Chapter 25 Whatever it takes....
Kit stops mid-measurement. The tape is still looped loosely around my waist when the room goes quiet. Not awkward quiet, the other kind. The kind that ripples outward from a single point like a shockwave.
I stare straight ahead, my chin level, my eyes fixed on a mindless point on the far wall, determined to treat him like the ghost I wish he was. I refuse to turn around. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the wardrobe assistants exchanging quick glances toward the entrance.
Then footsteps. Soft and unhurried. Expensive somehow, with the kind of authority that doesn't need to raise its voice. And then his scent hits the room. It’s subtle but unmistakable. It spreads through the space like a slow leak, curling under my skin, hijacking my lungs and making something low in my stomach tighten.
“Good morning, Mr. Steele,” Kit says politely.
“Morning, sir,” one of the assistants adds.
No response. I swallow, trying to keep my breathing normal even though my heart has suddenly decided it’s training for a marathon. Kit clears his throat and continues working like nothing happened, the tape sliding around my waist again.
“Relax,” he murmurs under his breath to me. I force my shoulders down.
Focus, this is just a job.
But then I hear those footsteps again, closer. The air feels thicker with every step, and then he stops right in my field of vision. I lift my eyes before I can stop myself.
But Bastian isn’t looking at me. He’s scanning the room, his expression calm, detached, like he’s cataloguing everything in it. “How was the meeting?” he asks.
His voice is controlled. I almost frown because the tone is so clinical and detached it’s jarring. Like yesterday never happened. “Were you briefed on the campaign timeline and your schedule moving forward?”
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I was.”
“Good.”
That’s all he says. He moves away from me, drifting toward the racks of clothing like he’s browsing through a boutique. My lungs finally remember how to work. He begins to move along the racks, his fingers ghosting along a row of tailored jackets with a casual, predatory grace. Then he glances at Kit.
“Have the other models been fitted?”
Kit straightens slightly.
“Yeah, we got everyone done a while ago,” he says. “Everything’s tagged and organized already.” He gestures toward the racks. “Once we finish getting Kaden’s measurements, we’ll basically be set for the shoot.”
Bastian nods once. He picks up a luxury lifestyle magazine from a side table, flips through a couple of pages with a flick of his wrist, and sets it back down....still not looking at me. I find myself watching his every move, my gaze locked on the way his suit jacket pulls across his shoulders. It turns out the man was telling the truth. He’s being professional. He’s being the boss. And for some reason, the lack of heat is making me more lightheaded than the presence of it.
And then he looks up and our eyes meet.
Just like that, the world tilts. The "strictly professional" barrier I’d spent all morning building doesn't just crack, it vaporizes. My lips part, a sharp intake of air catching in my lungs, and I nearly look away. But I don't. I force myself to hold it, to meet that blue, electric stare.
He starts slowly walking toward me again.
Every step feels like a tightening wire in my chest. I stop breathing. And by the time he reaches me, the memories slam into me so hard it’s almost dizzying.
The bathroom yesterday.
His hands, the heat of his mouth on my neck. I can almost feel the cold marble against my back and his hand bruising my hip.
As he stops inches away, I realize something's wrong. He looks like himself....the sharp jaw, the impeccable tailoring, but his skin is a shade too pale, stretched tight over his cheekbones. And his eyes... there’s a strange, glassy restraint in them, a flickering shadow that wasn't there yesterday.
Something tightly contained.
His gaze flicks downward briefly as Kit adjusts the tape around my waist again. His eyes follow the motion. There’s something restrained in the way his jaw tightens. Something held back behind that calm expression.
Then his gaze slides back to mine, just for a second. A quiet, unreadable beat. A look that's both intimate and hauntingly distant. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out.
The door clicks shut, and the room feels suddenly, violently empty. I let out the breath I’ve been holding, my legs feeling like they’ve been hollowed out. He didn't touch me. He hardly even spoke to me. But the way he looked at me just now felt more dangerous than anything he said yesterday.
The moment the door clicks shut, the oxygen rushes back into the room like a vacuum seal being broken. Kit literally sags, one hand flying to his chest as he lets out a long, shaky exhale.
"Jesus," he mutters, adjusting his glasses with a trembling finger. "Every time that man walks in, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a freeway and the brakes on the semi-truck are failing. Is it just me?"
One of the assistants snorts before adding, “I’ve worked here for a whole year and I still feel like I’m about to be audited by the IRS whenever he walks in.”
That gets a laugh out of the others. I don’t say a word. I’m too busy trying to keep my own knees from buckling. I swallow hard, the phantom weight of Bastian’s gaze still heavy on my bare skin. I glance at the tagged racks, trying to find my voice, trying to find a version of myself that isn't currently vibrating with adrenaline.
"So, the other models he mentioned,” I say. “What was that about?”
Kit is already jotting down something on a clipboard. "Oh, just some extras for the background shots," he says, getting back to work and pulling the tape measure around my bicep. "The party scenes, the 'aspirational' crowds. We’d already finished casting them last month."
I nod slowly.
“Oh. I didn’t realize they’d already been cast.”
That earns me a round of surprised looks, Kit laughs.
"Honey, everyone was casted," he says, giving me a playful pat on the shoulder. "The whole campaign was storyboarded, signed, and ready to shoot. We were forty-eight hours away from the first call time when the word came down from up high. Sudden 'creative pivot,' they called it. They said Luca Ambrose wouldn’t be making it, and that you were the new face of the campaign."
My eyes go wide, a cold spike of shock hitting me right in the gut. "Luca Ambrose?" I repeat, the name tasting like metal.
Professional football player. National headlines. Worth more money than I’ll probably see in three lifetimes.
And apparently the guy I just replaced.
Kit continues talking while adjusting the tape around my shoulders. “He was originally supposed to be the male lead. You know, big sports star, currently trending, all that.”
He shrugs lightly. “But looks like they decided to go in a different direction.”
He steps back, tilting his head as he gives my form a long, appreciative once-over. He gestures casually toward my bare torso. His mouth quirks into an amused smile.
"I have to admit," he chuckles, "as much as I love Luca's... assets, they might be onto something with you. You’ve got the kind of look the camera eats alive."
One of the assistants nods enthusiastically. “Yeah,” she adds. “Way more interesting than another boring athlete holding a whiskey bottle.”
Kit gives the tape one final tug before stepping back to examine me critically. “Trust me,” he says. “This new angle? It’ll work.”
But I barely hear the rest of it. My brain is stuck on the fact that I replaced a global superstar. A man worth millions was tossed aside because Bastian Steele decided he wanted a new toy.
A reminder that I'm not here because of my skills. I’m here because Bastian wanted me under his thumb, on his payroll, and if yesterday was any indication....pinned against whatever surface he can find.