“I don’t know,” he said. “You haven’t walked the runway yet.”
“I don’t think my ability to walk is the deciding factor here.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Look, I’m desperate for work. I just moved here, and I’ve got twenty euros in my pocket. I can do anything.”
“Then walk the runway.” He flicked his wrist and indicated to the stage with his pen. “Or leave.” He challenged me with his dark look, telling me his patience had been officially drained. The other two men watched me in silence, hardly blinking.
I swallowed my pride and did as they asked. I’d seen two hundred and twenty-seven women walk that runway all afternoon, so I knew exactly what to do. I knew how to hold my shoulders, how to shake my hips, and how to pivot. I felt like an idiot for doing it dressed that way, but I was desperate.
And desperate people did desperate things.
I walked to one point on the stage and then turned back, walking with a straight back and tense posture. I didn’t smile or wear a smoldering expression. That was where I drew the line.
The man in the middle set his pen on his clipboard. “Scars?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have scars?”
“No.”
“Lift up your shirt.”
My eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I need to see your skin,” he said. “Blemishes, acne, etc.”
“Just take my word for it.”
He made notes on a piece of paper then snapped his fingers at me.
I placed my hands on my hips, regarding him with an ice-cold expression. Something told me that snap was specifically for me—and I didn’t care for it. “Do I look like a dog to you?”
“Woof.” An asshole smile spread on his lips. “Get your ass over here and take this. It has your instructions.”
“My instructions?” I slowly inched forward, my eyes on the small piece of paper he held in his hand. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re going to the next stage.” He placed the paper in my hand. “Show this to the men at the door. Otherwise, you won’t get in.”
“Whoa, hold on.” My eyes scanned the information written down. It had an address as well as a time. “You’re seriously considering me?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” He still wore that asshole smile.
“Don’t call me that.” Anytime I heard that name, I felt the terror constrict my throat. Knuckles was the only man to ever call me that, so I’d developed a deep aversion to the horrific nickname. No man would ever call me that for the rest of my life. “And are you insane? Do you see all the gorgeous women out there?”
“You don’t think you’re gorgeous?” He cocked an eyebrow. “It doesn’t matter what you wear. Real beauty can’t be hidden. Now get off the stage. We have a lot of women to see.”
I stared at the paper again, unable to believe what had just happened. I didn’t know how much models got paid, but it was definitely enough to get an apartment and have a hot shower every day. It could be enough for me to start over. “When I said I wanted a different position, I wasn’t lying. Is there really nothing else?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re the dumbest woman who’s ever graced this stage. You just won the lottery, but you’re too stupid to realize it. You’d rather sew in a factory than be a Barsetti model? No, you’re the one who’s insane.” He leaned forward and stared up at me, his eyes burning like a raging forest fire. “Are you gonna take it or not? We’re supposed to hand out ten invitations. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it someone who actually gives a damn.” He reached his hand out to snatch it from my grip.
My hand immediately formed a fist around the paper, concealing it within my palm.
He leaned back and smiled. “Good…maybe you aren’t that stupid.”
“You’re only choosing ten women?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m one of the ten?” There were thousands of women lined up in the street, all dressed in their best. They were exotic, beautiful, and eager. I’d shown up hoping for a job mopping the floor or sewing buttons and lace, but I was given something they’d all kill for.
“Yes.” He nodded to the stairs. “Now go before I change my mind.”
I kept the invitation tucked into my palm, feeling my pulse pound around my grip. It was a sunny day in Milan, and the sun was beating on the back of my neck. I felt the sweat collect underneath my breasts in my top. But those physical nuisances paled in comparison to the choice I had before me.
The last thing I ever wanted to be was a model. I didn’t judge women who took off their clothes to make a living, but I’d never been interested in the lifestyle. I didn’t have the right attitude, and I was far too stubborn to follow directions. Knuckles threatened to torture me worse if I ran, but I did it anyway. Anyone would have told me it was the dumbest mistake of my life, but I didn’t care.