Hailey
The next morning, I step off the elevator with my heart hamring against my ribs. Josh follows close behind, his hand occasionally brushing mine as we make our way through the studio.
And there, in the center of the studio, stands Marcus.
He is impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, not a hair out of place, studying a lighting diagram with laser focus. When he spots us, he rely nods, professional and distant.
"Jason. We need to discuss the backdrop for the third setup." His voice is crisp, his gaze direct—not a hint of recognition or awkwardness. "I’m thinking exposed brick instead of the white sweep."
I clear my throat. "Good morning, Marcus. Yes, exposed brick could work well with the contrast we’re going for."
He nods curtly. "And I want to try that dramatic lighting you ntioned yesterday. The client is pushing for sothing edgier."
I blink rapidly. Is he really doing this? Acting as if I didn’t catch him half-dressed in a restaurant bathroom twelve hours ago?
"Of course," I manage. "I’ll adjust the setup."
"Good." He turns to Josh, assessing him with clinical detachnt. "The stylist wants you in wardrobe imdiately. We’re starting with the leather jacket series."
Josh shoots a quick glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yes, sir."
As Marcus walks away, barking orders at a nearby assistant, Josh leans close to my ear. "Unbelievable," he whispers. "Man’s got nerves of steel."
"Shh!" I nudge him, fighting a smile. "He’ll hear you."
"I don’t think he’d acknowledge it even if he did," Josh says with a grin before heading toward wardrobe.
The day goes on. Marcus directs with his usual precision, offering terse corrections and rare approvals. Not once does he acknowledge our encounter, not even when the makeup artist from last night applies Josh’s foundation with trembling hands.
By midday, I’ve almost convinced myself I imagined the whole thing.
"This angle isn’t working," Marcus announces, studying the preview screen over my shoulder. His breath slls of mint and coffee, and I fight the urge to step away. "We need more tension. More... vulnerability."
I adjust my cara settings, hyperaware of his proximity. "What if we lower the key light and have Josh look directly at the cara? Break the fourth wall?"
Marcus considers this, then nods. "Do it."
As I reposition the lights, Tammy appears at my side, clipboard in hand. "How’s it going?" she asks, her voice low.
"Fine," I say, perhaps too quickly. "Just so lighting adjustnts."
She gives a knowing look. "Marcus seems to be in a good mood."
I nod. "I guess so."
"It seems that he likes your work. You have a great future ahead," she says.
I smile, filled with pride. "Thank you, Tammy."
Everything was going as normal but then, sothing else happens.
Just as I’m adjusting the final light and Josh is moving into position, the set stylist rushes over, lugging a sleek chro motorcycle across the floor. It’s a prop for the "leather jacket series," a last-minute client request. The tires squeak as she positions it on a glossy platform, checking angles with a practiced eye.
"Careful," I murmur, watching her wedge a wooden block under the kickstand. It looks... unstable. But before I can say anything else, Marcus is at my side.
"Cara at waist height," he instructs. "I want the jacket catching the light—here." He gestures with sharp precision.
I nod, turning to fra the shot. Josh steps up to the platform, one booted foot beside the motorcycle, his hand grazing the handlebar.
Then, in a blink—
The motorcycle slips.
The kickstand gives out, and the heavy machine crashes sideways, dragging Josh down with it. A sickening crack echoes as tal ets tile. Josh grunts, trapped underneath.
"Josh!" I shout, bolting forward.
He winces, trying to push the bike off, but it’s too heavy. Assistants scramble, and Marcus reaches him first, helping to lift the weight off Josh’s leg.
Soone’s yelling for the dic again. The sa guy as last ti.
Josh sits up, his jaw tight, his jeans torn at the knee, blood already soaking through the fabric. "It’s fine," he breathes. "Just cut . I’m fine."
But when I see the gash on his leg, my stomach knots. It’s not deep—but it’s raw and angry, and I can already see bruising spreading like storm clouds.
Marcus is silent for a long second, then turns sharply to the stylist. "Who approved that bike? Who checked the platform?!"
"I—I blocked the wheel," she stamrs. "It must’ve slipped."
"No," I say quietly, eyes scanning the floor. The platform is glossy, but there’s a faint sar—oil?
Josh follows my gaze, then ets my eyes. "That wasn’t there before."
Tammy appears behind , whispering, "You okay?"
I nod stiffly. "Yeah. But this is the second accident."
Her smile fades.
Josh’s leg is being cleaned and bandaged now, his boot removed, his face pale but steady. He waves off concern with a half-smile, but his eyes are sharp and alert now. Watching everything.
Marcus crouches beside him. "We’ll get to the bottom of this."
But Josh looks past him. Past all of us.
Right at .
And I know we’re both thinking the sa thing.
This wasn’t just bad luck.
After the chaos settles, the studio feels too quiet.
I stand frozen by my cara, my fingers still wrapped around the grip like it’s the only thing keeping grounded. Across the room, Josh sits on the edge of a crate, one pant leg rolled up while the dic wraps his injury. Blood-soaked gauze lies discarded nearby. The deep gash on his leg wasn’t life-threatening, but it was bad enough to make my stomach flip.
I should have said sothing about that motorcycle. The second I saw the block under the kickstand, I knew it wasn’t stable. But I was too focused on Marcus. Too distracted by his calm, unnervingly professional deanor—like the bathroom incident last night had been a shared hallucination.
"This wasn’t an accident," I whisper under my breath.
Tammy glances at , eyebrows raised.
"Oil," I say, nodding subtly toward the platform. "There was oil under the back tire."
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. Just looks away, troubled.
Marcus is already across the room, interrogating the stylist. His voice is clipped and cold. She keeps shaking her head, flustered and defensive, but not once does she look remorseful and just... confused. And afraid.
I turn back toward Josh. He’s looking at the floor, his jaw set tight. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying to hold sothing back—pain, frustration, or maybe just the realization that soone might want to hurt him.
This is the second accident in two days.
And Josh knows it too. I can see it in the way he scans the room, how his eyes linger on people’s hands and feet, how he tracks their movents. A model doesn’t get that paranoid unless he’s used to being watched. Or threatened.
When the dic finishes, Josh stands. Slowly. He winces but waves off the hovering assistant with a calm "I’m fine." His calm feels forced. Dangerous, even.
" Take today off," Marcus says, stepping in.
Josh ets his eyes. "If this is soone trying to rattle , I’m not giving them that power."
Marcus studies him for a beat. Then nods. "Use the stool. Keep your weight off that leg."
He turns to the crew. "Check the props. All of them. I want this place swept."
Everyone moves fast, a few casting worried glances in Josh’s direction. I finally exhale, then move toward him with a bottle of water and a racing heart.
"Here," I say, handing it to him.
He takes it, our fingers brushing. I see it then—the sharpness in his eyes. He’s not scared. He’s analyzing. Calculating. Just like .
"I’m not paranoid," he murmurs.
"I know," I reply, voice barely audible. "I saw it too."
A beat passes between us.
"We should be more careful," I say.
Josh nods slowly. "Yeah. Starting now."
I know that look. The set may have returned to normal, but sothing has shifted. No more pretending this is a coincidence. Soone is playing a dangerous ga.
And I have a terrible feeling they are not done yet.
~-~
Later that night, I’m curled up on the floor of my bedroom, laptop open in front of , my back resting against the edge of my bed. A soft indie playlist hums from the speaker on my dresser, but I barely hear it. The photos from today’s shoot flash across my screen one by one, but they all blur together—until I stop at that fra.
The one taken just seconds before the crash.
I zoom in.
There it is again. A shimr. Barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it. The faint slick of sothing on the floor just beneath the motorcycle’s rear wheel. Oil. I know it is.
I swallow hard, my pulse thudding in my throat. My fingers tremble slightly as I scroll back and forth, replaying the mont in my mind—the way the platform glead, the odd squeak of the tires, the instant the kickstand gave way. I should have said sothing sooner. Should have trusted my gut.
A soft knock at my door jolts . I pause the music, eyes darting to the clock. Nearly 11 p.m.
The door creaks open.
Josh steps inside, his dark hoodie slightly rumpled, his bandaged leg visible beneath a pair of flannel pajama shorts. He’s carrying two mugs, steam curling into the air.
"I brought hot chocolate," he says gently. "Didn’t think you’d be sleeping either."
I blink. "Hot chocolate?"
He grins and walks over, handing a mug, and settles beside on the floor without waiting for an invitation. His leg stretches out awkwardly, but he doesn’t complain.
I stare down at the mug. It slls like cinnamon and cocoa. "Thanks," I murmur.
Josh takes a sip of his and looks toward the laptop screen. "Still obsessing?"
"Yes," I admit. "Look." I angle the screen toward him, rewinding to the exact mont again.
He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. "There," he says softly, pointing. "That glint."
I nod. "It’s oil. It wasn’t there when the stylist first rolled the bike in. I checked the earlier shots. It appears just before the crash."
He exhales through his nose, rubbing his jaw. "So soone added it."
"Looks that way," I say. "Deliberate. Calculated. They waited until we weren’t watching."
Josh goes quiet, eyes scanning the screen. "Do you think it was ant for ? Or just to ss with the shoot?"
I look at him. "It was ant for you."
His gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips, just for a second.
And then—he kisses .
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