Twisted Lies (Twisted 4)

What if Delamonte terminated my contract? Were they allowed to do that?

My mind rifled through the contract’s clauses, frantic in its search for one that allowed the brand to dump me if I didn’t perform up to its standards.

Whyhadn’t I looked more closely at the language? I’d been so excited I’d signed after a quick check with Brady to ensure there were no major red flags. But what if—

“Stella, darling.” Forced patience strained Ricardo’s voice. “Let’s take a break, shall we? Walk around, drink some water. We’ll reconvene in ten minutes.”

Translation: you have ten minutes to get your shit together.

Low murmurs broke out, and I spotted a frown on Luisa’s face before she turned away.

The rush of tears pressed harder against the dam of my willpower.

Cool, calm, collected. Cool, calm, collected. Cool—

Warm, masculine spice filled my nostrils. A second later, the deep black of Christian’s suit jacket came into view.

He handed me a glass of water. “Drink.”

I did. It cooled some of the sweat inching my spine, but the air was still too hot, the lights too bright. I felt like a bug buzzing around in a fluorescent bulb, trying to escape before I burned to death.

“What are you doing?” I asked when Christian took my empty glass, set it on the nearest table, and returned to stand in front of me. Assessing me, the way he would a prospective investment or unsolved puzzle.

“Reminding you of why you’re here.” His tone was soft but authoritative enough to drown out the nasty taunts crowding my head. Disappointment. Failure. Fraud. “Why are you here, Stella?”

“For a photoshoot.”

I couldn’t summon the energy for a better, less inane answer.

“That’s the what.” Christian grasped my chin and tilted it until my eyes met his. “I’m asking you why. Why, of all the people who could be standing in your spot, are you here?”

“I…” Because I’d spent the past decade cultivating an image that had become a cage as much as it had a lifeline. Because I was deceiving my followers and almost everyone I knew to achieve some stupid, arbitrary measure of success. Because I was desperate to prove I could succeed to people who didn’t even care.

Thickness clogged my throat.

“Because they chose you.” Christian’s cool voice sliced through my muddied thoughts. “Every blogger in the world would kill to be standing where you are, but Delamonte chose you. Not Raya. Not any of the other women at the dinner or in the pages of magazines. This is a multibillion-dollar brand, and they wouldn’t have invested in you if they didn’t think you can do it.”

“But I can’t.” My whisper revealed the heartbreaking truth. I was an imposter, a little girl playing dress up in a grown up’s clothes. “You see how it’s going. I’m bombing.”

“You are not bombing.” The guided precision of his statement struck the shell of uncertainty in my chest. Dented, but not destroyed. “It’s been an hour. One hour. Think about how much time you invested to get to where you are now. How much have you achieved? How many people have you outlasted? You downplay your accomplishments as ordinary when you would hail them as extraordinary on anyone else.”

Christian kept his grasp on my chin as he brushed his thumb over my cheek. He was close enough I could spot the gold flecks in his eyes, like fallen stars swimming in pools of molten amber.

“If you saw yourself the way other people see you,” he said quietly. “You’d never doubt again.”

Curiosity and something infinitely sweeter and more dangerous fluttered to life in my heart. “How do other people see me?”

Christian’s eyes didn’t leave mine.

“Like you’re the most beautiful, most remarkable thing they’ve ever seen.”

The words lit every molecule in my body and dissolved them into a pool of exquisite, unbearable warmth.

We weren’t talking about other people, and we both knew it.

“This is one photoshoot, Butterfly.” Another brush of his thumb, another gallop of my heart. “The first half was practice. The second half is yours. Do you understand?”

It was impossible not to get swept away by Christian’s confidence.

Instead of adding a brick to my worries about not living up to expectations, his faith in me fortified me enough to lock those ugly, taunting voices in my head back in the box where they belonged.

“Yes,” I said, my lungs tight but my breathing easier than it’d been all afternoon.

“Good.” His lips dipped and touched mine in the softest of kisses.

It wasn’t the first time we’d gotten this close, but it felt more effortless.

Less of a kiss, more of a promise.

My nerves settled while everything around me disappeared for one long moment.

Then the moment was gone, and so was he, but the warmth of his presence and the phantom brush of his mouth lingered.

Another flutter disrupted my heartbeat.

Cool, calm, collected.

I steeled my spine and faced Ricardo again with a smile.

“I’m ready.”

If the first half of the shoot was a disaster, the second half was a revelation. Whatever had been blocking me unstuck, and Ricardo’s rapid shutter clicks filled the studio with renewed enthusiasm.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

And we were done.

I hadn’t moved more than a few inches the entire time, yet my heart thundered like I’d just ran the New York Marathon.

“Perfect! You are stunning, darling, despite the, ah, rocky start.” Ricardo winked at me. “You were made for the camera. The final photos are going to be gorgeous!”

“Thank you,” I murmured, but I barely heard the rest of his gushing.