Born To Be More

Throwing out the Garbage

Raine

“Lacy, will you hurry the f**k up?” God, this girl drives me insane. She’s my best friend—has been forever—but damn, she’s late for everything. I don’t even know why I let her drop me off in town for this appointment. City parking is a nightmare, and we both have work to get through today.

Lacy’s an assistant at a big law firm. Don’t ask me how she keeps that job with the way she sleeps her way through half the office. Apparently, she’s invaluable. Her words, not mine.

Me? I’m a model. Well… not on purpose. I still don’t even see myself as the “typical” model. I was discovered while organizing a fashion show for a children’s charity as part of my Master’s in Community Development and Social Services. I just finished the degree—and now, it’s either make this modelling gig work or get a real job. At least that’s what my cousin Jules keeps telling me.

Jules—yeah, she’s the biggest pain in my ass and not my biggest fan. But she raised me after my parents died when I was eleven. Only eight years older than me, she gave up a lot to make sure I stayed in school and didn’t go completely off the rails. Luckily, my parents had insurance to cover the bills and set up an inheritance I can access when I turn twenty-four. Not that I know much about it yet—Jules keeps that locked up tighter than a courtroom file.

#

“Okay, Lacy, I’m going without you, b***h,” I call out, knowing it'll light a fire under her ass. Sure enough, I hear her scrambling down the hallway.

“f**k, Rainey, I’m coming!” she yells, slamming her bedroom door open with a bang. She’s got one glittery heel on and the other swinging from her fingers like it’s a fashion statement. “It’s Saturday, for f**k’s sake. Cut me some slack. I only got home at 4 a.m. after enjoying a delicious snack.”

I roll my eyes. That’s code for: she got laid. “You’re a dirty b***h,” I mutter, grabbing my bag. “Come on. I have plans.”

She sighs dramatically, mumbling something about how I need to get laid too.

Lacy loves to play. She’s the definition of bold—busty, blonde, tiny waist, about 5’7", and fully aware of the effect she has on men. She dresses to flaunt what she’s got, and every head turns when she walks into a room.

Me? I’m 5’9", long dark brown hair, slim build, boobs that exist but don’t require their own postcode, and dark blue eyes that sometimes go pale—ever since my parents died. The agency says I have a “unique, captivating look.” Whatever that means. I just nod and go with it.

Just as we’re finally about to walk out the door, a knock stops me dead in my tracks. You’ve got to be kidding me—I am never going to make it on time.

I yank the door open, annoyed. Standing there is a scrawny teenage boy juggling a clipboard and a sad-looking bunch of flowers.

“Uh… Apartment 105? Raine Marshall?” he asks, already glancing at his next delivery.

“That’s me,” I say, eyeing the flowers suspiciously.

“Cool. Please sign here.”

I scribble something that looks vaguely like a signature, muttering under my breath. Lacy comes up behind me, her chin landing on my shoulder like dead weight.

“They look… um… cheap,” she says, squinting. “Definitely not your type, Nana.” Then she bursts out laughing.

I pull out the card. I already know what it says. Ugh. Peter.

Of course.

Peter, the cheating asshole with a pretty face and even prettier… well, let’s say he was decent in the junk department. We only dated for a couple months. He looked good on paper—and in bed—but emotionally, he was like a wet dishcloth. And then I had the genius idea to drop off dinner at his office one night.

Surprise! There he was, banging his secretary like it was a damn porno scene—right there on his leather couch.

I wasn’t even heartbroken. More like... grossed out.

Since then, he’s been sending me apology flowers that look like they came from a retirement home. Pansies. Carnations. s**t that screams, “Sorry for missing Bingo night, Doris.”

Lacy raises an eyebrow. “So, d**k muffin strikes again?”

“Yep. Throw them out for me?”

“With pleasure.”

Cackling, she yanks the bouquet out of my hands and launches them down the garbage chute like she’s taking out the trash—because, technically, she is.

“You’re going to grow a whole garden down there soon, girl,” she says, still laughing as the chute slams shut.

“Let’s just go,” I sigh, pulling the door shut behind me. I haven’t told Lacy, but Peter’s been ramping up his messages lately. Apparently, I left him at some “critical time” in his life—blah blah bullshit. I just want him to disappear.

When we finally pull up outside the agency, I grab my bag and slam the door behind me. “See you in a couple hours?” I ask.

“Abso-fucken-lutely,” Lacy shouts out the window. “It’s margarita night at Spins, b***h!” And just like that, she peels off into traffic.

I take a breath. This building always makes me nervous. I’m still new to the whole modelling thing and not sure I’m any good at it. Honestly? Most days I feel like an imposter with good bone structure.

I walk through the glass doors and approach the front desk. “Hi, Trudy. I’ve got an appointment with Lance and Maureen.”

Trudy’s eyes go wide. “OMG, Raine! You’re late! The Chic people are already here—with their entire team. They want to meet you!” s**t.

She lowers her voice, eyes darting toward the hallway. “Lance has been pacing like a psycho. You know how he gets.”

Ugh. Yes, I know exactly how he gets. Lance has the warmth of a wet eel and the patience of a sociopath. He never likes what I’m wearing, and his idea of constructive criticism is a creepy once-over and a passive-aggressive sneer.

“I’m not late,” I argue.

Trudy shrugs. “You are… by his standards.”

I feel the air shift behind me. s**t. Footsteps.

“Sir, I was just paging you,” Trudy says quickly.

“No need,” Lance cuts in, his tone soaked in disdain. “I can see Miss Marshall is finally here.”

His eyes sweep over me like I’m merchandise on a shelf. My skin crawls.

“You’re late,” he says sharply. “Let’s go.” His hand lands on my shoulder, firm, guiding, unwelcome.

“And you could’ve worn something a little more professional, no?”

I glance down at myself—black slim-fit pants, a pink cami, a cute leather jacket, and pumps. I look polished, not like some overworked barista.

Seriously, this man would criticize an angel for not having wings.

He keeps his hand on me as he leads me down the hall, fingers grazing my neck as he slips off my jacket. I stiffen. It’s not warm in here—everyone else still has theirs on—but he acts like I’m at a damn coat check. Gross.

He ushers me into the conference room, one hand still on my back like he’s parading me around. The room is massive—sleek and sterile, with a long conference table stretching toward a lineup of sharply dressed men.

“Gentlemen, this is Raine Marshall,” Lance announces like he's unveiling a new car.

I nod politely. “Good morning.”

Lance guides me toward a chair, brushing way too close for someone who isn’t invited into my personal bubble. “Would you like me to take your jacket?” he asks, already sliding it off my shoulders with a hand that lingers too long near my neck.

I fight the urge to swat him away.

A man seated at the far end of the table clears his throat. “Lance, let’s begin. We don’t have all day.”

“Yes, of course, of course,” Lance stammers, straightening like he’s been caught stealing cookies.

He launches into what I guess is supposed to be my glowing profile. He lists my stats like I’m being auctioned off—height, weight, “proportions,” as he puts it. t**s. Ass. Thighs. I want to crawl out of my skin. One of the men looks visibly uncomfortable, and I’m guessing it’s not because of the room temperature.

Eventually, Lance gets to my availability and contract terms—finally.

The man at the end of the table, the one with the calm authority and very expensive-looking watch, turns his focus to me directly. I peg him immediately: this is the boss. Mr. Parkes.

“Raine,” he says, ignoring Lance’s attempted interruptions, “this contract would require you to spend a significant amount of time in New York. Would that work with any commitments you may have here?”

Before I can even respond, Lance jumps in. “Of course it’s fine. Isn’t it, Raine?”

I don’t look at him. “That depends,” I say, keeping my eyes on Mr. Parkes. “How long would I be required in New York? Is accommodation provided? And what kind of campaigns or work would I be booked for?”

Lance tries to jump in again, but Mr. Parkes simply raises a hand without looking at him—just a small motion that somehow shuts him down completely.

He turns back to me. “Raine, have you been briefed on this contract?” I hesitate. Is this a trap?

Mr. Parkes softens, his voice steady. “It’s okay. Just answer honestly.”

“No, sir.” His jaw ticks slightly. “Did you know you were meeting with us today?”

“No, sir,” I answer again, feeling the energy shift in the room.

Some of the men exchange glances, murmuring quietly while jotting notes.

Mr. Parkes straightens. “We’ll pause here. Raine, I want you to read the contract before we continue. Lance, I assume you’ve already provided her with a copy?”

Lance is turning a spectacular shade of red. “Of course, of course! Maureen—didn’t I ask you to send that out?” He rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath.

Mr. Parkes doesn’t even acknowledge the excuse. “Let’s reconvene at 8 a.m. tomorrow. We fly out at eleven.”

Everyone stands. Lance swoops in again, hand heading for my back like a magnet.

Before he can touch me, one of Mr. Parkes’ men steps in to help me with my jacket, smooth and effortless. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath until I finally exhale.

As the group exits, I turn toward the elevator—freedom just a few steps away.

“Miss Marshall, a word before you go?” Damn it.

I force a smile and turn back. “Sure, Lance.”

He watches the Chic team disappear down the elevator. “This is a very important opportunity—for me. I mean, for you. Your future depends on this. Just remember who discovered you, okay?”

I blink. Did this man really just treat me like a lost dog he rescued?

“Of course, Lance,” I say sweetly. “If you can send me the contract tonight, I’ll review it and be super prepared for tomorrow.”

He grins, oblivious. “Yes. Great. Just great.”

By the time I get home, I’m ready to exorcise Lance’s lingering creep vibes with tequila.

I pull on my favourite leather pants—the ones that hug in all the right places—pair them with an off-the-shoulder white top, and throw on my party heels. I order the Uber and shout down the hallway, “Let’s gooooo!”

Lacy comes bouncing out like she’s already halfway drunk. “Yasss, b***h! Tonight’s the night!”

God, I needed this. A night out. Loud music. Strong drinks. Zero stress. Maybe New York is exactly what I need. I love New Zealand—it’s home, it’s familiar—but lately it’s felt too small, too safe. I want to see the world, not just model for it.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila—floor?

Not quite. More like three tequilas and suddenly Lacy’s dancing on the bar, grinding her way toward some tall blond guy with surfer hair and bedroom eyes. That’ll be her ride home, no doubt.

I’m on margarita number... I’ve lost count. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a nice buzz, but not so much that I’ll be hungover for tomorrow’s meeting. I promised myself I’d keep it classy.

Guys have been coming up to me all night, throwing out their best lines. I smile politely, but I’m not biting. Not tonight. Not from a bar guy. Not when Peter’s still buzzing around like a drunk fly and Lance is out here playing puppet master with my career.

Lacy gives me the “I’m outta here” wave, already locked onto Blondie. I giggle into my drink. Predictable, but iconic.

I get home, kick off my heels, and collapse on the couch. Just as I’m about to pass out, my phone dings.

[Chic Proposal with Shine Model Agency]

Evening Raine,

Please see attached the proposed contract between Chic and Shine Model Agency for your consideration.

Do not hesitate to reach out with any questions.

Regards,

Matt Parkes

Matt Parkes. The Mr. Parkes.

Shit just got real.

I fire up my laptop, log into my emails, and open the attachment.

And then I freeze. Holy. s**t.

Travel expenses covered. First-class flights. Full accommodation in New York for two years. Flexibility to take outside work if it doesn’t conflict with Chic clients. A clothing allowance. And the salary? Oh my god. That’s a lot of zeros.

I blink a few times. Maybe it’s the tequila. Nope. Still there. This isn’t a contract—it’s a golden ticket. And I wasn’t even briefed about it.

I reread every page, absorbing the details like a sponge. I don’t want to be caught off guard tomorrow—not again.

I set my alarm, shut the laptop, and crawl into bed. For the first time in a long time, I feel it bubbling under the surface—hope. Like something big is coming.

My alarm goes off and I shoot out of bed like I’ve been launched.

Today’s the day.

I shower, change, then change again. I stare at my closet like it’s mocking me. “Get it together,” I mutter, finally settling on something professional-but-don’t-touch-me: high-waisted black trousers, a tucked-in satin blouse, and flats. No jacket. No excuse for Lance to put his hands on me.

As I’m sipping coffee, another email pops up. [Shine Model Agency Proposal]

Sent at 6:00 a.m.

Weird timing.

I open it—and my stomach drops.

It looks similar to the Chic contract… at first. But then I see the numbers.

Shine’s taking 60% of my income. Sixty. Percent.

And get this: they’re using it to “cover accommodation and support costs.” No travel benefits, no clothing allowance, and definitely no freedom to take outside work.

What the actual hell?

I double-check the sender. Yep. Straight from Shine.

I’m running out of time. I grab my bag and bolt.

At the agency, Trudy gives me a tight smile and waves me through. I’m ushered back into the same conference room, and sure enough—Lance is waiting.

No jacket today, so no creepy strip-down routine. Still, he hovers way too close as he pulls out my chair. I sit stiffly, hyperaware of the space between us.

A contract is already laid out in front of me.

It’s the Shine one.

Mr. Parkes and his team arrive a few moments later. He doesn’t sit. He just studies me, hands clasped behind his back.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Morning,” I answer, trying to sound confident—even though I feel like I’ve walked into a courtroom with no lawyer.

Mr. Parkes nods once. “Raine, did you read your proposed contract?”

“Yes, sir?”

Shit. Why did that come out like a question?

He tilts his head slightly. “Are you happy with the terms, Raine? And why did you answer like that?”

Lance shifts beside me, tugging at his tie. Pale. Sweaty.

“I…” I take a breath. “I didn’t get a chance to fully read this one before coming in today.”

Mr. Parkes raises an eyebrow. “Miss Marshall… I sent you a copy last night. Surely that gave you ample time.”

Lance chokes out, “Last night?”

“Yes,” Parkes replies smoothly. “Due diligence. I emailed Raine a copy directly.”

Lance tries to jump in again, but one of Parkes’ men cuts him off cold. “She said she didn’t read this contract—meaning the one you gave her, not ours.”

I speak up. “That’s correct, Mr. Parkes. I read your contract last night. The Shine contract arrived this morning. It’s… very different.”

The room goes dead silent.

Mr. Parkes’s expression hardens. “Miss Marshall, would you mind forwarding that Shine contract to me?”

“Of course.” I grab my phone and send it.

Within seconds, one of his men is skimming through it on a tablet. His jaw clenches. He looks at Parkes and gives a single nod.

“Raine,” Parkes says, voice like steel, “please open the folder in front of you. Is that the same contract you received this morning?”

I flip it open. “Yes, sir.”

Parkes takes a deep breath. “The contract I sent you is the official proposal from Chic. That”—he gestures to the Shine version—“is a manipulation. A fabrication, likely intended to scam you. I suggest you fire your agent. Immediately.”

He slides his contract across the table.

“Do not sign that Shine document. We will no longer be working with this agency. In fact, we will ensure no one else does either.”

The room erupts in tension. Lance turns sheet-white. Mr. Parkes doesn’t even look at him.

I pick up the Shine contract and, without a word, rip it straight down the middle. Then again. And again. I stand, walk over to the trash, and let the confetti fall.

“You tried to trick me. To rip me off. You’ve been creeping me out since day one, and I am done.” I turn and look Lance square in the eye. “I’m taking Mr. Parkes’ advice—I’m firing you. And thank god, I’ll never have to work with you again.”

Then I walk out with my head high, my heels clicking like gunfire across the floor.

Another piece of my life—trashed, shredded, and exactly where it belongs.