'After': First Sight

  Abigail Hunter

  Kevana Publishing House

  Copyright © 2024 Abigail Hunter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. If it is discovered that you have violated this agreement, Abigail Hunter reserves all legal rights to it, including pursuing legal action for breach of contract which may claim damages including, but not limited to, lost profits caused by the violative distribution.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Abigail Hunter has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  Acknowledgements

  Beta Readers

  Meg Anderson, Jen Bernacki, Jim Freihofer, Jen Hoffman, Destiny Imperati, Wren Vale

  Cover Photo

  Courtesy of Aykut Bingül via pexels.com

  Publisher Logo

  Courtesy of macrovector via freepik.com

  For KTB

  Forever in my heart.

  Contents

  1. Thorn

  Five Months Later

  2. Luca

  3. Thorn

  4. Luca

  5. Thorn

  Author's Note

  Other Works

  About The Author

  Further Acknowledgements

  Thorn

  Icheck my watch, just to make sure I’m not wrong.

  But no, it’s 12:43PM.

  The agent who called me said he would meet me at 12:00PM, though it’s apparent he’s not coming.

  The woman behind the reception desk keeps shooting me reassuring smiles, which was one of the reasons I’m staying.

  And they have fish.

  The lobby is stark, at least by my standards. Everything is a confusing mix of black and white, alternating stripes on the walls, mismatched tiles under my feet, the three sofas; black with white pillows, not to mention the metal coffee table supporting a large white vase with black roses. I’m not sure if the receptionist wears black every day, but it helps complete the set.

  The only parts of the lobby that aren’t black are the bright full-sized portraits of GodGiven Talents’ most famous models hanging on the walls, and a single orange clownfish amongst the other five black and whites in the large tank by the French windows that look onto the street.

  Perched on the sofa, I clutch the A4 hardback folder resting on my knees. It’s supposed to be my portfolio but, apart from extensive research, I have nothing to speak of.

  Compared to the sleek models smirking down on me from above, I’m tiny. Each one is gorgeous, moulded to perfection, while everything about me is simply wide. Forehead, cheeks, neck, shoulders; all the way down to my feet. I’ve seen male models with the same build, same tan skin, same combination of brown hair and brown eyes, and it lets me dream, at least.

  I open the folder and glance at the photo on top. I used the last of my savings to pay for professional photos of myself in various polished poses against a black background. I really did try my best, but with another glance at the pictures of beauty on the walls, it certainly feels like it’s not enough.

  Each time the lobby doors slide open, my head whips from the fish tank to see if it’s the man who had phoned me last week. I’ve already found photos of him on their website, but now I wonder if he’s even in the building.

  I emailed every modelling agency I could find in London. Even the largest ones such as GodGiven Talent. Considering my lack of experience, I never expected a response.

  I’m following the lazy path of the orange clownfish when the glass door beside it opens and a portly man walks through. His black suit matches the decor, as does the white dress of the woman behind him.

  I recognise him instantly. Kaito, one of the most influential men on the London fashion scene, and the owner of GodGiven Talent. His Greek heritage grants him a tall physique, a sharp face, and a handsome olive tinge of his skin that sets him apart from the jarring style of the room. With his phone fastened to his ear and his gaze fixed on the elevator doors directly ahead of him, he has no idea I’m here.

  My blood picks up as I shift in my seat. Heart pounding, hands tight, I track his movements as he strides past me. I know I need to do something. I can't miss this opportunity.

  But the bridge between my thoughts and my actions is so wide that I’m glued to the sofa. The world grows tight, my feet plastered to the floor, toes curling in the Maganni's I spent three months saving for.

  I dip my chin, eyes on the floor, biting the inside of my lip as the first tremors of cool shame rattle through my body. I had enough confidence to enter the building, but I’m at my limit already. All I can do is wait for the heavy footsteps bouncing off the walls of the shining lobby to fade.

  I had been planning this for over a year, steadily working to reach a place where I could actually make something of myself, but it's no use. It never is.

  “You.” I flinch as a deep voice covers me, cutting through my dark spiral as a pair of black buffed shoes come into view. “What are you doing here?”

  My gaze snaps up, meeting Kaito’s hard glare, and I instantly jerk my head back. I can't help it. His presence is so intense it’s as if I'm already crumbling under him.

  He tosses his phone to the woman behind him who catches it with ease, slipping it into her white leather bag, neither of them taking their attention off of me.

  I blink rapidly, trying to gather myself and say something at least mildly polite. But I barely make a sound. I haven’t found a way to override the cloying fear that suffocates me whenever something unexpected occurs.

  Kaito is staring at me, waiting, and too many seconds have gone by. I need to respond before he realises how strange I am.

  “Twelve o’clock,” I croak, tongue dry, the pressure of the moment stealing my voice, like it does every time someone focuses on me. It's a terrible trait for a model to even begin with.

  “Excuse me?” His thick black brows rise, the two words beating into me like a drum.

  I clear my throat, but it's too much already. They are rearing over me like sentinels, trapping me on the sofa from both sides.

  I force my breath down to my stomach, stemming my need to heave my chest and clear the ringing building in my ears.

  Lifting a trembling hand, I hold my portfolio up to him. “Appointment,” I say with more dignity. Clasping my lips, I swallow my disappointment at my lack of clarity.

  “Hmph,” Kaito grunts as he swipes the folder, opening it up. I hope he misses the marks I've left on the spine from my sweaty palms.

  I clench my fists. The dull pain of my manicured nails helps bring me back into the room as the air throbs around me. Whatever Kaito says next could tip the balance of my life.

  I hate being flung into a situation where I have no choice but to succumb to the outcome. Rash decisions are one thing, but willingly giving someone else power over me is daunting.

  If the consequences are unknown, I have no way of preparing a response. But I need this. If I’m ever going to find my mum, I have to act.

  Kaito’s expression doesn’t change as he turns the two pages of my resume and the five pictures I included in my portfolio. The glossy prints catch the bright midday light shining in from beyond the fish tank, glinting as he glares at them.

  “Thorn?” He says slowly, glancing up from the folder briefly. I give him a quick nod.

  “Okay, fine.” Kaito snaps it closed and I try not to jump again as he returns it with a flourish. He takes a backward step with a single click of his shoe and I straighten myself, shifting my chest in the way I practiced, making myself appear relaxed, even though it’s too late.

  “Stand up,” he barks. “I want a proper look at you.”

  Swallowing another shaking breath, I very carefully place the folder on the sofa, focusing on my body's movements rather than the way he examines me with a hum.

  I make sure I hold my form; straight spine, chin flat, shoulders loose, readying myself.. GodGiven Talent has close ties with Yves Saint Laurent, so I specifically chose one of their Autum wear adverts to copy. Same shirt, jacket and trousers, and I spent hours grooming my hair to imitate the model. I’ve been exercising, eating, sleeping and studying for weeks, all with the intention of attending this interview, just not with Kaito.

  “Turn,” he says, twirling his finger, and I hastily bring my arms into the same pose as the advert. Hands on my hips, elbows

out, twisting slowly on one foot as I put myself on display. I just hope I don’t look as stiff as I feel.

  Thankfully, the fish are still floating in their bliss, and give me the courage to hold on tight.

  Kaito tuts as I return to my original position, meeting him head on, though my stomach rolls with the effort. Nausea creeps up my chest, but I have to hide it, the numb tension resulting in an even blanker stare than before. Most of the models I’ve studied aim to be expressionless, which is my main expertise.

  Kaito turns to the woman in the white dress. “Jessica, push my one o’clock to two and show Thorn up to my office.”

  “Of course,” she replies with a calm smile. She shifts to make room for Kaito, who turns and walks away with more echoing clicks. My knees nearly buckle as he goes, in awe that someone like him actually noticed me.

  I'm sure this is something positive, but I don't want to get ahead of myself. Expectations only lead to disappointment. And yet, I haven’t been able to stop myself from hoping since they first responded to my application.

  “If you’ll follow me,” Jessica says kindly, tilting her head, her professional smile still in place.

  I do as she asks, clutching the folder to my chest as Kaito glides towards the reception desk, his hips swaying as if he was on a catwalk again. He was an international superstar before he opened the agency, and his poise shows it all.

  I have no time to prepare for this. I expected an interview with a low-ranking manager. The process may be exactly the same, but I haven't researched Kaito thoroughly enough to predict any outcomes.

  Worrying my bottom lip, I follow Jessica’s path towards the elevators on the far right of the room, praying she won't attempt any small talk. I throw a last glance to the clownfish as the elevator doors slide open, hoping they will give me strength and serenity in the hour to come.

  ***

  “Right, so, obviously, if you sign this contract, you work solely for us. You train with us, you do the shoots we want, you advertise us, you represent us. That clear?” Kaito’s gaze beats into me, and I simply return it. I can’t pick another option from the swarm of thoughts that have gathered in my mind since I left the lobby.

  I force my palms against my thighs, caging myself as I nod, sure he can’t see them trembling. Terror and elation clatter around inside me like the mismatch of black-and-white tiles in the lobby.

  “Good. Though I have to ask first though, what’s your aim here? I mean, you’ve definitely got the looks, but I don’t take on guys who aren’t determined. So, what’s the plan?”

  I swallow, clearing my throat for the eighth time in five minutes. He hasn't drawn attention to it, though it can't have escaped him. My lungs are too tight to form the words I need, but I've made it this far. I can do this.

  ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’ was one of the key questions on all the ‘common job interview questions’ web pages. I already knew the answer.

  I want to become a model who is instantly recognisable for my dedication and commitment to every job I am given. I want to emulate the true beauty of modelling in the best way I can, to continue the tradition of representing the human body as art, and to be a distinguished platform for designers to present their work with pride.

  If I was alone in front of the tall mirror in my bedroom, there would be no hesitation. I’ve practiced it a hundred times to make sure I say each word perfectly.

  But I’m in a strange room with a stranger in a situation I didn't expect myself to be in. So, instead of answering him properly, my already quick breaths thicken and I clench my jaw, trying to find the words.

  I want to find my mum too much to stop now. It’s been twenty years, and I have no idea where she is or if she’s even alive. This is the most progress I’ve made in years.

  I can’t spoil this, even though I want to cower. Kaito pulls his brows together as if he’s annoyed at me, which only makes the cloying sensation in my chest even heavier.

  “I want to be the best,” I choke out. My chair legs screech on the wooden floor as I jump back at his narrow stare. A light heat flushes from my chest to my cheeks at the hard press of his lips.

  Tense seconds pass, dripping away with the steady tick of the clock, before Kaito’s shoulders relax. “Perfect,” he says, “because I know exactly what we’re going to do with you. I mean, you’ve got fuck all going for you based on your portfolio, but we can sort that out later. I want to get you into circulation as quick as we can. I’ve got a new diet pill ad we can throw you in to start. There’s no way I’m wasting a face and body like yours.”

  He assesses me before planting his palms on his desk and rising, leaning towards me. “Are you ready to get to work?” he says. The bottom of his wide stomach moulds around the hard edge of his desk as he reaches out a hand to shake.

  I rise with him, my fingers twitching harshly before I extend my own. I haven’t been able to practice this. Attempting a handshake by yourself is too difficult. My dad was the only person I would have asked to help me, and he wants nothing to do with Mum. I’m always worried I’ll slip up if I lie to him.

  Kaito’s hand scratches mine like a rough, worn stone, and his handshake is so strong and confident that it vibrates up to my neck. He releases me and leans back, giving me a solid smile as I manage to push out yet another nod in reply.

  “Fantastic,” he says, pressing a thumb to his chin as he gives me a final once over. I stand tall, my head held high at what I’ve achieved, though I’m not actually sure if I did anything. It feels as if he’s done all the work.

  Kaito, owner of one of the most prominent modelling agencies in London, folds his arms, giving me a hum of approval. “Well, Thorn. Welcome to Godgiven Talent.”

  Luca

  Fuck, I hurt.

  And not even the good ol’ outside hurt I brought on myself by drinking, snorting, or fucking whatever I could get my hands on.

  No, because I’m a fucking idiot and gave monogamy a try.

  I lasted six months, six bloody months and then found him in bed last night with some cheap-ass no-name boy band member. And all he could say was ‘sorry’. He didn’t even fucking try to get me to forgive him.

  That’s what I’m worth now.

  I press my palm against my mouth as I push open the door to the studio. The make-up artist had already had her way with me, but it’s better fucking up my lips than ruining my mascara by crying.

  That’s the last time I’m giving my heart to anyone. No more love, or gooey warm shit, or even fucking feelings. I’m going to be pure ice from now on. It doesn’t matter if the shoot’s theme is tropical jungle. I’m frozen, inside and out.

  Which sounds cool to say, but it didn’t mean shit when Blade walks up to me, puts his hand on my elbow and gently asks “How are you?” with that soft look of concern that always gets me.

  He knows that’s the worst thing he can ask.

  I’m pretty sure I look permanently startled. I couldn’t get rid of the expression this morning.

  It doesn't matter how much I've stuffed down my pure shock and aching disappointment into the big, empty hole inside me that can only be filled with a stranger's cock or actual love (which is never going to be an option now). Blade is just so fucking open that I want to dump all my shit onto him already.

  I scowl rather than letting him pull me into the hug he so obviously wants. This was the problem with having a masseuse as a best friend. All touchy-feely, and far too fucking understanding. No wonder half the world is in love with him.

  He’s absolutely gorgeous, and that’s coming from me. Blonde hair like wheat on a summer’s day, porcelain skin, the most crystal clear green eyes you’ll ever see. There’s always been a rumour we’re brothers. He has a natural way about him that’s all softness and light whereas I’m just straight fucked up; there’s nothing to compare.

  People can’t help relaxing in his presence, and that ease translates into the final shots, making him the perfect model for any big corporation that wants to seem open, friendly and innocent. And that was before he got into acting.

 

1 2 3 4