank God I wore pants today. There may not be a way out of this, but I won’t let him take my dignity in the process.
His gaze drops to my breasts as I lengthen my spine, a reminder of the only worth I have to him. Separating one of the folders from the rest of the stack on his desk, he leans back in his chair again and brings it front and center.
“Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis is a terrible disease, isn’t it?” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “So much pain. And nausea. Fatigue and sleeping for days, just… wasting away.”
My eyes sting.
He flips over a paper and slides it toward me. It’s a full-page photograph of my sister, Eva. “I heard the medication she took early on shut down her pancreas and now she’s on insulin? If only she’d had the correct medication from the start, right?”
A tear falls.
He sits back with a disdained sigh. “It would be a shame if your modeling jobs dried up and the money stopped coming in, and she couldn’t afford the excellent American medications she’s taking now, wouldn’t it?”
I can’t breathe.
“Who knows how bad things might get then? The mortgage on your uncle’s farm might skyrocket. People might get sick from eating the lamb he sells and then what? No one will buy what he butchers. How will he pay triple the mortgage?”
Grappling for the arm of the chair, I sit just as my legs give out. My thoughts fracture in different directions and for the quickest moment, I consider my options. But there aren’t any, are there? There’s only one choice that I can make, or he’ll ruin my family. Silence yawns in the room. He’s letting me stew in the poison of being trapped, patiently waiting until it fully sinks in that I have no choices, no voice. No free will.
Pulling breath through my nose, I look at the edge of his desk. It comes into focus as his body blurs in the background. When I was young, my father used to sit me on a one-legged milking stool in the barn for a time-out. The single leg allows the stool to be manipulated as you move forward and back to draw milk from the cow’s udders, but if you’re not perfectly balanced, you’ll crash to the ground before you even realize the seat wasn’t balanced.
The chair below me now spins and wobbles as if I’m back on that stool, trying so hard to control it so I don’t fall and scrape my hands trying to catch myself. I have to keep it upright, on center, balanced or it won’t be me getting battered and bruised.
It’ll be my family.
His face is a mask of concern, but inside, this man is laughing at me—I can sense it. No doubt he’s amused by the fact that I’m trying to fight him on this, because it’s obvious that he’s the one holding all the cards.
Tears blur my vision, but I keep my voice steady. “What would you like me to do, sir?”
“I’d like you to answer my question.”
Remembering what my roommates told me, I blink back my tears, lift my chin, and force myself to meet his eyes. “No, I am not a virgin. I was popular in my hometown.”
My accent gets thicker when I lie. Will he notice?
He scowls and leans back in his chair. “That is unfortunate. You would have sold for a small fortune.” He thinks for a moment. “There will be Arab royalty in attendance tomorrow night, and you’re just his type. Perhaps we’ll see a decent bidding war for you regardless.”
Rifling through my file again, he finds a small booklet with a burgundy cover and holds it up. I instantly recognize the gold eagle emblem on the front, and even though I’m too far away to read the words stamped on it, I know exactly what they say: RZECZPOSPOLITA POLSKA PASZPORT. My stomach bottoms out and little bells go off in my head. It’s my passport, the one I kept in my room at the apartment. How…?
“You won’t think about running home now, will you?” He smiles and slides the passport back into his file. “Of course not. You’re a good girl, Izabela.”
Bile rises in my throat, burning and sour. I say nothing.
“Tomorrow evening, a car will arrive for you at eight. Do not dress for the event ahead of time.” He gestures to the shopping bag. “Bring the bag with you. Remember, this is a job. Your hair and makeup will be done at the venue, just as it would for a photo shoot. You’ll change afterward. You’ll also need to be nice and bare, but we’ll take care of that now.”
“Przepraszam?”I say, accidentally slipping back into Polish. “Excuse me?”
Ignoring me, he presses a button on his desk phone. “She’s ready.”
Panic flutters in my chest.
“After you’ve been waxed, you can go,” he says. “Oh, and Izabela.”
Zoric stands and offers me a hand. Unsure if my legs will hold me, I push to my feet and accept his handshake like a dead fish. Dread rolls up my arm from his touch. The men who will bid on me tomorrow will be just like him. Rich. Arrogant. Cruel. With greedy hands and triumph in their eyes as they defile me. My first time won’t be with someone I love, but with a man who paid for the opportunity to keep me for a night, touch me, and violate me.
“I’m so glad you won our eastern European contest. Welcome to the VIP division of KZ Modeling. I think you’ll be very successful.”
Pressing a hand over my thumping heart, I turn away and squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, Zoric’s assistant is standing in front of me with a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes.
