Chapter 39 Boundaries
When I get to the room, I skip the pleasantries and go straight for the apology. The space is a beehive of activity. I spot a few new faces, models who look like they were grown in a lab specifically to sell lifestyle aspirations, all clustered in the wardrobe corner. We're shooting some short ads for social media today. Angela lowers her phone, a small, relieved smile tugging at her mouth as she catches Kit’s eye.
"There you are," she says, her tone more 'found-lost-puppy' than 'angry-boss.'
"Seriously, I’m sorry," I mutter, weaving through a forest of C-stands. They don't seem to mind that I'm late. I give a weak, grateful smile and head for the styling station. The other four new models are already under the bright lights.
“Hey,” I greet as I step into the cluster. There's two guys and two girls...and yeah, they look effortlessly put together. The kind of people who look like they belong in front of a camera even when they’re just standing around holding coffee. One of them gives me a nod. Another offers a quick “hi” before going back to their phone.
Kit wanders over as I’m unshouldering my gear, his eyes dropping to the worn case in my hand. "Bringing your own soundtrack today?" He asks with a dry chuckle, gesturing to an empty swivel chair.
I huff out a quiet laugh as I set it down carefully beside the chair. “Emotional support,” I say, sinking into the chair and letting the stylist go to work on my hair.
I let out a long, slow breath, closing my eyes as the cold touch of a makeup sponge hits my skin. I need to be here.
I try my best to focus. Run through the brief in my head. The shots, the angles, the tone they want. Where to stand, how to move, what I’m supposed to deliver to make this whole thing land the way it’s supposed to.
Professional. Controlled. Perfect.
But it’s hard to concentrate when my brain is stuck in a loop. Because instead of any of that, all I can think about is him. The weight of his hand on my chest. The way it held me there like I wasn’t going anywhere unless he let me. That stupid, knowing smirk. Those sharp, distracting blue eyes that always look like they see too much and not enough at the same time.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. Yeah...Not exactly ideal for focus.
And it shows. Badly.
I mess up the first take, miss my mark by half a step, throw off the timing, the whole thing feels off. We reset. I tell myself to get it together. Second take is worse. I overcorrect, stiffen up, end up looking like I’ve never stood in front of a camera a day in my life.
“Hey,” Miller says, lowering the camera slightly, brows pulling together. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I answer a little too quickly, forcing a nod. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He studies me for a second like he doesn’t quite buy it, then gives a short nod. “Alright. Let’s go again.”
I step back into position, jaw tight. Because what the hell is this? Yesterday, I handled it. I walked out of that office after...everything... clocked in, and worked like nothing happened. Like I wasn’t still buzzing under my skin.
But today I feel off, wired wrong. Like something shifted and didn’t settle back into place. And I hate it. Whatever this is started last night at the club, and now it’s bleeding into everything else, and I hate that even more. I roll my shoulders once, exhale slow, and step back into frame.
Focus.
Third take, I shut it all off. Everything. Him, the tension, the way my body reacts like it’s got a mind of its own. I lock in on what I know...angles, posture, timing. Where the light hits, how to move just enough without overdoing it. The rhythm of it comes back, muscle memory kicking in like it never left. This is what I’m good at. This is what I can control. And I lean into it.
In the back of my mind, though, there’s one thought that doesn’t quite go away. This thing with Bastian has to stop. Because the second it starts messing with my focus like this, it’s a fucking problem.
A few hours later, we wrap. It took a bit to find a rhythm with the others at first. Everyone was a little stiff, figuring each other out, stepping around each other’s space like we were all waiting to see who settles where. But eventually, it clicked. The tension eased, the shots started flowing, people loosened up.
By the end of it, it actually feels easy. Like we’ve been doing this longer than a few hours. And for the first time all day, my head feels quiet again. The rhythm of it all is a vacuum that sucks out all the noise Bastian Steele has been making in my skull.
I head to the vanity, aggressively swiping the base and concealer off my face with a damp cloth until my skin is raw and real again. I take off the designer clothes, pull on my own worn jeans and t-shirt, and instinctively reach for the corner where I’d tucked my violin, only....
The space is empty.
I freeze, my hand hovering in mid-air. For a second, my brain just stalls. Like it hasn’t caught up yet. Then my gaze sharpens, scanning the immediate area. Someone probably moved it. Shifted things around. It happens, I tell myself, but the lie doesn't stick. My heart starts a slow, heavy pound against my ribs.
"Has anyone seen a black violin case?" I ask, my voice sounding tight. The two guys shake their heads almost immediately. One of the girls does that half-turn, looking around like maybe it’ll magically appear if she tries hard enough.
A few more glances. A couple shrugs.
That useless, 'we’re helping but not really' kind of energy.
"Anyone?" I ask, louder this time, the sharp edge of panic starting to fray my tone. "It was right here."
"Oh, Mr. Steele’s P.A. grabbed it," one of the stylists says casually, not even looking up from her kit as she organizes her brushes.
I blink, the air leaving my lungs. "What?"
She just shrugs, indifferent. "I asked and she said it was for safekeeping. Said you’d know where to grab it from when you were done."
I stand perfectly still for three seconds, trying very hard to contain the white-hot surge of anger threatening to boil over. My violin is more a part of me than my own shadow. Not even Josie touches it, and she’s the closest thing I have to a sister...aside from my actual sister.
And that bastard just had it confiscated?!
I don't say another word. I grab the rest of my gear, shoving my phone into my pocket, and head straight for the door. I'm fueled by a singular, burning focus. I have a very clear image of Bastian’s office in my head. If there's so much as a microscopic scratch on the varnish when I get there...
He’s about to find out exactly where my line is drawn.