Rich People Problems

xi | wet nightmares

**warning: slightly mature (wink wink) content ahead**

KIMBERLY

THERE WERE WORSE ways to be woken up in the morning than a phone call. But, anyone who even dared to call me knew to never do it before I had my morning drink. Groggily, I sat up in bed, glaring at the persistent caller's third call.

Why is she calling me?

"Hello," I answered, the hangover oozing out of my voice.

Jace and I haven't spoken or seen each other since he went down to Brazil with Benicio and Savannah last night. Trying to play the role of a dutiful fiancée, I texted him 'Have a safe flight!' before he left, but the jackass only reacted to the message with a stupid thumbs-up.

I was so close to speeding to the airport to break his phone, but Vivian took my keys the second she saw the murderous glint in my eyes.

In a futile attempt to get away from the devilish trio's—made up of Mom, Effie and Aunt Lucy—calls about the wedding and all the other shit in my life, I was drinking my heart out at another club, feeling worse than death.

Once upon a time, I knew every little thing that would happen at my wedding.

Like the control freak I was, I had every single second planned out to a tee. And, as expected, I made a million mood boards to fully ensure that everyone knew my vision. I even told Mom that a wedding planner was absolutely unnecessary because I only entrusted myself with the task of carrying out my vision.

Well, well, well, how the turntables...

Now, I couldn't care less about the nitty gritty details, which would've once driven me insane. Even Vivi looked at me in complete shock when I told my mom I didn't care if we had laelia orchids or not in the floral arrangements.

Because, once upon a time, I would've cared. I would've cared so much.

And, I most certainly wouldn't spend my time being drunk instead of wedding planning.

"Good," Chantelle replied. "You're up."

Chantelle was—emphasis on the past tense—my manager when I used to model. After the incident of last year and my rough recovery, I decided to quit modeling back in February. It was a tough decision, one that I made merely a week after my twenty-fifth birthday, but a necessary one.

Being a famous model meant always being in the limelight. Always being in the limelight meant having to be a role model for the younger generation.

Mix that with alcohol and drugs... shit doesn't add up.

I didn't deserve to be anyone's inspiration.

Chantelle threw a fit when I told her, only because she's been by my side as my manager for so long, prompting me to jokingly tell her to model. She honestly could. The woman was even taller than me, with stunning dark skin and tight curls.

But my crazy ex-manager flipped me off and started crying about losing her best client.

We still kept in contact, but I haven't heard from her in over a month.

"Sadly. It's seven in the morning. Why are you calling me this early?" I asked, trudging out of bed. My clothes from last night were still tossed haphazardly on the floor, turning my room into an obstacle course for the drunk.

"Hear me out," her voice frantically called out. "Divine Magazine wants you to be the cover for just one more shoot. They just called me twenty minutes ago, and I know it's last minute, but they really want you."