Chapter 43 Disappearing act
There's a thrill in it, and God, I hate myself for it. I hate how aware I am of it.
Of him.
Of the way my body responds...straighter posture, sharper focus, a little more edge in my movements. Like I’m trying to prove something without even knowing what it is. It feeds something ugly. A fucked-up, ego-driven sense of pride that he’s sitting in a dark corner and watching me. It’s bizarre and twisted, but I can feel his eyes on me like a physical touch, and I can’t shake the electricity it puts in my blood.
I play the part. I’m charming, I’m distant, I’m exactly what the brand wants. I lean into it, fueled by the knowledge that I have a private audience of one.
"And that’s a wrap! Great work, everyone!" Miller’s voice eventually booms through the silence.
The house lights, the real ones, slam on with a blinding, clinical white. The illusion of the club shattered in an instant. Voices pick up. Crew starts moving. Extras break character.
I have to narrow my eyes against the sudden onslaught, blinking back the spots in my vision. My first instinct, the one I haven't been able to suppress all night, is to turn toward that VIP booth.
I look.
The space is vacant. The leather is smooth, the shadows are gone, and there isn't a single trace that he was ever there. My heart doesn't just sink, it drops like it’s been cut loose, hitting the floor with a hollow thud. The thrill from ten seconds ago evaporates, leaving me standing in a tacky, silent club, feeling suddenly, ridiculously alone.
I exhale, sharp, trying to shake it off, trying to convince myself it doesn’t mean anything. That it shouldn’t mean anything. But my eyes linger there for a second too long anyway. I’m still holding the prop glass. I set it down on the marble bar with a hand that’s slightly less steady than it was during the take, then I stand and walk away.
While the other models use a shared space, tripping over garment bags and smelling each other's hairspray, I get a secluded VIP washroom all to myself. It’s one of those tiny, glaring details of preferential treatment I’ve spent days pretending not to notice. I just hope the rest of the crew assumes it's because I’m the "face" of the brand and not because I’ve been jerking the boss off on his desk.
But right now, as I step into the marble-lined washroom, my skin is prickling. Every instinct I own is on high alert, screaming at me that this is a trap. I’m completely sure...not just guessing, but sure, that Bastian is going to corner me in here. The guy has a flair for the dramatic and a total lack of respect for boundaries. I’m braced for it. I’m expecting the door to fly open.
And God, I’m apparently a complete idiot, because part of me is actually hoping for it.
I hate that my own mind is backstabbing me like this. I shouldn't want it, but the four-day drought has done something to my wiring.
I take my sweet time slipping out of the tailored black jacket. My entire system is tuned to the door, listening for the heavy, confident click of the handle.
I can almost see him, smug as hell, hands tucked into those perfect suit pockets, watching me with that look that says he already knows he's won.
My imagination starts running wild, I can practically feel his hands on me already, rough and possessive. I’m picturing being pressed up against the cold marble by that arrogant son of a bitch, feeling his hard cock poking at me through his expensive trousers. Just the mental image has me getting hot and bothered, a low, heavy heat settling in my gut. I swallow hard, my hand mindlessly stroking over my own hardening cock once I’m down to just my boxers.
I start to put on my own clothes, but I do it slower than I ever have.
I’m lingering.
I’m anticipating.
My attention keeps snapping back to the door, waiting for the handle to turn.
Any second now.
Any second....
I feel like I’ve officially lost my fucking mind, standing in a bathroom waiting to be ambushed by a man who isn't even here.
I finish dressing. I fix my hair. I check the mirror one last time. Nothing. No one walks through the door, no heavy footsteps in the hall.
I pick up my bag, the silence of the room suddenly feeling like a mockery. I walk to the door and pull it open, half-convinced he’ll be standing right there in the hallway, leaning against the wall with a smirk. But the hallway is empty, he's nowhere in sight.
The disappointment that hits me is baffling, it’s a physical weight in my chest. And right behind it is a surge of white-hot anger directed solely at myself. 'You absolute pathetic loser,' I think, my grip tightening on my bag strap. I’m standing here pining for a man who probably just saw what he wanted and went back to his house to sleep like a baby. I head for the exit, my jaw set so tight it aches. I’m done, I’m over the games.
I walk out of the club, and the cool night air hits me like a slap to the face. My head is a mess. An amalgamation of things I shouldn't be feeling. I keep replaying that last afternoon in his office, the way the air had gone still, the way he’d looked at me like I was the only thing holding him together. Then he vanishes. Four days of silence followed by him lurking in the shadows of a VIP booth like a fucking gargoyle.
Just who the hell did I get involved with? Was I just a little diversion until the billionaire got bored and decided to move on to the next shiny thing? The anger is sharp, but the hurt behind it is worse because it’s so misplaced. I have no right to feel this way, we aren't anything.
But whatever this thing is between us, it doesn’t make sense anymore. It’s not just physical, not just that heat and tension. There’s something else creeping in, something I don’t understand and don’t trust.
And I don’t like not understanding things.
I’m halfway across the lot, my shoes hitting the pavement in a fast stomp, when my pace falters.
He’s there.
He’s leaning against my car looking like he belongs in a different universe. My heart rate doesn't just pick up, it hits a frantic tempo that makes my ribs ache. My breathing hitches, and I instinctively glance around the lot. It’s dark, illuminated only by a few yellow streetlights, but there are still people moving around...extras laughing as they head to their rides, crew members tossing gear into vans.
I tighten my grip on the strap of my backpack as I force myself to keep moving.
I stop a few feet away. He's leaning against the passenger side door, his suit jacket completely gone. It’s been tossed onto the hood of my car, looking like a discarded skin. He’s just in his shirt, the sleeves rolled up, his gaze lowered as if he’s studying the gravel at his feet.
I take a cautious step closer, my shadow stretching out toward him. I wait for the smug remark, the sharp wit, the predatory smirk that usually defines him.
"Thought I saw you in there," I say finally, my voice sounding more steady than I feel. I don't move any closer. I just stand there, caught between the dumb urge to bring up the disappearing act and the terrifyingly strong impulse to walk straight into his space.