King of Envy: Chapter 30

“What happened was a tragedy. I sincerely hope Jordan wakes up soon. His death would be a great loss for the fashion world.” Emmanuelle’s voice oozed with fake sincerity over the phone. “That being said, it’s been almost a month since your last job, darling. The people are impatient.”

By people, do you mean you? I bit back my snarky response and stared out the window. It was the perfect fall afternoon. I should be outside, enjoying the sunshine, but I was holed up in my apartment. I’d barely left since I returned home on Tuesday against Vuk’s strident objections. I couldn’t stay in the suburbs forever. I needed a sense of normalcy.

“There’s no better distraction than work,” Emmanuelle continued. “Sage Studios is thrilled with the denim campaign. We should lean more into the commercial angle. You’ve done enough editorials this year, and commercial pays more.”

I barely heard her. My mind was back in Westchester, listening to Vuk disclose his past.

Hitmen. Murder. Poison.

I felt like someone had plucked me out of my life and dropped me in the middle of a Nate Reynolds thriller.

I struggled to wrap my head around it days later. My family had reluctantly returned to D.C. after reassurances from both Vuk and the police that the “gangs” had been taken care of, and I was safe. I didn’t want to know how Vuk got the NYPD to go along with his cover story.

I’d promised my family I would visit this weekend after I checked in on Jordan and finished some “work.” So far, the only work I’d done was knitting half a blanket and reorganizing my perfume collection.

“Ayana!” Emmanuelle’s silken voice grew fangs. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” She usually intimidated me, but I’d survived a church shootout and professional assassins last week. A pissy agency head was the least of my worries. My patience snapped. “I’m listening, but unfortunately, I won’t be able to accept any new jobs at this time. As you so kindly mentioned, my fiancé is in a coma. He got shot at our wedding six days ago. Six. Days. I need time to grieve and heal, so unless you want me to show up and break down on set, I suggest we table any discussions of new campaigns until after the holidays.”

Emmanuelle sucked in an audible breath. I doubted anyone had spoken to her like that in years. “You⁠—”

“But since we’re on the subject of work,” I said, interrupting her. “I would appreciate it if you paid me for all the shoots I have done over the past twelve months. I’d like the money before the end of the calendar year. I’ve sent multiple emails to Hank and accounting, and I’ve only received a quarter of what I’m owed. As a businesswoman yourself, I’m sure you understand why that’s unacceptable. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some personal matters to attend to. Thank you for checking in.”

I hung up on a spluttering Emmanuelle and tossed my phone on the couch, my heart jackrabbiting.

Oh. My. God.

I brought my hand to my mouth. What did I do?

Emmanuelle Beaumont was one of the most powerful women in fashion. If she blacklisted you, your career was over. If she dropped you from her agency, your career was over. If she…well, you get the idea.

I wouldn’t have dared talk to her the way I had a month ago. However, near-death experiences had a way of putting things into perspective. My career was important, but it wasn’t more important than standing up for myself. If I died tomorrow, what would I be prouder of—winning Model of the Year or knowing I’d fought for what was right?

I dropped my hand. Little bubbles of exhilaration dodged the barbed nerves in my stomach.

I might regret it later, but fuck, it felt good to put Emmanuelle in her place. I only wished I could’ve seen her face.

That phone call was the first time I’d felt any sense of control since the wedding, and I was going to ride that high for as long as I could.

Newly energized, I picked up my knitting needles and half-finished blanket. Liya always made fun of me for my “old lady hobby,” but the mindless repetition of the movements boosted my serotonin like nothing else.

I was just getting into the groove again when my phone rang.

I frowned. It was the front desk. They rarely called unless I had a guest, and I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I picked up. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Kidane,” the concierge said. “There’s a Maya Singh here to see you. Shall I let her up?”

Surprise washed away my confusion. “Thank you. Yes, please.”

Maya had never been to my house before. What was she doing here on a Thursday during work hours?

My question was answered a few minutes later, when I opened the door to her knock and found her standing in the hall with a white bakery bag in hand.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drop by unannounced,” she said as I ushered her in and led her to the kitchen. She sounded a little embarrassed. “But—and I’m fully aware this makes me sound like a stalker—I remember you said you lived in this building. I was already in the area, and I figured you could use a pick-me-up.” She set the white bag on the kitchen island. “Ginger chai cookies from my favorite bakery. They’re basically heaven in a box.”

“Don’t be sorry. This was a pleasant surprise, and you had me at ginger chai,” I said with a smile. “Thank you. This was so thoughtful.”

“Anytime.” Maya drew her bottom lip between her teeth. She studied me, her brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”

After the wedding debacle hit the news, she’d checked in on me via text, but this was our first time discussing it in person.

“About how you’d expect.” I removed two cookies from the bag and offered her one. She accepted it but didn’t take a bite. “I’m feeling a little better now that things have calmed down. The press has moved on, but Jordan is still in a coma. I should be by his side more. Instead, I’m here.”

Guilt gnawed at my stomach.

Engagement or not, Jordan was my friend. He was an innocent in all this, and I would give anything for him to wake up again.

My diamond ring glittered on my left hand. A real fiancée would stay by his side. She wouldn’t be hiding at home, knitting and trying not to think about a certain man with a voice like rough velvet and arms that felt like home.

When Vuk held me that day in the bedroom, I felt like I’d finally reached shelter after a long walk through a storm. Warm, comforted, safe.

It didn’t make sense given everything he told me. He should be the most dangerous person I knew, and maybe he was. But not for me.

“Don’t beat yourself up too much,” Maya said. “We all handle trauma in different ways. You’ve been through a lot too, and camping out by his bedside won’t change things. He has the best doctors in the city working on him. He’s in good hands.”

She spoke with such authority, I almost believed her. No wonder her father put her in charge of his company’s entire sales and marketing department. She was naturally persuasive.

“Let’s hope,” I said with a half-hearted smile.

It was strange, talking to someone I’d met only a month ago, but there was something about Maya that made her so easy to confide in.

“Enough morbid talk.” I brushed the crumbs from my hands before I reached for a second cookie. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. I could use some fun gossip.”

I didn’t need to ask twice. Maya launched into her plans for her upcoming birthday party and interspersed it with notes about how it’ll make “Sebastian’s Monte Carlo blowout look like child’s play.” I assumed she was referring to Sebastian Laurent. She brought him up a lot for someone she claimed to hate.

“Shit. I’m going to be late,” she said after she mentioned, again, how she couldn’t wait to see Sebastian’s face when he realized she’d one-upped him on the party front. She frowned at her watch. “I wish I could stay longer, but I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”

“It’s okay. I have the rest of the cookies to keep me company.” I nudged the half-empty bag. “These are divine.”

“I know, right? They’re so good, I’m kind of mad we aren’t the ones who manufacture them.” Maya threw on her scarf again and hesitated. “If you need anything, text me. I mean it. I know we met not too long ago, but I don’t bring just anyone ginger chai cookies, you know.”

A genuine smile blossomed across my face. “I will. Thank you. And remember, your birthday party is for you. Not Sebastian.”

“It’s not for him. It’s for beating him.” Maya huffed. “Anyway, I really have to run, or my father will kill me. Talk later!”

She hurried out.

After she left, I finished the rest of the cookies and returned to the couch. My phone kept buzzing with notifications. It was incredible how many acquaintances crawled out of the woodwork when they heard you were involved in a tragedy.

Some of those messages were probably important. I’d avoided my inbox like it was contagious all week. Sloane had called me on Monday, more as a friend than a publicist. She’d escaped outside by the time the shooting started, but I could tell she was shaken by what happened. Now that she’d had time to regroup, she was likely in full PR mode.

Honestly, I didn’t care about the press. The public’s interest in the church attack was already fading. The news organizations and Internet would do what they do. I couldn’t control them; I could only control my reaction.

My gaze drifted to the window again.

It really was a beautiful day. Why was I inside when I should be out there? I hadn’t survived a brush with death to sit on my couch and knit all day.

But every time I pictured myself leaving the building, I heard the echo of gunshots. The sickly metallic scent of blood clogged my nostrils, and I became painfully aware of the fact that had Vuk been a second too slow, or I’d moved an inch too far to the left, I would be dead.

Every corner hid an assassin waiting to finish the job; every rooftop bristled with snipers tracking me in their scopes.

It wasn’t rational, but fear rarely was.

I bit my lip. Vuk was giving me space like I’d asked him to, and my incredulity over his story was starting to fade. Most people would flee from him considering he used to, you know, concoct poisons for an organization of professional killers.

I saw things differently. Like me, he’d been caught in a situation with no other way out. He hadn’t taken pleasure in what he did. It was an act of loyalty and survival, not malice.

Did I think he always kept to the right side of the law? No. I didn’t know what he’d done to Wentworth, but I bet it wouldn’t please the courts. He didn’t kill him though, and the law wasn’t always right either. Look at how many innocents had been jailed, or how many violent offenders had walked free.

Vuk’s morals blurred the lines between black and white, but they always bent toward justice.

Either that, or you’re twisting yourself into knots trying to justify his actions because you like him, and he saved your life.

Fine. So what if I was? That didn’t make my justifications any less true.

I closed my eyes, remembering the solid strength of his body covering mine. He’d literally thrown himself in front of a bullet for me.

I would always be grateful to him for that, but a chill slipped beneath my skin at the thought of Vuk getting hurt. He was smart, powerful, and capable, but he wasn’t invincible. He was flesh and blood like the rest of us, and he could’ve died saving me.

The chill sank deeper, frosting my bones and lungs.

During the shootout, I’d been the proverbial damsel in distress. I never wanted to feel that helpless again. I wanted to go outside and protect myself if I needed to.

The kernels of a plan formed in my head. Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my coat, put on my favorite pair of heels, and left my house for the first time in two days.