Chapter 83 What IS mine
BASTIAN'S POV
I haven’t slept. Not even for a minute. Every time I closed my eyes last night, I saw Kaden. His face, his voice...the look in his eyes right before he walked out of that room and slammed the door behind him.
And when it wasn’t that, it was something worse. Something older. So I stopped trying. Now dawn bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse while I sit at the dining table with my laptop open in front of me, answering emails that could’ve easily waited another six hours. I’ve spent the night watching the city skyline bleed from black to a bruised, sickly grey. I'm working because it's the only thing I can control. Because data doesn't have a pulse, and spreadsheets don't look at me with eyes that make me want to burn my own life to the ground. I did the right thing last night. I established the boundary. It was a necessity. If I repeat that enough, perhaps it'll eventually feel true.
I click into my inbox, skimming through emails with a growing headache pressing behind my eyes. Financial reports. Distribution updates. Meeting confirmations.
Movement catches in my peripheral vision. George appears around the corner and heads toward the kitchen without so much as glancing in my direction. Which usually means he already noticed me the second he walked in and has now decided to become even more of a fucking presence on purpose. My jaw locks. My fingers pause over the keyboard before I give him a look that should, by all rights, draw blood.
“Is there a plumbing crisis at your own house, George?” I ask, my voice like a serrated blade. “Or are you just making a dedicated effort to haunt every room I walk into lately?”
He doesn’t react, never does. The man could probably remain calm during an apocalypse. He grabs a glass from the cabinet and pours himself water. I’m fairly certain there’s bottled water in the guest suite he forcefully occupied. He takes a slow, measured sip before looking at me. “The water pressure in your guest shower is superior. It’s hard to settle for less once you’ve experienced the best.”
I’m not remotely amused. I don’t offer him the satisfaction of a retort. I simply turn back to my screen, the white light stinging. I force myself to type a reply to an acquisition inquiry. The silence stretches. Which, with George, usually means he’s gearing up to say something deeply irritating. Sure enough...
"You’re doing the right thing," he says quietly. "For both of you."
"Spare me the damn sermon," I snap. The dull throb in my shoulder pulses with a sudden, sharp heat. It’s the third time this morning. I reach for the amber bottle on the table, shake out a pill, and swallow it dry.
"How many of those does that make?" He asks, his voice devoid of judgment but heavy with observation.
I fix him with a hard, warning stare. "Mind your own business."
"I am."
I see an email from Angela and click it, desperate for the distraction. As the text loads, the chill from the floor-to-ceiling windows seems to seep into my bones. "It always hurts more when the temperature drops," I mutter, almost to myself.
His gaze sweeps over me in that clinical, protective way I’ve come to loathe. "Have you considered, I don't know....wearing a jacket?"
I look up flatly. “I’ll consider it when you consider becoming significantly less present so I can work.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. I decide to ignore him entirely. From the moment I first brought Kaden’s name to him, George has been a choir of warnings about 'fixations' and 'volatile variables.' He told me to end it. He was proven right. And yet, the resolution feels like a defeat. Every thought I have is a loop that leads back to kaden, and none of them are productive. And they now come attached to this constant undercurrent of guilt and frustration and something dangerously close to regret.
I feel like shit.
I open my mouth to tell George that I can't focus with him looming over me, but my eyes catch on the contents of Angela’s email. My gaze narrows, my focus suddenly sharpening.
The email is copied to Miller and two other creative leads. The subject line is Campaign Pivot: Phase Two.
I skim the text. My brow furrows as I read about a 'strategic shift in creative direction.' They're proposing a complete overhaul of the initial lifestyle plan, something they claim will feel 'organically visceral' and 'authentically raw' to better capture the target demographic. It’s corporate-speak for throwing the storyboard out the window.
There are attachments. I open the summary document. It’s light on details but heavy on the new 'dynamic' they’re building. And then I see it. A mention of a second lead. A co-star. My mind flashes back to the club. The redhead.
According to Angela, they believe the newer direction will create a stronger emotional connection with consumers and significantly broaden audience engagement by leaning into authenticity, sensuality, and relational storytelling.
Sensuality?....
My expression darkens further with every line. I scroll past the frantic corporate justification, my eyes landing on the video attachments. There are three clips labeled "Compressed Selects: Day One", followed by a revised schedule.
I click the first file. The next ten seconds are a form of refined torture. It’s as if the universe has decided to mock me, projecting a high-definition reminder of the sheer, unexplainable perfection I am currently trying to exorcise from my life.
Kaden steps out of a black sports car. The camera follows the movement lazily, indulgently, like it’s just as captivated as everyone else apparently is. Dark ripped denim, leather jacket open. No shirt underneath.
Bare skin. Silver chain glinting at his throat. The shot cuts closer...too close. His face fills the screen for a second and something unpleasant twists low in my chest. Because Christ..he’s beautiful.
Not in the polished way most models are after editing and perfect lighting and endless retouching. Kaden looks unfairly real. Eyes carrying that naturally reckless look that makes people stare too long without realizing they’re doing it.
The camera absolutely loves him.
I can see why Miller changed direction overnight. From a marketing standpoint, this is objectively better. More magnetic. More intimate. More... memorable.
The footage doesn’t feel manufactured, it feels alive. And that’s dangerous. My fingers flex once against the table as the clip continues. Kaden strides toward the building entrance while the camera tracks him from the front now, sharp focus lingering on every detail without shame. His chest. His hands. His mouth. The lazy confidence in his walk. I exhale slowly through my nose.
I’m not thrilled about the fact that an entire production crew now has access to footage like this. Or eventually the public. But I can still separate business from emotion when necessary. And objectively? This campaign will perform absurdly well. The visual language alone is enough to sell the fantasy. Then the scene changes to some elevator. My entire body stills. The lighting’s darker now. Moodier. Kaden's standing in the confined space, his hand braced against the wall, looming over the redhead from the club.
I feel my vision sharpen unpleasantly as the clip keeps going. Their fingers brush, the camera lingers. My jaw locks so hard it aches. I barely register George speaking somewhere nearby. She’s tracing a line down the center of his chest with the Umbra bottle, her eyes locked onto his with a hunger that's far too authentic for a damn paycheck. Kaden leans in, his face inches from hers, his expression dark and heavy with a tension so thick it’s a physical weight.
I feel a roar of possessive fury ignite in my gut, hot and suffocating. I click the footage off before I do something genuinely irrational. Like launch my laptop through the goddamn windows overlooking downtown LA. My pulse is pounding hard enough to feel uncomfortable.
I drag a hand down my face slowly before opening the attached filming schedule instead, jaw still tight. I know I should be reasonable about this....I know that. Objectively, none of what I just watched meant anything. It’s manufactured chemistry designed to sell a product.
I understand that perfectly.
Reason, however, left the building the second Miller decided to take what was mine...what IS mine...and have him practically breathing down the neck of a stranger in some cage.
What’s next? Maybe Miller wants to film him being fed grapes on a silken chaise longue by a collective of redheads? Maybe they’ll just skip ahead and shoot a fucking honeymoon campaign while they’re at it. It's absurd! It’s downright pornographic!
I scroll further down the schedule, then I stop. My expression hardens instantly. Today. 6:30 A.M. Yacht shoot.
The images my brain immediately supplies are enough to have me standing so abruptly the chair legs scrape harshly across the floor. Sunlight, water...minimal clothing. Her hands on him again.
Absolutely not.
I snatch my phone off the table and dial Angela immediately. It rings out. I call again. It goes straight to voicemail. I lower the phone slowly, jaw flexing once. I turn toward George, who is still standing by the kitchen island, watching me with the unnerving stillness of a predator.
“Get ready,” I say flatly. “We’re leaving.”
He studies me with immediate suspicion. “Where to?”
“Work.”
A beat passes. Then he asks, already sounding tired, “This is about him again, isn’t it?”
I give him a sharp look. “Can you stop treating every sentence out of my mouth like a cross-examination?”
He sets his glass down with a soft clink. He crosses his arms, leaning back against the marble. “No.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“I’m not driving you to him, Bastian. I’m not going to be an accomplice to whatever self-destructive spiral you’re currently descending into. You told him it was over. Act like it."
I stare at him, my vision blurring with a fresh wave of cold fury. "Then I suppose it’s fortunate I’m perfectly capable of operating a motor vehicle without your assistance."