Chapter 37

Kayna’s POV

The cool morning air clung to my skin as I ran, sneakers striking a steady rhythm against the quiet Manhattan pavement.

Jogging had never been a habit before this job—I’d barely had the time, always chasing deadlines and bills—but lately it had become a small rebellion. An hour where the world wasn’t demanding anything of me, where I could push all the noise out with nothing but the sound of my own breath.

But this morning, my thoughts refused to quiet.

The letters weighed heavy on me. I hadn’t opened the one addressed to me yet. I couldn’t. Not when every glimpse of my father’s handwriting stirred emotions I wasn’t ready to name—resentment, grief, curiosity. I told myself I was waiting for the right moment, when things at work settled, when my mom was stronger. But deep down I knew I was afraid.

Afraid of the answers. Afraid of the man I might find between the lines.

Should I go see him?

The question pressed harder with every step.

Part of me wanted to. To look him in the eye and demand the truth, demand why he’d dragged our family into shadows I still didn’t fully understand. But the other part of me—the stronger part—still remembered the disappointment in my mom’s voice whenever his name came up.

He’d chosen his world, his “dangerous men,” over us. Over me.

And yet, even with all of that, I couldn’t stop wondering if there was something he wanted to say. Something those letters only hinted at.

I slowed near the park, pressing my palms to my knees, letting the morning light wash over me.

Maybe I’d go. Maybe I’d find the courage. Or maybe I’d keep running in circles, afraid to face the truth.

With a sigh, I turned back toward my apartment.

The shower was still steaming when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Unknown number. My gut tightened immediately—after everything lately, every unfamiliar number felt like a loaded gun.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Ms. Scott?” A cheerful female voice, fast-paced, efficient.

“Yes?”

“This is Mariah, I work with Felix, Mr. Marshall’s stylist. I just wanted to confirm your fitting appointment for this afternoon.”

“My what?” I blinked, towel clutched tighter around me.

“The fitting. Four p.m. today. At Mr. Marshall’s residence.”

I froze. “At his—his house?”

“Yes. Our team has already begun setting up there. It’ll be far more convenient than the studio since both your looks are being coordinated. Felix prefers this arrangement for high-profile clients. Less disruption, more privacy.”

My brain scrambled for footing. “I… wasn’t aware of this arrangement. Can I get ready at my place instead? The outfits can just be sent over to me.”

“Mr. Marshall approved it yesterday evening. We’ll have gowns and accessories ready for you to try. You’ll be in excellent hands, don’t worry.”

I gripped the phone tighter. Something about being dressed, measured, paraded around in his personal space made my skin prickle. Work had boundaries. This felt like crossing one.

“Mariah,” I said carefully, “I appreciate the confirmation, but I’ll need to double-check with Mr. Marshall before I commit to that location. Could you hold off on finalizing until I do?”

A pause. “Of course. But the preparations are already in place.”

We hung up, and I stared at the phone as if it had betrayed me.

His house.

I didn’t know what unsettled me more—the idea of walking into Damian Marshall’s penthouse like some sort of invited guest, or the thought of refusing and what that would mean for… whatever this was between us.

Before I could overthink it, I hit his contact. The line rang twice.

“Kayna?” His voice came through low, slightly rough around the edges.

For a split second, my heart stuttered. He hadn’t answered like a boss taking a work call. He’d answered like someone who actually wanted to hear me.

“Good morning, Mr. Marshall,” I said, too formal, trying to steady myself. “I just received a call from Mr Felix’s assistant. She said my fitting is scheduled for four o’clock… at your residence?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No apology. Just that deep, matter-of-fact tone.

I bit my lip. “I wasn’t aware that was the plan.”

There was a pause. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

His voice shifted on that last word, softer, careful. And something inside me twisted.

“I just—” I exhaled slowly. “It feels… personal. Being there, I mean. At your home.”

Another silence stretched. For a moment I wondered if I’d crossed a line, if I sounded ungrateful.

Then Damian spoke again, quieter this time. “It wasn’t meant to pressure you. The stylist thought it would be easier. For me. And for you.”

Something in the way he said it made my chest tighten. Easier for him. As though letting strangers into his world cost him something too.

I hesitated, torn between professionalism and the raw honesty clawing up my throat. “I just don’t want to blur things, Damian. I work for you. That’s all.”

The line went quiet again, so quiet I thought maybe he’d ended the call. But when he spoke, there was a weight in his voice that made me press the phone tighter to my ear.

“I know you do,” he said. “And I respect that. This isn’t about blurring lines. It’s about making sure you walk into that gala beside me prepared. If having it at my place feels like crossing something—” He exhaled, the sound heavy, almost weary. “Then we’ll change it. I’ll make the call.”

My breath caught. Damian Marshall—controlling, relentless, unbending—was offering to rearrange everything if it made me uncomfortable.

And that, more than anything, made me want to say yes.

“No,” I said quickly, before I could second-guess it. “You don’t need to change it. I’ll be there.”

“Are you sure?” His tone was unreadable, but beneath it was something I hadn’t heard from him before. Concern.

“Yes.” My voice softened. “I’m sure.”

There was a pause, and then—so faintly I almost missed it—“Thank you.”

Two words, simple and raw, that sank deeper than any polished compliment ever could.

I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how fast my heart was beating. “I’ll… see you at four, then.”

“See you at four,” he echoed.

When I hung up, I sat on the edge of my bed, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the sunlight spilling across the floor.

Somehow, with a single conversation, the air between us had shifted again.

And as much as I told myself this was just about the job, I couldn’t ignore the truth threading through me like a secret.

Being at his house wasn’t just about a gown or a gala.

It was about stepping into his world.

And I wasn’t sure I was ready for what I’d find there.