Chapter 78 New storyline
There’s controlled chaos everywhere around me. Racks of clothes. Steamers hissing. Makeup artists weaving around each other like they’re participating in some high-stakes Olympic event. Someone nearly crashes into a lighting stand while carrying two pairs of boots and an iced coffee the size of their head.
Nobody even reacts.
Apparently this is normal.
Earlier this morning, Miller had stormed onto set looking like a man possessed by artistic revelation. Overnight, he’d apparently had what he dramatically referred to as a creative awakening and decided the original concept was “visually dishonest.” Whatever the hell that means.
The entire campaign got ripped apart and rebuilt on the spot. Originally, the lifestyle section had me in tailored suits and luxury lounges and rooftop cocktail aesthetics. Very polished and expensive.
But now Miller has declared the entire thing too stiff and curated. Said it looked like we were trying too hard to impress rich people instead of seducing them. According to him... “Luxury’s dead. People want dangerous now.”
But surprisingly?...He was right. The previous wardrobe had me feeling like I was heading to a debutante ball I hadn't been invited to. This new direction feels easier. Less like acting, more instinctive somehow. Natural edge, he called it. Which is why I’m currently standing on a fitting platform while Kit crouches in front of me, aggressively adjusting the waistband of my jeans with the intensity of a trauma surgeon.
The denim’s black, ripped and fitted low on my hips. One of the stylists had already rubbed something across the fabric to make it look more worn-in and “lived in.”
He unzips the fly just an inch, folding the waistband over with a sharp, practiced flick. He’s adjusting them so the branded designer briefs peek out just enough to be suggestive but not desperate. It’s a delicate science, apparently. He leans back, head tilted critically.
“Hm.”
He steps back, his head tilted at an angle that looks painful. He crosses his arms, tapping a finger against his chin while he surveys the damage. "Team," he says, his voice carrying that tone of finality, "tell me why we’re even bothering with a shirt. It’s hiding the lines."
He looks at the heavy, worn leather jacket draped over a nearby chair. "Just the jacket will do. Bare chest."
The hair and makeup girls immediately start nodding with a level of passion usually reserved for religious awakenings.
“WAY hotter!”
“Definitely leather jacket only.”
Kit gestures for me to take the shirt off and I do, then I put on the jacket. He walks closer again and tugs the leather open wider across my chest before stepping back for another inspection. I glance down at myself. Definitely not the whiskey businessman aesthetic we started with.
“Kaden, how do I look?”
The voice comes from behind me. Soft and amused. I turn, the heavy leather of the jacket creaking as I move, and find myself smiling at a shock of red hair and a dangerously short black dress. Erica stands a few feet away, one hand planted on her hip like she already knows the answer. Her red curls spill over one shoulder in glossy waves, dramatic against the dark fabric. Honestly, she looks insane. In the intimidatingly beautiful kind of way.
The industry is small, but the world of Dante’s dance studio is smaller. I usually just sit there watching rehearsals while Dante screams at people for having weak core engagement or whatever terrifying dance terminology he uses. Erica's the kind of dancer who makes you forget there’s music playing because you’re too busy watching her move. We’d never actually exchanged more than a polite nod across a crowded room, but when Miller introduced us this morning, the "don't I know you from somewhere?" conversation lasted all of ten seconds before the ice was broken.
"You look alright," I say, leaning back against the pedestal. "If you’re into the whole 'stunning, high-fashion siren' thing."
She flicks a vibrant red curl over her shoulder and gives me a look of mock-haughtiness. "Thanks. My ego was feeling a little fragile today. I really needed that."
A small laugh slips out of me.
Erica’s a new addition to this whole production circus. Apparently after Miller’s overnight artistic breakdown....or breakthrough, depending on who you ask, he decided the campaign needed another lead for this part. He walks over, looking like he hasn't slept for eight hours, fueled entirely by espresso and artistic mania. He doesn't say hello, just drops a heavy, weighted key fob into my palm. I glance down. The logo on the fob belongs to a sports car that costs more than the house I grew up in.
"We’re doing the arrival shot," he barks, already looking past me. "Kaden, I want you driving up like you own the zip code. One take for the exit. Don't faff about with the door."
A stylist appears beside me and sprays something cold across my chest. I jerk slightly. “What the hell was that?”
“Body gloss, so the camera falls in love with you.”
This is the new "storyline"...a playful, high-stakes game of cat and mouse between the two of us. After days of being the solitary focus of every lens, having a partner feels like a relief. It takes the pressure off. It makes the whole thing feel less like a job and more like a performance.
Miller claps his hands loudly, the sound echoing through the studio. "Positions! Let’s see some tension, people! If I don't feel like you’re about to either kiss or kill each other, we’re doing it again!"
We start outside the building just as the sky starts dimming into evening. The sports car sits parked near the curb looking criminally expensive beneath the city lights. Matte black. Low to the ground. The kind of car that practically growls at people. Miller wants “effortless danger.” Whatever that means.
I slide out of the driver’s seat the second cameras roll, one hand pushing the door shut behind me. Cool air hits my chest beneath the open leather jacket as I stride toward the building entrance. My focus narrows, movement becomes instinct. I hit the top step, glance toward the reflective doors.
“Cut!”
Miller’s voice echoes across the set. I turn slightly as he reviews playback on the monitor with terrifying concentration. A beat passes. Then he looks up and gives me a dramatic thumbs-up.
“That,” he announces, “was disgustingly good.”
A few crew members clap lightly. I snort under my breath. “Happy to disgust you.”
They also shoot a few quick sequences of me entering the elevator before we relocate to the soundstage for the actual interior scenes. The fake elevator set is ridiculously convincing. Metallic walls, mirrored panels, soft amber lighting overhead. Tight enough to create tension without feeling cramped.