Chapter 6 Blindsided
Dear Kaden,
We are preparing to launch a new phase of our Umbra marketing campaign.
After much consideration, we’ve decided to move forward with you as the face of the campaign.
We believe your look and energy align perfectly with the direction we’re pursuing.
Please reply at your earliest convenience if this is something you’d be interested in discussing further....
My brain refuses to process it. This isn’t some sketchy Gmail address. It’s official, corporate and polished. I’m sure I’m hallucinating. Josie snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? Earth to Kaden?”
I don’t respond. Because I’m reading it again.
After much consideration...
Much consideration? I didn’t even fucking audition.
“What exactly are you staring at?” Josie asks, narrowing her eyes.
“I...” I trail off.
My thumb scrolls down again, looking for the catch. The “just kidding.” The “we regret to inform you.” There’s nothing, just a clean, professional signature and contact information. I let out a quiet laugh. It sounds borderline unhinged.
She steps closer. “Dude, you're legit freaking me out right now.”
I tilt the screen toward her, she reads. Her mouth falls open.
“No,” she whispers.
She looks at me slowly and I stare at the screen again. I’ve chased campaigns. I’ve emailed agencies. I’ve sat in cold waiting rooms trying not to sweat through borrowed confidence. And now this just lands in my lap like fate decided to stop playing hard to get?
There’s a beat of silence, then Josie lets out a sharp, unrestrained squeal and launches herself at me, grabbing fistfuls of my hoodie. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, dragging me with her.
“Kaden!” she breathes, eyes wide and electric. “Do you understand how monumental this is? This is the kind of thing agents beg for! We're talking corporate contract money!”
I stare at the email for what feels like forever. My world has narrowed to this screen, these words, and the choice blinking at me.... “reply now.”
I do.
Angela Morris called me less than an hour later.
Not an assistant. Not a scheduler. Her personally. She thanked me for responding so quickly, said they were very interested in discussing the opportunity further.
Today.
As in....could I come in this afternoon?
I remember gripping my phone a little tighter, trying to sound calm, like powerhouse brands called me directly all the time. I told her yes, of course, I’d be there. She even offered to send a car to pick me up from my address.
Which was either extremely high-end corporate hospitality....or the beginning of a Netflix documentary about how I disappeared. Now it’s four hours later, and I’m sitting in her sleek and intimidating office. This feels like whiplash. Had she suggested we meet somewhere neutral, I would’ve immediately assumed I was being scammed. But this is the actual distillery property.
Don’t these things take time? A process? Interviews, screen tests, contracts drafted by people who bill by the minute? They’re a powerhouse, they can afford celebrities. Athletes. Big hotshot names with verified checkmarks and private chefs.
So why me?
Maybe I’m about to be politely told there’s been a misunderstanding and security will escort me out.
God. I’m freaking out. Josie spent twenty aggressive minutes picking my outfit. We landed on dark, tailored trousers, a fitted charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled once at the forearms and white spotless sneakers. Cool without screaming ‘I TRIED TOO HARD’.
Angela hadn’t even asked me to bring anything, but I’ve got my portfolio and documents sitting on the desk. I’ve done shoots, I’ve done small campaigns and brand collaborations. But this is huge. The door opens again, and Angela walks back in, papers in hand. She looks frazzled. Not the cool, composed executive I’d imagined. She’s clearly been moving at a hundred miles an hour since I got here.
“Thank you again for coming in on such short notice,” she says, a hint of apology in her voice. “I know it’s not ideal, you haven’t had much time to prep.”
I manage a small, easy shrug, trying to sound casual even though my pulse is doing its own drumline. “Completely fine. Honestly, I’m honored to even be considered.”
A brief chuckle escapes her as she slides into her seat. She leans back slightly, shuffles her papers, then meets my eyes.
“This is going to be our most ambitious launch yet,” she says, cutting straight to the point. “So I’ll skip the niceties. We’re not just looking for someone to pose for a few ads or a commercial. We need someone to embody the brand. Represent it publicly. Attend high-profile events. Be the visual identity of Umbra.”
My brain stutters.
“Uh, you mean like... really public?” I ask, trying to mask the part of me that’s internally screaming. I’m pretty sure roles like that are reserved for celebrities. Not a guy who bartends.
“Yes,” she says, perfectly serious. “Exactly that.”
I clear my throat, trying to keep it calm. “If it’s okay to ask, how did I.... come to your attention?”
Her gaze sharpens for a beat, assessing me. Then she tilts her head and gives that unreadable corporate smile. “Let’s just say we monitor emerging talent closely.”
I blink. “Right, of course.”
She opens a folder and slides a set of visual boards across the desk. My eyes track them immediately.....dark tailoring, sharp lighting, intimate close-ups. Every image screams sleek and refined.
“This is the vibe we’re going for,” she says, voice clipped and professional. “It’s high-end, bold, seductive in a subtle way. We’re moving fast, so I need you to consider this carefully. Once you commit, there’s no backing out. The campaign will be demanding. Long hours, complete brand exclusivity.”
I nod, lips pressed together, trying to keep pace with her words, but then my gaze catches on the contract she slid over. My eyes scan the fine print... and then freeze. The number hits me like a sucker punch. I look up at her, and she meets my gaze evenly, calm as ever. Then I look back down, just to make sure I actually read it right.
Yeah. I did.
“Of course,” she says, giving me a small, almost apologetic smile. “If you need time to think it over, you can have it. But....” she tilts her head slightly, eyes sharp, “like I mentioned, we’re moving fast. If I reach out to the second person on my list and they say yes, we’ll have to proceed with them instead.”
I blink up at her, mind still spinning from the number of zeros.
“And I’d much prefer to go with my first choice,” the corners of her mouth tug upward in a way that makes her sound charming instead of corporate.
This will help a ton. Especially with everything I’ve got going on right now....aka my ex pulling a disappearing act with most of my cash.
Pisses me off just thinking about it!
And if I take time to consider, it'll be as good as gone. I pick up the pen, heart hammering, and quickly sign my name on the main line.
“Good,” she says, pointing out a few more spots that need my initials. Once I’m done, she gathers the documents with a practiced motion, straightening them neatly. “Perfect. I’ll take these up to Legal, make sure everything’s in order.”
I nod, still sitting, watching her move with that professional ease.
“Hang tight, I'll be back in a second to give you a brief walkthrough.”
My pulse is still racing as I watch her leave the room, the door clicking softly behind her. The second it shuts, I’m on my feet.
I stride straight to the floor-to-ceiling window, phone already in my hand.
I open Josie’s chat and type, ‘We might be eating out later without worrying about bankruptcy.’
Outside, the property stretches, rolling manicured grounds. Low stone buildings. Private drive curving toward wrought iron gates. I wonder how many acres this is.
And then it hits me. I just signed a contract with a company I know almost nothing about.
I unlock my phone again and search quickly. Eclipse Distilling. Corporate site pops up first, I quickly read and scroll.
Established decades ago. Family-owned. Traditional methods. Then...
Acquired and rebranded six years ago by entrepreneur Bastian Steele.
I frown slightly, there's articles. Business features. Industry interviews. And then my thumb pauses mid-swipe. There’s a photo down the page. Just a sliver of it at first. Something about it makes my stomach drop.
Very slowly, I continue scrolling. My heart starts hammering harder with every inch. And then I see the full image.
My mouth falls open.
Chilly blue eyes. Stern mouth. That same sharp, controlled expression I’d seen under low club lighting. I’m staring at the face of the man from last night. The man who looked at me like he was undressing me in stages.
Bastian Steele...
The door suddenly opens behind me. I whip around so fast I nearly drop my phone. And there he is. Not a photo on a screen, him. In a perfectly tailored dark suit. Those same icy blue eyes land on mine. And suddenly I’m very aware that I just signed a contract with the man who watched me like I was something he wanted to own.