Chapter 24 Strictly Professional....
I don’t even know why I’m here.
Especially when I had a fucking sex dream about Bastian Steele last night. I woke up with my sheets twisted around me, heart pounding, and an embarrassingly stiff cock that didn’t know whether to be ashamed or proud. I don’t even want to remember how it ended, but the memory is still crawling under my skin, making the back of my neck prickle.
Yesterday, Dante had leaned over like the ever-supportive cheerleader he is and told me I should take the job. Of course I fucking should. But he also made it clear....‘Keep your pants on, keep it professional. Never fuck the boss.’ Because apparently, that’s never ended well for anyone in history. I assured him it hadn’t happened, and it wouldn’t. Josie had asked a million questions anyway, and I’d just waved her off with some nonsense about a momentary lapse in judgment. Yeah, right.
But I’m here because I need this. I like bartending, sure, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life behind a bar. I want doors opening, milestones stacking up, and a life that looks like what Josie and I have always talked about. And okay, maybe I only got this position because Bastian decided I was fuck toy material, but I can still do the work. I can still crush it. The money is insane, and the chance? Even better. It'll open doors, and then I can use those open doors to leave him in the dust.
Angie’s text from yesterday sits like a lead weight in my pocket, ‘Spoke with Mr.Steele. He says you two reached an agreement and you’re fully on board. See you at eight.’
"Agreement." Right. More like a hostage negotiation.
I push the door open and Angela’s assistant is there, looking all crisp and professional. She greets me with a polite smile and says, “This way, Mr. Winters.”
She leads me toward a massive boardroom. The second the double doors swing open, the scale of this thing hits me like a physical blow. This definitely isn't just a "modeling gig."
I'm introduced to a creative team, a marketing lead, a high-end photographer, and a social media manager already scrolling through a mockup feed.
Bastian is nowhere to be seen....
I sit at the long glass table, feeling like a counterfeit coin in a vault of gold. They walk me through the vision for the whiskey launch. It’s all "aspirational luxury" and "exclusive heritage." They talk about wardrobe fittings...tailored suits, casual luxury wear, and something called "intimate lifestyle looks," which I’m ninety percent sure involves me looking broodingly at a glass of amber liquid while half-undressed.
They throw notes at me about poses, brand aesthetics, and lighting. They mention an intro video where I’ll have to deliver lines about "craftsmanship" and "legacy." I just nod, trying to keep my face a mask of cool, professional interest while my brain screams that I’m a bartender from a small town who currently has hickeys hidden under a high-collared shirt.
"I should probably mention," I start, clearing my throat and trying to sound like I belong here, "I do have another job. I can’t exactly—"
"We know, Kaden," Angela interrupts, flashing a smile from the head of the table. "We’ve been fully briefed on your situation. Our instructions were very specific, we're to work entirely around your schedule. No conflicts."
"Instructed?" I repeat, the word tasting bitter.
"By Mr. Steele, of course."
I nod slowly, my eyes shifting toward the door. It stays shut. No predatory blue eyes. He’s the one who dragged me into this lion's den, and now he’s not even here to watch me get eaten. I should feel relieved. I should be glad I don't have to look at him after everything that's already happened. Instead, I just feel like I’m waiting for the floor to drop out from under me.
The meeting drags on for an eternity. I eventually have to pull out my phone and start taking notes, because there is zero chance I’m going to remember the difference between "aspirational legacy" and "heritage-forward luxury" by tomorrow morning.
When they finally give me the floor to speak, I feel like a deer in high-end headlights for exactly three seconds. Then, I give myself a mental slap. I’m Kaden fucking Winters. I’ve handled blackout-drunk bouncers and predatory talent agents. I can handle a room of people who probably all drink green juice for breakfast. Bastian might have rattled my cage, but I’m done being the one on the defensive. From here on out, it’s strictly professional.
So I straighten a little in my chair, lean forward, and actually start talking. About authenticity. About not making the campaign feel too polished or staged. About showing the human side of the product. And slowly, miraculously, the words start flowing.
People nod. Someone jots something down. The photographer asks a follow-up question. By the time I’m done, the deer has left the headlights and wandered back into the forest with its dignity mostly intact.
Four hours later, I’m guided into a massive wardrobe suite that looks like a high-end boutique threw up on itself. I’m stripped down to my waist, and surprisingly, the tension has actually started to bleed out of me.
The wardrobe crew is genuinely funny. They gossip while they work, tossing sarcastic comments back and forth while taking my measurements. I’ve clicked with Kit, the head of wardrobe, a tall, sharp-featured guy with silver rings on nearly every finger. And I’m actually laughing, feeling more like myself than I have in days. Maybe Bastian was serious about being professional. Maybe he’s just going to be the silent, check-signing ghost in the machine....
“Okay, spin,” Kit says, gently tugging the tape around my waist." He pauses, his eyes catching the ink running along my ribs. "Is that a barcode? Are you telling me I can just scan you and find out your retail value?"
I grin, looking down at the tattoo I got two weeks after landing in LA. I was nineteen, terrified, and trying to be edgy. It says Fragile: Handle With Care in a clean, minimalist font, and right next to it is a barcode that leads absolutely nowhere.
"Nineteen-year-old logic, Kit," I state. “It felt like something a mysterious person would have.”
Kit laughs, the tape pulling snug against my skin, and for a second, I’m just a guy in a room, living the life I wanted.
Then, the air in the room doesn't just change...it curdles. It’s like a sudden drop in pressure, the kind that happens right before a tornado levels a town. The sun is still pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I swear I feel a physical chill crawl up my spine.
All the lightness and temporary safety is incinerated in an instant. I’m hit with a tidal wave of emotions so conflicting it’s nauseating. I don’t even have to look at the door. I know the exact moment the shadow falls across the room. I know the weight of the silence that follows.
Bastian is here.