When faced with the firing squad, there was little you could go but close your eyes and get on with it. So, it was no surprise that less than two days after the shoot she'd received a cryptic email from Thea demanding an early morning meeting the following the day.

There'd been no point in responding or asking questions—it hadn't been a request, but a firm command. Be here, or else.

Stepping off the main elevators, that breath seeped out of her in a hissing whine as a cold sweat broke over her skin, and prickling shot through her palms while a chorus of—f*ck, sh!t, f*ck, f*ck—sounded off in her head. Obscuring all other rational thought.

Unlike her first visit to VOGUE's head offices, today the floor was alive with bodies and every set of eyes that whipped in her direction only fueled her nagging anxiety. Moments after stepping into the reception, a runway ready assistant ushered Cait to a boardroom rather than Thea's low-key office from their initial meeting.

Great.

Opening the clear glass door, she stepped inside and the assistant tugged it shut behind her, sealing Cait within her tomb. Alive.

Thea sat on the edge of the conference table, glasses sliding down her nose and an austere expression slashing across her slender face. The air was tinged with smoke and the curling whispers of it hooked around Cait's senses, adding yet another layer of foreboding to this meeting.

"I appreciate you being punctual."

Cait swallowed around the heart lodged at the back of her throat, pressing and beating against the tender point that had her stomach clenching in reflex.

To counter her terrified mood, Cait had dressed in a white-based floral blazer, bright blue slacks and cobalt tie. It was cheerful without being obnoxious and she'd toned down the look with simple accessories and slicked back hair. Sort of the fashion equivalent of tucking her tail between her legs.

At Thea's terse nod, she drew out a seat and slid in, tucking her knees under the table and her hands with them to hide their shaking.

"Goodmo—"

An arm lifted and a finger pointed, the nail blunted and unpainted. "Not another word."

Cait clamped her lips together as Thea rose from her perched at the end of the table, slow and ominous as a thundering tsunami dwarfing the shoreline with its towering shadow.

Blonde hair, messy and tousled, framed a long and very disapproving face tucked behind black framed glasses. Dressed in a baggy off the shoulder t-shirt, braless—considering Thea wasn't developed beyond far beyond early puberty—and half-tucked into the waist of slouching and scuffed leather pants, she shouldn't have been so terrifying. Or intimidating.

But Cait shrank back into her seat, her spine wedging against firm leather. Drawing to her full six-three, Thea's hands flexed at her side, fingers clenching and unclenching. Either in reflex for another cigarette or with a burning desire to reach across the table and circle around Cait's throat.

"We have a serious problem." Those words hung between them, sharp with reproach and sat there. Growing bigger. Louder in the empty space until Cait could hardly breath. It required every ounce of restraint she had to keep those tightly pressed lips firmly together.

"Two days ago," Thea continued after several bracing pauses, "we received an email from the press. Images of you out at some club with Iona. Running rails."

That chorus of f*ck, sh!t, f*ck, f*ck ratcheted up to chipmunk like speed.

"Images that we managed to squash immediately. But the cost—the damages..." Thea shook her head, almost weary. "The Board of Directors are naturally aware of this mess—and I can't begin to tell you the hassle this caused us with securing approval to payout the overblown sum of money just to save the campaign you almost crippled."

"I didn't...I never, Thea—she was the one doing the drugs. I didn't give them to her, encourage her. And when she persisted, I brought her back to the hotel."

Blazing eyes narrowed. "The fact that you were there and that you partied with Iona is a massive strike against you, period. Even if I believed you didn't have any part to play in giving Iona the drugs—as she so claims, might I add, my question is simply this: why did you fail to notify Evan of what happened that same night?"

Galled, Cait's mouth tumbled open with a gasp as Thea's words lanced her like arrows fired at close range. She'd known Iona had been pissed about being dragged back to the hotel—but to accuse her of this was beyond malicious and vindictive. As for calling Evan...what the hell was she supposed to say to that? Sorry, Thea, I had a little hissy fit after the Board of Directors dinner and took it out on Evan, would only tack on another nail to her already over-hammered coffin.

You should've called Evan, a small voice whispered inside of her. The small voice she often impulsively ignored but was almost always right. If you hadn't have lost your temper at the dinner in the first place—none of this would've happened.

This mess is your fault.

"You're right." Cait smoothed her hands over her lap and lifted her gaze to meet Thea's directly. Honestly. "I have no excuses for any of this."

Those flexing fingers on Thea's left hand twitched but otherwise stopped jerking before she flashed that hand through the air. "I hope you understand the full implications of this fiasco. Iona aside, we still have the issue of Yoren to tackle. Photographers of his calibre don't come cheap, or easy. We lost a sizable deposit when he walked off that set—with every justifiable reason. We violated the terms of agreement. He was promised Iona, and instead we delivered a no-name walk-in off the street. And now we've lost Iona and Yoren." Thea crossed her arms and cocked a hip. "Which means everything we had going for this campaign in terms of name recognition has been obliterated. Added to that, all of our marketing materials will need to be redrafted—the team is going to love you for that, by the way, and secure rights for a new model, a new photographer...you can't just pluck these things out of thin air, Cait. Should come as no surprise when I say that the Board wanted you fired. Gone."

Shoulders hunched, Cait swallowed a hard knot of panic. But before panic gave way to blubbering sobs of defeat, a single word rang back with promise. Wanted. She'd said wanted. Past-tense. As in... "I...I still have the contract?"

"By the skin of your f*cking teeth." Her voice ended on the sharp edge of the consonant which faded into an aggrieved sigh. "Evan stepped in for you and faced the Board. Practically threw himself on the bomb. Shouldered all the blame. All the responsibility."

"He did?"

"Oh, yeah." Thea laughed, a single, dry note. "In a big, big way. Threw his neck on the block and said if they were going to lop off your head for this debacle, then his should be taken as well. Naturally our Board sat up and took notice. His sterling reputation stretches over twenty-three years. You're fortunate to have him in your corner."

"He didn't...he shouldn't have done that."

"Oh yes, he did. It's called accountability, kid. Something you're going to have to learn if you plan to survive in life and in business. On photo shoots, changes have to come from above, and Evan isn't the final word on these projects. There's a hierarchy in place for a reason—to prevent clusterf*cks like this from happening."

"What saved your ass, what saved both of you, is this." Lifting from the edge of the table, Thea reached for a dossier and fanned out a collection of printed images before Cait, much like a detective would with evidence while interrogating a suspect. "According to Evan, I was told I have you to thank for these?"

"Oh my God..." Cait's hands shot to her mouth and, forgetting herself—and her current circumstances—a giggling sob of sheer awe and pride eased out. The unedited image of Eshe, her face smooth and pristine, her expression bold and challenging with so much intensity as tears streamed down her face, filled her eyes—the effect combined with her pose was fragile yet powerful. Sexual yet innocent. This was the frame after the moment when Neils had asked Eshe to slap him. She's hit a block; I'm helping her break through it. And did he ever! "She's gorgeous."

"Yes, she is. You're lucky we took the effort to review the lot, especially after the first few frames." Skimming through the collection, she pulled out another print and set them both in front of Cait and the differences were beyond comprehension.

"You can see in this image, at first she was flat and lifeless," Thea continued, "but here, the transformation that took place...breathtaking. Look at her eyes. There are whole worlds—galaxies—in her eyes. Incredible." Thea angled the photo around and studied it like an art aficionado would a Rembrandt in a museum. All tension, anger and fury bled away into absolute awe and for a moment, a single bracing moment, Cait dared hope.

"Turns out, I think if we can lock in this model and photographer we might actually have something far more beautiful than we'd originally planned. Marketing loves the statement behind it as well. An unknown face captured by an unknown lens is a ballsy move for a campaign of this size—an angle Evan craftily spun in your defense. And lucky for you, I've always been a risk taker. I'm not afraid to swim against the tide. If anything I love it. The fatiguing strain makes it all the more exhilarating when you reach the summit."

Returning the images to the dossier, Thea linked her hands in her lap as she eased against the table. "But I can't use these images. Not yet at least. Not until we get both the model and photographer locked in. Thankfully, we can mitigate the financial hit we endured. We recouped a lot of what was paid out to Iona upfront, leaning heavily on the fact that she was the main subject of the extortion and failed to show up for the shoot which gave us a certain amount of legal credibility. What we'll ultimately pay for these two will be a fraction by comparison, and that caps the silver lining on this very dark cloud." Thea snapped the dossier shut, crossed a thin leg over the other and draped her arm across her thigh.

"But you should know you're walking the razor's edge of career recovery or assignation. One more misstep of the smallest measure and I will see you're professionally crippled for life. Am I making myself unmistakably clear?"

Cait's head jerked in an unsteady nod. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Good." Returning the photographs to the table she straightened, her face alight with the excitement of a challenge. "We need this model. What's her name?"

"Eshe. Eshe Diallo."

"Right." Sliding to her feet, Thea rubbed her hands together as she wound around to the head of the table. "Friend of yours, isn't she?"

"Yes. She was staying with me for the week. Lives in London."

"And you're sure she'll sign on for this entire project? If we can't have her for all of it—then she's a waste of my time and these images are good for nothing but recycling."

"She'll do it." Cait almost leapt out of her seat and fell to her knees. "Her passion has always been this—fashion, modeling. This industry is what cemented us as friends when we were kids."

"She better. Because if she doesn't, there's only one place we're going to go after to recoup our losses, Cait." The bluntly stipulated warning punctured Cait's moment of joy and the loud pop of her bubble almost masked the rest of Thea's words.

"Does she have an agent?"

"Not yet, but she's fielding offers." Or will be. Eshe's face on the cover of Vogue would launch her through the stratosphere. Agents, managers—producers and other magazine editors—would trample one another to get to her first. A model on the rise courting offers sounded better than a no-name without a single headshot in her portfolio.

Interest set in Thea's shoulders, curved her lips and Cait knew she'd pressed all the right buttons. "Anyone we know? Never mind, I'm going to call Tate. She's the best in the industry and your friend can do no better than to work with her. She's stateside right now but we can conference her into the meeting." Thea circled a finger and dropped her chin so chic glasses slid to the end of a blunt nose. "And what does she do—Eshe? Any day job or competitive projects that we need to worry about?"

"She's a student in med school. Neuroscience."

A wry smile twisted Thea's thin, magenta lips as she lifted the receiver. "Not anymore."

#

Guilt and responsibility were hard to swallow. They were awkwardly shaped, jagged and rough, punishing her throat all the way down, but by some small miracle she managed to choke through the worst of it. Her first reaction after her meeting with Thea had been to point the hot, vicious finger of blame in Iona's direction for placing her dreams and hopes onto such a precarious ledge, but it wasn't long for sobering reality to set in: she'd actually done this to herself.

And while the blowback from this would not kill Iona's career, it would certainly taint her for life. The framework was in place for Cait to fix some of it and showcase her talent—she still had the contract, after all—but would she ever have the chance to work with Vogue again? Odds were slim to none. No matter which way she looked at it, Evan was right, there was no way to shield herself from the fallout unless this campaign launched smooth as silk from this point onward.

Nothing, absolutely nothing could go wrong.

Cait turned on her heel and for the third time lifted an unsteady hand, let it hover over the door and, before she lost her nerve yet again, knocked. Three hard raps of knuckles of wood that mimicked the pace of her kicking heart.

She waited in the corridor, facing Evan's door and complete utter silence. Jesus, if this morning had been a challenge, this was tantamount to suicide. She'd argued with herself all the way home, agonized as she stared at her phone before deciding that atonement of this nature required a face to face apology.

And an outfit change.

She was about to knock again when the locks clicked and the door whispered open. The room was dark and Evan's face appeared

"Oh for the love of, Pete," Evan's head lolled back but, thus far, didn't make a move to slam it unceremoniously in her face. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Of the wisps of coffee on his breath, Cait smelled toothpaste and whiskey.

"Can I come in?" His eyes narrowed but the space between him and door widened as he stepped back, allowing her to pass into the condo. The curtains were drawn, blocking out what remained of the late afternoon sun, but a side lamp was on low and the TV offering enough light for her to see the elegantly furnished space and sigh.

Gorgeous. She'd expected no less from him. Charcoal couches, pops of cobalt and azure in furnishings, steel and wood and glass. Framed oil paintings in abstract designs pulled her into the space and made her linger until she'd almost forgot why she'd come.

Evan cleared his throat. "Are you going to get to the point sometime soon?"

Cait popped around, hands working around the knotted belt of her coat. "Right. Sorry. I'm here to apologize."

Groomed brows, sleek and black, popped over his dark brown eyes. "Apologize, yeah?"

"Yeah." Smiling, she unfastened the belt and with a dramatic flourish she'd perfected, shucked off her coat. It puddle at her heeled feet, and she watched as Evan's eyes dropped with it and slowly climbed back up over black stockings, lacy panties and a sexy, sheer little bra. His eyes flashed, but not with desire—with rage.

Muttering a curse, Evan spun and launched his coffee mug at the wall. Ceramic shattered. Coffee rained. And Evan stood, heaving in silence.

"Evan! Wha—?"

"I can't believe you, Cait, I really can't believe you," Evan bellowed, chest heaving and shoulders tense. "Do you have any idea the sh!t I've been up to my neck in the last forty-eight hours? I mean do you? Honestly, picture it." His hand shot up and waved five inches over his head. "Here. Up to here. Still got the taste of it on the back of my f*cking throat. And this—this is what you think constitutes an apology?"

Well, she had, up until a moment ago. Arms crossed to cover herself, Cait flinched. "I thought this...I don't know. What can I say, Evan? Other than I'm sorry? I wanted to make it up to you."

His laugh exploded with a searing edge of disbelief. "Bleeding Christ, you're something else. A right piece of work you are. Spoiled, selfish little brat who can't even manage to sodding apologize and thinks she can swan in here and just—f*ck!"

Cait crossed to him, and though he attempted to jerk out of her reach, she took hold of his face in her hands and blinked back tears she hadn't realized were threatening to spill. "You're right. I am a spoiled brat used to getting her way. But I can admit when I'm wrong and I was wrong, Evan. About everything; you especially." She let that hang there for a moment, watched as he absorbed it all.

Tension worked along his brow with a hint of something deeper than uncertainty and closer to regret. And when he spoke, his voice was soft. Broken. "You know I'm old enough to be your father, right?"

"Is that you're way of trying to put me off?" Cait's hands rolled down to his chest but for once she wasn't teasing or dismissive. She truly wanted to know, and a hard press of worry held at the back of her throat at the thought that he might actually turn her away.

"Truth is I like you, Cait. I care about you. But I'm bloody exhausted by the idea of anymore emotional run around if all you're looking for is another hot one night stand. If that's the case, consider your apology accepted then go find yourself a younger bloke and have at him."

She shook her head, adamant. "No."

Evan sighed, catching her hands before they lifted and fell away. "I'm too old for games."

"Good," Cait whispered, and kissed him. "So am I." 

https://youtu.be/w_x4Y1iYlqE