Chapter 42 Ninety-six hours
It’s been four days since I last saw Bastian Steele.
Four days since he locked me in his office, held me like I was the only thing keeping him upright, and proceeded to ruin my senses with a kiss that I’ve spent roughly ninety-six hours trying not to replay.
Not that I’m keeping track....I’m not. That would imply I care, and I very clearly, objectively, don’t.
Yesterday, I overheard Angela on a call, casually mentioning something about him being on an impromptu work trip. Something urgent, something that couldn’t wait. The kind of thing that sounds important enough to justify disappearing without a word.
I haven’t made a big deal out of it. I haven't checked the business headlines, and I certainly haven't spent any time wondering if the air is as cold as his eyes wherever he is. I’m far too busy living my remarkably well-scheduled life to care about the migratory patterns of moody billionaires.
Except for the things I can’t help but notice. Like how I’ve seen his P.A. around the building within the past couple of days. Not in a frantic, running-around-doing-important-things kind of way. Just present. Like she’s waiting for instructions that aren’t coming.
It’s odd. Don’t wealthy workaholics travel with their assistants tucked into their breast pockets? If Bastian is truly halfway across the world, why isn't his shadow with him?
It’s Sunday, and I’m back on the clock. There were some last-minute issues with the equipment, something about calibration and lighting rigs not syncing properly, and Miller actually told us we could call it, come back tomorrow night instead. Most of them considered it. A couple of extras even left. But I stayed because I’ve got nothing better to do. And because being here, under harsh lights and constant direction and people telling me where to stand and how to breathe, is easier than being alone with my own head.
Easier than circling back to things I’ve already decided I don’t care about.
So here I am. Standing in the middle of a club, looking around at polished marble floors, low ambient lighting, and a bar stocked with bottles that look more like display pieces than something you’d actually drink.
It’s high-end in that effortless, almost obnoxious way. And I don’t get the logic, I really don’t. Bastian owns Orphic. He could've shut it down for a night, let us shoot in a space he already controls, and saved a fortune on location fees. Instead, he’s paying to rent out a competitor’s space.
But what do I know? I’m just the "talent" meant to look broody and expensive while leaning against a bar I can't afford.
I’m sitting at the far end of the lounge, watching the crew scramble around a camera rig. The club is empty, save for us, but the silence feels heavy. This is the last night of the "commercial" phase. After tonight, we have a two-day break before diving into the "lifestyle" section.
I let out a long breath, my thumb tracing the edge of my phone in my pocket. No messages. Not that I’m looking.
"We’re back up!" Miller shouts from the dance floor, his voice echoing off the walls. To pull off the high-end club vibe, Miller didn’t just hire a few bodies....he populated the space with a small army of extras. It’s actually impressive. It’s a scene plucked straight from my subconscious of what a high-energy club feels like. There are people leaning into each other's ears, shouting silent jokes into the void, and waitresses in silk vests weaving through the crowd with trays of glowing, fake cocktails. The lighting rig is doing the heavy lifting, washing the room in pulses of deep violet and amber that make the ceilings look like they’re breathing.
Honestly, once the cameras start rolling, the tension in my shoulders actually melts. It’s not even weird. I spend six nights a week submerged in Orphic’s neon pulse. My brain is practically hard-wired for this. The scent of dry ice and floor wax is my natural habitat.
I’m dressed in black-on-black-on-black. A tailored silk shirt with the top three buttons abandoned, pressed trousers and a sharp coat. Even the cologne they spritzed on me is part of the branding, something heavy and woody, as if the production team thinks the viewers will be able to smell the cedar through their screens.
The only thing missing is the actual vibration. There’s a "DJ" on the riser, his hands moving over a silent deck. The extras are dancing to a beat that exists only in their own heads, their bodies swaying in a ghostly, synchronized rhythm. It’s jarring to see people "raging" in total silence. I catch myself wishing there was actual music...something, anything, to drown out the sound of my own head.
"And... action!" Miller’s voice cuts through the quiet.
I take my position. The lens is pinned on me, tracking my movement as I cut through the crowd with a calculated, predatory grace. I weave through the dancing extras, my gaze fixed and unbothered, until I reach the bar. The bartender slides a heavy crystal glass toward me...no ice, just two fingers of Umbra. Instead of the cliché move of knocking it back, I do exactly what we rehearsed.
I don't even pick up the glass. I lean in, resting my forearms on the cool marble of the bar, and just catch the rim with my thumb. I slide the glass an inch toward me as I look directly into the camera lens. It’s a silent hook. It’s supposed to say the drink isn't the only prize, the person holding it is as well.
I hold the gaze, feeling the weight of the lights and the silent, pulsing crowd behind me. I’m locked in. I’m the perfect product.
But as I hold the pose, waiting for the "cut," I catch a movement in the shadows over by the VIP booths. A silhouette that’s too still, too anchored, to be an extra. My focus wavers for a split second. I know those shoulders. I know that specific brand of stillness.
The second I register him, my internal equilibrium just vanishes. It’s been four days. Ninety-six hours of me playing the "I don't give a damn" card, and one glimpse of him in the dark sends a spike of genuine panic through my chest. But right behind the panic is this other feeling, something warm and pathetic that I refuse to name because it feels way too much like relief.
Bastian eventually takes a seat in one of the deep velvet booths, melting back into the shadows. He doesn't move. He just sits there like a ghost. I’m fairly certain the rest of the crew, the normal people with actual functioning brains, haven't even realized he’s in the building. To them, he's just another shadow in a dark club. To me, he's the only thing in the room with a pulse.
I force myself to block him out. I have to. I go through the motions, hitting my marks and holding my gaze for the lens, but there’s this new layer of nerves under my skin. Knowing he’s watching changes the air. It makes every movement feel international, every tilt of my head feel like a dare.