Chapter 1: Scouted on the beach
The last of the sun bled into the sky above Summer Bay, turning the water to molten copper and stretching Abi’s shadow long and thin across the damp sand. She wiggled her bare toes, feeling the cool grit between them, and took a slow bite of her grease-stained paper-wrapped burger. It was her favourite kind of evening—quiet, warm, the air tasting like salt and freedom. But tonight, the familiar recipe for contentment was leaving a vague, metallic aftertaste on her tongue.
From the water’s edge, Mali turned and waved, his grin as broad and easy as the horizon. He held up a perfect, skipping stone, his tanned shoulders gleaming. Abi waved back, her heart doing its usual, dependable squeeze. She loved him. She really did. It was a solid, warm fact in her life, like the sun-bleached wood of the pier.
So why did she feel like she was waiting for a bus that never came?
“Your chips are going to get totally soggy,” Mali called, jogging up the beach. He dropped onto the towel beside her, smelling of seawater and sunshine.
“I’m savouring,” she said, bumping his shoulder with hers.
“You’re brood-ing,” he corrected, stealing a chip. “Big thoughts for a burger night.”
She shrugged, staring out at the dying light. “Just thinking. Is this it? Burgers and beach stones until we’re sixty?”
Mali laughed, a warm, comfortable sound. “I was kinda hoping for fish and chips on Fridays when we’re sixty. But yeah. Sounds pretty perfect to me.” He kissed her temple, his lips cool from the ocean. “What’s up, Abi? Salt getting to you?”
“No more than usual.” She sighed. “It’s just… everything’s the same. I want something to happen. Something big. Something that’s mine.”
Before Mali could answer, a voice, smooth and city-sharp, cut through the coastal calm.
“Well, if you’re looking for ‘something big,’ I might just have a proposal for you.”
They both turned. A man stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of impeccably tailored trousers, his leather shoes looking profoundly out of place on the sand. He was older, late thirties, with hair swept back and a smile that seemed professionally calibrated to disarm.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. His eyes, a cool, assessing grey, locked onto Abi. “I couldn’t help but overhear. And honestly, I couldn’t help but notice you from over there by the pier. You have a phenomenal look. A real, vibrant energy. It photographs.”
Abi felt a flush creep up her neck. Mali shifted beside her, his easy posture stiffening. “Who are you?” Mali asked, his voice casual but with an edge.
“Rex Gallagher. Though most people call me Razor.” He flicked a business card from a silver case with practised ease. It was thick, creamy stock. Gallagher Talent Management. Sydney.
Abi took it, her fingers leaving a faint smudge of salt on the corner.
“What sort of talent?” Mali pressed.
Razor’s gaze never left Abi. “The kind that makes people stop scrolling. The kind that sells. Look, Abigail—it is Abigail, right? The name tag on your uniform?”
She nodded, mute.
“Abigail. You’re stunning. And not in a generic, agency-way. You look real. You look like fun. You look like sunshine someone actually wants to bask in.” He took a careful step closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “The market is starving for what you have. I’m talking commercial endorsements. Lifestyle branding. High-end content creation.”
“Content creation?” Abi echoed, the words foreign on her tongue.
“Think less boring Instagram influencer, more… artistic collaborations. Cinematic projects. It’s a legitimate business,” he said, his eyes flicking to Mali’s sceptical face. “Very lucrative. I scout for a particular studio. We’re always looking for fresh, authentic faces. People with… spark.”
He made a gentle, expansive gesture with his hands. “We’d put you up in the city. Professional hair, makeup, styling. Photographers who know how to make magic. You’d be a muse, not a model. The pay for a first project is… let’s just say it’s more than a year of burger slinging.”
The numbers he mentioned next, casually, made the breath catch in Abi’s throat. It was an impossible sum. A life-changing sum. It could pay off her mum’s car, fix the porch, buy a real start.
Mali stood up, brushing sand from his boardshorts. “Yeah, nah. Come on, Abi. This is sketchy as hell.” He held out his hand to her.
But Abi was still looking at the card, then up at Razor’s polished, confident face. “What kind of projects?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
Razor’s smile widened, just a fraction. He recognised the hook was set; now it was just about reeling her in gently. “Artful. Tasteful. Celebrating the beauty of the human form, connection, experience. It’s not the seedy backroom stuff you’re imagining. It’s a professional set. Contracts, boundaries, choreography. Respect.” He said the last word while looking directly at Mali’s protective scowl. “It’s a short-term commitment for a long-term gain. A doorway, Abigail. I’m just offering you a glimpse of what’s on the other side.”
The wind picked up, carrying the cry of a distant gull. The sun was almost gone, the world painted in deep blues and purples.
“I’d have to think about it,” Abi said finally, her fingers closing around the business card.
“Of course,” Razor nodded smoothly. “Think. Talk to your… friend here.” He gave Mali a polite, dismissive nod. “But don’t think too long. That spark you have? It’s a commodity. And right now, it’s the most valuable thing on this beach.”
He gave her one last, lingering look, a look that made her feel seen in a way she never had before—not as Abi from the Salt, or Mali’s girlfriend, but as something potent and separate. Then he turned and walked back up towards the surf club, his shoes sinking slightly in the soft sand.
Silence hung between them, heavy with the weight of the unspoken.
“Abi,” Mali said, his voice strained. “You cannot be seriously considering this.”
She looked up at him, the card biting into her palm. The restlessness that had been a vague hum all evening was now a deafening roar in her ears, mixed with the intoxicating echo of Razor’s words: Phenomenal look. Vibrant energy. A doorway.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, the truth of it chilling her despite the warm air. “I just don’t know.”
She looked from Mali’s worried, familiar face, back towards the shadowy figure of Razor Gallagher disappearing into the twilight. One path was soft sand and known love. The other was paved in slick promises and city lights. The chapter of her life that was all burgers and beach stones was ending, right here on the cooling sand, and the first page of the next one was blank, terrifying, and glittering with possibility.
The walk back to Mali’s ute was quiet, the silence a thick, uncomfortable blanket between them. He held her hand, but his grip was loose, questioning. Abi kept her fist curled tight around the business card, the raised lettering pressing into her skin like a brand.
For three days, the card lived in the zipped pocket of her backpack. It whispered to her while she stacked plates at the Pier Diner, the scent of hot chips and vinegar suddenly feeling claustrophobic. It echoed in the comfortable lulls of conversation with Mali on his couch, the glow of the television painting his worried face in blue light.
“You’re somewhere else,” he said softly on the third night, pausing the movie.
“Just tired,” she lied, the words ash in her mouth.
The next morning, she called in sick. Mac, Levi and Mali were at work. The house was still. She stood at the kitchen bench, the pale lemon laminate cool under her palms, and stared at her phone. The number on the card was a Sydney landline.
Her thumb hovered. This was the line. Once she crossed it, there would be a before and an after. She thought of the number Razor had mentioned.
She pressed call.
It rang twice. “Gallagher.” His voice was exactly the same—smooth, alert, dispensing with hello.
“Um. Hi. It’s Abi. Abigail Fowler. From the beach.”
A beat of silence, then a warm, familiar chuckle. “Abi. I was hoping you’d call. Tell me you’re curious.”
“I’m… curious,” she admitted, the word feeling both dangerous and thrilling.
“Excellent. Curiosity is the starting block for every great adventure. Are you free tomorrow? Come to the city. Let’s talk properly, somewhere without sand in our shoes. I’ll text you an address. Just a chat, Abigail. No obligations. A look at the doorway.”
He made it sound so simple. A chat. A look.
“Okay,” she said, her voice barely a breath.
“Good girl. See you at two.”
The call ended. A moment later, her phone buzzed with a Sydney address in Pyrmont. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen.
The trive into the city the next day felt like a spaceship launching. She told Mali her mum needed help with some shopping, a flimsy story that sat between them, unexamined. The guilt was a cold, hard stone in her stomach, but beneath it ran a current of pure, electrifying adrenaline.
Summer Bay melted into suburban sprawl, then the ragged back ends of warehouses, and finally the stark, glittering canyon of the city skyline. The air in the carriage changed, smelling less of salt and more of concrete, diesel, and impersonal air conditioning.
Pyrmont was all converted warehouses and sleek glass offices. Razor’s address was a modern building with a black façade. She stood across the street, her simple sundress feeling suddenly childish, her wedge sandals wrong. She watched people in sharp suits and elegant blouses stride purposefully through the rotating doors. They belonged. She felt like a tourist who’d taken a wrong turn.
Taking a shaky breath, she crossed the street. The lobby was cavernous, all polished granite and chrome. A security guard at a minimalist desk glanced up.
“I’m here to see Rex Gallagher,” Abi said, her voice echoing.
The guard checked a screen, nodded. “Tenth floor. Elevators on the right.”
The elevator was silent and fast. It opened directly into a small, tasteful reception area. No flashy logos, just a single abstract painting on a grey wall and a sleek woman at a floating desk.
“Abigail for Mr. Gallagher,” Abi said.
“He’s expecting you. Go straight through.”
The door beyond was heavy. She pushed it open.
It wasn’t a sleazy backroom. It was a corner office with breathtaking views of the Harbour Bridge. Sunlight streamed in, highlighting the impeccable charcoal grey of the carpet, the clean lines of a white desk. Razor stood by the window, a silhouette against the monumental steel arc of the bridge. He turned, his smile wide and welcoming.
“Abi. You made it.” He gestured to a plush armchair. “Sit. Please. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?”
“Water’s fine,” she managed, perching on the edge of the chair. The world outside the glass was so vast, so powerful. It made her feel tiny and gigantic all at once.
He poured mineral water into a heavy crystal glass and handed it to her before leaning against his desk, arms folded. He looked her over, not lecherously, but with the appraisal of a sculptor studying a block of marble.
“You have a good journey? The city doesn’t bite, I promise.” He took a sip of his own drink. “So. Let’s talk about potential. Your potential. The industry I work in… it’s about storytelling. About chemistry. It’s about capturing a spark and turning it into a flame that people want to watch. What I saw on that beach was a spark that could start a bloody wildfire.”
Abi sipped the water, her throat dry. “You keep saying ‘industry.’ Is this adult content?”
“I mean a billion-dollar global business with professional directors, lighting technicians, intimacy coordinators, and contracts thicker than your head. The word ‘adult’ just means it’s for grown-ups. Grown-ups who understand that sexuality is part of the human portfolio, and portraying it can be an art, a career, and a very lucrative business.” He leaned forward slightly. “The girl next door is the biggest fantasy going, Abi. But she has to be real. You are real. That’s your superpower.”
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thin, bound document. He slid it across the desk. “A standard first-project contract. Look at clause 4a. The fee.”
Her eyes found the number. It was even more than he’d said on the beach. It was a ransom for her old life.
“That’s for three days’ work,” he said quietly. “Three days. With full agency. You set your limits. You have final approval on any partner. You can say no to anything, at any time. This isn’t the dark ages. It’s a profession.”
The numbers swam on the page. She thought of Mali’s face, his trust. The stone of guilt grew heavier. But then she thought of the years stretching ahead, identical and small. She thought of the opportunities this piece of paper could physically buy—not just things, but freedom, a future, choice.
“What would I… what would I have to do?” The question was a whisper.
Razor’s expression softened into one of mentorship. “For a first project? Tasteful. Solo scenes, mostly. Some implied partnered work, nothing explicit. It’s about introducing you, building the Abigail brand. The ‘Sunshine from Summer Bay’ allure. We’d film right here in Sydney in a proper studio. You’d be treated like the talent you are.”
He let the silence hang, letting the numbers and the view and the promise do their work.
“I need to think,” she said again, but the resistance was crumbling. She was already here, in the sky, above everything she knew.
“Of course,” he said, straightening up. “Take the contract. Show a lawyer if you want. But understand, Abi, this spark you have? It’s seasonal. There’s a freshness, an innocence that is your sell-by date. The window is open now.” He walked her to the office door, his hand a light, guiding pressure on her lower back. “Don’t let a lifetime of maybe’s get in the way of a definite yes. Call me.”
She stepped back into the elevator, the unsigned contract in her bag feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. The descent was a blur. She spilled out onto the street, the afternoon sun harsh and real.
On the drive home, the coastal towns rushed past, but they looked different now. Smaller. Faded. Like a set from a play she’d just walked off. She pulled out her phone. Three missed calls from Mali.
She stared at his name on the screen, her thumb hovering over the call back button. She imagined his voice, his relief, his plans for their usual Friday night. The entire, manageable arc of her known life waited on the other end of that call.
She locked her phone screen and watched her own reflection in the dark glass of the car window, superimposed over the rushing, indistinct landscape. She didn’t call him back.
She didn’t call him back.
Instead, she drove to the lookout point above Summer Bay, the one she and Mali had claimed as their own. The ocean stretched out, vast and indifferent, and the contract sat on the passenger seat like a sleeping animal. She could feel its presence, a physical weight pulling at her periphery.
For an hour, she just sat. The sun dipped, painting the sky in violent streaks of orange and purple. She thought about the bored, restless ache in her chest that had been growing for months. She thought about the diner’s perpetually sticky floor, the predictable Friday nights, the kind, placid love that felt more like a harbour than an ocean. She thought of her mother’s tired eyes, the constant low-grade worry about money that hummed through their house like faulty wiring.
Razor’s words echoed. A doorway.
This was more than a door. It was an airlock. On one side, everything she knew. On the other, a terrifying, glittering vacuum.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Razor, perfectly timed.
Razor: Still thinking, Sunshine? The view’s better from up here. Don’t let the horizon fool you—it’s just an edge you haven’t jumped from yet.
She didn’t reply. She picked up the contract. The legalese was a blur, but the numbers were crystalline. The clauses about “artistic performance” and “licensed use of likeness” felt abstract, like someone else’s life. She flipped to the signature page. The blank line awaited her name, a tiny gully waiting to be flooded with consequence.
When she got home Mali was in the driveway, tinkering with his fishing reel under the porch light. He looked up, his face softening with relief before hardening with confusion as he saw her expression. She didn’t get out. She just rolled down the window, the night air cool on her heated skin.
“Where have you been?” he asked, walking over. “I was worried.”
“I went to Sydney,” she said, her voice unnaturally flat. “I met with that guy. Razor.”
Mali’s whole body went still. The reel dangled from his fingers. “Abi. No.”
“He showed me a contract.” She held it up, the pages fluttering in the breeze. “It’s a lot of money, Mal. An insane amount. For three days of work.”
“It’s a trap. It’s gross.” His voice was tight, a mix of anger and pleading. “That guy is a predator in a nice suit. He’s selling you a nightmare wrapped up in a cheque.”
“He’s selling me a way out!” The words exploded from her, sharp and sudden. “Out of what? Serving chips? Out of just… waiting for my life to start?”
“Your life has started!” He slapped his hand against the side of her car. “It’s here! With me! With your family! This isn’t you, Abi. This is some… some fantasy of being someone else.”
“Maybe I want to be someone else!” She was crying now, hot, frustrated tears. “Maybe I’m bored of being me! Maybe ‘me’ isn’t enough!”
The silence that followed was brutal. Mali looked at her like she’d slapped him. The hurt in his eyes was more painful than any anger.
“You’re enough for me,” he said quietly, the words barely carrying.
But it wasn’t about being enough for him. That was the crumbling, terrifying realisation. It had to be about her. This reckless, hungry, unspeakable need was all her own.
She looked at him, at his dear, familiar face under the yellow porch light, and knew with a cold, final certainty that if she got out of the car now, she would never leave. This moment would become a story they told: That time you almost got scammed by that sleazebag from the city. Their life would gently close around her again, comfortable and warm and suffocating.
“Abi, don’t. Please.”
“I have to see,” she whispered.
She went to her room, the contract in her hand. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She felt twenty-one and twelve and a thousand all at once.
At 2:17 AM, she got up. She turned on her desk lamp, the pool of light harsh on the creamy paper. She found a pen. A cheap, plastic biro from the diner.
This was it. The precipice. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic animal trying to escape. Every cell in her body seemed to scream in opposite directions. This was stupid. This was brave. This was a mistake. This was freedom.
She saw Mali’s hurt eyes. She saw the sterile glamour of Razor’s office, the bridge, the vast unknown. She felt the restless ache, that constant, grating itch for more.
The pen hovered.
She took a breath that shuddered all the way down to her bones. And then, with a hand that only trembled slightly, she put pen to paper.
She signs the contract.
The ink was blue, ordinary. Her signature looked the same as it did on a diner receipt. Nothing happened. No thunderclap, no seismic shift. Just the soft scratch of the nib, the finality of a curved ‘i’ dotted.
It was done.
She dropped the pen. It rolled off the page and onto the floor. The sound was incredibly loud in the silent room.
A profound, hollow quiet filled her. The frantic churning in her gut stopped, replaced by a still, cold lake of oh.
She picked up her phone. She didn’t text Razor. She just stared at the signed page, at the crossing of her own personal Rubicon, and waited for the sun to rise on the first day of the rest of a life she could no longer imagine.