Chapter 30 Fixated
Nine a.m.
I didn’t sleep. Not even for a second. The city moved, the sky shifted, the hours passed...and I lay there staring at the ceiling like something inside me had been peeled open and left exposed.
My phone buzzed at some point and I grabbed it off the nightstand with more irritation than intention.
Kaden, three words....‘Are you okay?’
Just that, and something about it still sits wrong in my chest. There was something so fragile about the text. A genuine, unrefined confusion that bled through the screen. Too soft. Too careful. Like he was reaching out to something breakable and didn’t want to push too hard.
I deleted the text and locked the screen without replying. As far as I’m concerned, last night’s breakdown didn't happen. It was a fever dream. A temporary lapse in the structural integrity of my life.
The car rolls to a stop, gravel crunching under the tires as we pull up by the distillery grounds. I spot his car immediately. The beat-up sedan sticks out among polished black SUVs and imported engines. It’s out of place. And yet something about it pulls at me. Like a thread hooked into my ribs.
“I think you should–” George starts.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe me, I don’t care. I step out before he can say anything else, the morning air hitting sharper than it should. My head feels heavy, my body worse.
Too wired.
Too awake.
Too aware.
I adjust my cuffs, then my tie, smoothing it down with practiced precision. My reflection flashes briefly in the car window....composed, put together, exactly as I should be. I run a hand through my hair, fixing what doesn’t need fixing.
I then reach into my breast pocket, pull out the small amber pill bottle, and shake one out. I swallow it dry, the bitter tang a welcome distraction, before reaching for a bottle of water on the console to wash away the chemical grit. The edge in my body dulls almost instantly. Not gone, it's never gone. But manageable....Contained.
I exhale slowly, then my eyes drift back to the lot, to his car. My jaw tightens again. I do the math without meaning to. Call time was eight. Kaden closed the bar at four. That gives him....what? Three hours of sleep? Maybe less? My grip tightens slightly around the bottle.
He shouldn’t be here. Angela should’ve pushed the schedule. I should’ve told her to. I should’ve....I cut the thought off. It’s irrelevant. He’s here, working, and that’s all that matters.
The shoot is being held on the far side of the property, near the old oak groves where the light is currently hitting the distillery’s limestone walls in a way that photographers sell their souls for. I tell myself I’m going to my office. I tell myself I have emails to reply and a board to placate.
But there’s something, a tether I can't see but can definitely feel, pulling me toward the grove. It’s a physical ache, a gravitational yank toward the one person who saw me break. I fight the urge, there’s no reason for me to go there right now. Everything is already set. Angela’s handling it. The team knows what they’re doing.
There is absolutely no reason for me to...
My fingers tighten at my sides, this is ridiculous. I turn slightly, like I might head back toward the main building. Like I might choose sense, but my feet don’t move.
I mutter a curse under my breath, low and irritated, and start walking toward the grove.
I’ve signed off on campaigns worth fortunes. Killed better ones without blinking. Sat through pitch after pitch....sleek, forgettable, overproduced fantasies pretending to be something real. This one was different, or it was supposed to be.
A controlled and intentional sequence. A slow bleed into the market.
Distillery first, then lifestyle, then nightlife. And finally, luxury.
Different faces for each phase. Carefully selected, calculated appeal. It would’ve worked, it should’ve worked. Then I walked into that club and saw him. And just like that, every version of the campaign I approved stopped making sense. I called Angela before I even made it back to the car.
Told her we’re not doing multiple models anymore. There’d be no series of faces. No rotation, no safe progression. Just him.
Kaden Winters, front to back. Every phase. Every frame. I put him in the spotlight alone because I couldn't stand the thought of anyone else sharing the frame with that kind of magnetism.
I can hear them before I see them. Voices carrying across the property. Direction, correction, the sound of production in motion. I round the corner, already knowing what I’m going to walk into. Already seeing it in my head. I stop several feet away from the perimeter, my heart rate picking up a rhythm that has nothing to do with the caffeine or the pills.
I’ve seen the mood boards. I’ve approved the lighting plots. I knew exactly what this was supposed to look like, yet the reality of it knocks the air out of my lungs.
Kaden is standing by a stack of charred oak barrels, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Damp hair pushed back like someone’s been running their hands through it again and again. The light catches on his skin, on the line of his throat, on the slow flex of muscle in his forearms as he adjusts his grip on the barrel they’ve positioned him next to.
They’re talking him through it. The director, a man named Miller who usually knows better than to touch the talent, has a hand on Kaden’s shoulder, leaning in a bit too close to give him notes....too familiar, too comfortable, like proximity will make the shot better.
I don’t like that.
Don’t like how easily Kaden lets it happen either. Like this is normal. Like people just get to fucking touch him.
Someone from makeup rushes in. Spray bottle in hand.
“Hold on...just—”
She doesn’t need to touch his face. There’s no reason for it. And yet her fingers curl along his jaw anyway, tilting his head slightly as she mists his hair like she’s got any right to decide how he looks.
My jaw tightens.
Kaden says something, too low for me to catch. Whatever it is makes her laugh, soft and easy, like she’s already decided she likes him. She shakes her head, steps back, and disappears just as quickly as she came. I don’t miss the way she looks at him when she leaves.
I don’t miss any of it.
He’s asking questions now. Focused, actually listening. Head tilted just slightly, eyes locked on the director as he nods along, adjusting his stance when he’s told, shifting his grip, rolling his shoulders back like he’s been doing this for years.
If he’s nervous, he’s hiding it well. There’s no hesitation in him. No uncertainty in the way he moves, the way he holds himself, the way he exists in the space like he belongs here. Like he was built for it.
My gaze drops, tracing the line of his worn blue jeans, the way they hug his thighs, the way he stands with a grounded, unbothered confidence. The shift of muscle when he moves.
I drag my gaze back up.
Forearms flexing, veins just visible beneath his skin as he adjusts his grip again. And then his face. Focused and controlled. Slightly set in a way that makes him look...Christ.
He looks unholy.
Not polished or refined. Not like something you put behind glass and admire from a distance.
He looks like something you shouldn’t touch. Something that ruins you the second you do. My pulse kicks harder, too fast and too aware. And suddenly I know that changing the campaign wasn’t a calculated decision. It wasn’t strategy or instinct sharpened by years of experience.
It was this exact moment. This exact sight. The way he stands there, unaware of what he’s doing just by existing in my line of sight. He's a mistake, a very expensive one.
And I still don’t take my eyes off him.