Sophie’s POV

Even with more than a thousand bucks in my possession, I still feel like a poor cat. I feel like a street beggar.

It wasn’t my finest moment, but it’s better than being a beggar. I had a roof under my head and was on my way for a job interview. But life can’t get any easier right now.

At first, I had looked over my shoulder every other minute, expecting to see him watching me, but three days had come and gone before I could confirm that my plan had worked perfectly. He knew I was no longer there and was following my phone to wherever that lady was going. There’s no doubt in my mind that he has tracked me to where the phone is, but I’m safe here for some time.

I wanted to try out the job on the flyer. I wanted to work for a powerful man so it would be difficult for Antonio to touch me. That would be the last thing he expects me to do.

I don’t have a false sense of my appearance. I understand I’m pretty enough, but I’m certainly not a model, so I can apply for an assistant job or a stylist.

I arrive at the audition and check in just like everyone else. All the women there are already in heels and skimpy outfits, with enormous hairstyles. They are all looking like models.

I’m the only one fully dressed, and ironically, that makes me feel naked. Most of them raise their eyebrows when they look at me, whispering something to their friends. Some even laugh at me like I am an idiot, showing up dressed in a complete outfit.

I had my makeup and hair done by Gwen before she left for work.

I hear whispers that the owner will show up here today, but I don’t care about that. I want to land the job first before I think of my next move.

Numbers are called, and some of the women work the stage like it’s their home. They strut, flip their hair, and hold the gazes of the men sitting behind the table.

It went on for a long time, I eventually grew bored.

They finally call my number. I walk up the stairs and pass the woman before me. She can’t contain her laughter as she prances away in her lingerie.

I ignore her and walk up to the stage, looking at the men sitting at the table. They’re all dressed in suits, their eyes trailing over my body, taking in every feature with experienced gazes.

The one in the middle turns to the little microphone, leaning to speak to me. “Turn around and walk,” he ordered.

I frown – I don’t come to audition for a modeling job. I came for a remote job. This isn’t necessary.

I keep my hands by my sides, not bothering to come up with a fake smile to impress them. I just need my manners to land this job.

“I am not here to model,” I say as politely as I can.

The man in the middle has blond hair and brown eyes, a pen held in his fingers. He looks at me with his brown eyes, taking in every inch of my body while twirling the pen in his fingers.

I sigh when he regards me with a cool look like he’s getting impatient. I sigh again when I realize that I have no choice but to prance around like those other girls.

“We only have the modeling job open,” he says firmly.

I nod. I don’t want to argue with any of them. They look like they make people’s dreams come true, just by sitting here and criticizing everyone on stage.

I wanted to comply, but something sparked in me. “I am not the modeling type,” I say instead.

I don’t smile or smolder with my sexuality. It’s just a plain me, and I know it. Judging by the way they look at me, they know it too.

“We don’t know that for sure, you haven’t even done the audition,” one of them says.

His eyes are silently telling me to hurry up and get out of there.

I swallow my pride and do as they ask. I watched the women do this, so I knew exactly what to do. I know how to sway my hips while working and pivoting just like they did. I do that, and deep down I feel like an idiot.

I walk to the end of the makeshift runway, then turn and walk back with my back straight. I don’t smile or hold a smothering gaze – I just can’t do it.

The same man in the middle sets his pen on the clipboard. “Do you have any scars on your body?” he asks.

I shake my head, “No.”

“Blemishes, acne, and the rest?” he continues.

“None,” I answer.

I grit my teeth - this is becoming way more hectic than I anticipated.

A smile spreads on his lips, “Satisfying, here are your instructions.” He drops a piece of paper on the table.

“Instructions?” I slowly inch forward, my eyes on the small piece of paper he placed on the table.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means you have been selected, show this to the person guarding the door or you won’t be able to get in,” he instructs.

I nod my head. Wait a minute…

“Does this mean you are considering me?” I ask as my eyes scan the information written on the piece of paper.

“Yes, you have something unique,” he says, waving a hand for me to get off the stage.

I stare at the paper again, unable to believe what has just happened. I don’t know how I landed a job like this.

He dismisses me with a look. I keep the invitation tucked into my jeans pocket, and my heart is beating way too fast.

The last thing I want to do is to become a model. I don’t have the right attitude and have never been interested in this lifestyle, but I have danger looming all over me, and I need to escape it, one way or the other.

I would rather run than surrender.