Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 110: First Time

Hailey

The second I step out of the subway, the scent of roasted peanuts and hot garbage hits me like a punch.

I wrinkle my nose, shifting my weight to keep my oversized portfolio balanced on my hip. My boots scrape against the curb as I cross into Williamsburg, weaving between food carts and moody hipsters with earbuds and tote bags.

This is it.

New York.

The city I’ve dreamed about since I was sixteen, sketching gowns in the margins of my biology notebook.

I finally made it. I call Vivian.

"I’m in Brooklyn," I tell her as soon as she picks up. "About ten minutes from the hotel, I think."

"Perfect timing. The creative director just finished another meeting." There’s a shuffling of papers on her end. "How was your flight?"

I think about my mad dash through the terminal, the last-second boarding, and Josh’s motorcycle rescue. A strange flutter ripples through my stomach at the memory of his crooked smile.

"It was... eventful," I manage. "But I made it."

"Good. Get settled in, and we’ll see you at the studio tomorrow morning at nine. The address is in your welcome packet."

I hang up and adjust my grip on the portfolio. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows between the buildings as I navigate the unfamiliar streets. My phone buzzes with a text from Sarah:

"How’s the big city? Send pictures!"

I smile and snap a quick shot of the Brooklyn skyline, adding: "Made it! Still can’t believe this is happening."

"Have fun in NY!" Sarah wrote.

I tuck my phone away and continue walking, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened at the mention of Josh’s name. I have more important things to focus on than some motorcycle-riding charmer with perfect hair.

Like the fact that tomorrow, I’ll be directing a photoshoot for one of the biggest fashion magazines in the country.

The hotel lobby is sleek and minimalist—all concrete and glass with potted succulents strategically placed on floating shelves. Not the kind of place I’d normally stay, but Luxe is footing the bill.

"Checking in," I tell the receptionist. "Hailey Jameson."

She hands me a key card and a thick manila envelope. "Your welcome package from Luxe Magazine arrived earlier. Enjoy your stay."

My room is on the sixth floor—a corner unit with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the East River. I drop my bags and stand motionless, taking it all in. The king-sized bed with its crisp white duvet. The designer lamp shaped like a bird. The complimentary bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket.

This is really happening.

I tear open the manila envelope. Inside is a detailed schedule for the week, contact information, a map of the studio, and a note from the creative director: "Hailey—Looking forward to seeing your vision come to life. Don’t hold back. —Marcus"

I collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow I’ll meet Marcus Winters, the legendary creative director who oversees Luxe.

I stare up at the ceiling, my heart thudding steadily beneath my ribs. Marcus Winters. The name alone carries weight because he’s the type of legend people whisper about in fashion school. Known for his ruthless eye, unpredictable mood swings, and a genius that could make or break careers. He once shut down an entire shoot because the lighting was "too apologetic," whatever that means.

And now I’m meeting him tomorrow.

The girl who barely scraped together enough to buy her first camera is about to pitch a vision to him. I let out a breath, part nerves, part disbelief.

What is he like in real life? Intimidating, probably. Charismatic, definitely. He’s the kind of man who could walk into a room and change the atmosphere without saying a word.

I’ve seen pictures—sharp suits, steel-gray hair, and the kind of piercing gaze that makes you want to confess all your creative sins. Rumor has it he once fired an entire styling team with a single raised eyebrow.

I try not to let my mind spiral too far down the "what if I screw this up" rabbit hole.

I sit up on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, gripping the hem of my hoodie like it might anchor me.

It’s just a job, I tell myself. A job I’ve dreamed about since I was sixteen and taking blurry photos of my friend Grace in thrift-store dresses behind the school gym. A job that could change everything.

No pressure.

I grab the schedule again, flipping through the itinerary for the week. Pre-production meeting. Styling brief. The shoot itself. And then...gulp...a presentation of final selects directly to Marcus. It’s all written in neat, confident print, as if none of it is earth-shatteringly terrifying.

I glance at the champagne, still sitting in its frosty bucket. I consider popping it open, celebrating... but my stomach’s too tight. I need my mind sharp tomorrow, not fuzzy from bubbly.

Instead, I grab my camera from my bag and head to the window.

New York at dusk is magic.

The skyline glows gold and amber, streaks of pink bleeding into the river, and for a second, I forget about Marcus Winters and my fluttering nerves. I lift the camera and snap a few shots. The click of the shutter soothes something in me. This, at least, I know how to do.

~-~

The Next Day, my alarm went off at six sharp.

I don’t need it.

I’ve been awake since five, lying on my back in the massive hotel bed, staring at the ceiling and imagining every possible way this morning could go wrong. Coffee first, then wardrobe. I dress in black high-waisted trousers and a fitted cream blouse. It’s professional, but still, I pull my hair into a low ponytail.

The Luxe studio is a converted warehouse tucked between a vegan donut shop and a gallery that smells aggressively of incense and ambition. Inside, it’s everything you’d expect: exposed brick, towering windows, racks of designer clothing, and beautiful people moving with purpose.

I’m led through the space by a harried assistant with a tablet. "This way, Hailey. Marcus just wrapped with the layout team."

Marcus.

Just hearing his name again turns my hands clammy.

We stop at a glass-walled office perched like a command center above the main floor. The assistant taps once, then nudges the door open.

"Mr. Winters? Hailey Jameson is here."

I step inside.

Marcus Winters is standing with his back to me, staring at a giant mood board full of test shots and fabric swatches. He’s taller than I expected, impeccably dressed in a navy suit with no tie. His silver hair is swept back, his posture relaxed but commanding. Without turning, he speaks.

"You’re late."

My stomach plummets. "I—I don’t think I am," I stammer, glancing at the wall clock. "It’s just after nine."

He finally turns.

Oh.

His eyes are sharp, gray and unflinching and when they land on me, it’s like he’s reading every fear I haven’t said out loud. He looks at my boots, my blouse, and the portfolio clutched too tightly in my hands.

"No, you’re not late," he says slowly. "But I was early. And I hate waiting."

He doesn’t smile. Not even a twitch.

I try to speak, to introduce myself, but my throat tightens and all that comes out is, "Right. Of course."

There’s a long pause.

Then he gestures to a chair. "Let’s see what you’ve got."

I scramble to open the portfolio, careful not to fumble the pages as I lay out the concept shots and lighting notes. I explain the theme and how it’s about strength and softness, the intersection of armor and elegance.

He says nothing.

Not a word.

Just stares at the images with that unreadable expression, occasionally tilting his head or brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. The silence stretches so long that I start wondering if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open.

Finally, he speaks.

"This is... bold."

Bold. Good? Bad? I can’t tell.

He looks up, eyes narrowing slightly. "You know this shoot could be a cover story. That there’s pressure."

I nod.

"And you still pitched this?"

I nod again, firmer this time. "Yes. I believe in it." frёewebnoѵēl.com

A slow breath. Then, miraculously, a flicker of something that might be approval.

"Good," he says, turning back to the mood board. "Let’s see if you can execute it."

And just like that, I’m dismissed.

I walk out of the office, my heart pounding in my throat and my legs shaky but moving. Downstairs, the assistant gives me a curious look.

"How’d it go?"

I exhale for the first time in ten minutes.

"I think," I say, "I survived."

She laughs. "Mr. Winters is a tough man, but don’t worry, you look like someone who can handle him."

I brighten. "You think so?"

The assistant grins, tapping her tablet. "I know so. You didn’t cry, you didn’t stammer yourself into a black hole, and he didn’t throw your portfolio out the window. That’s basically a standing ovation."

I laugh and the knot in my chest loosens just a little. "Thanks," I say, slinging my portfolio back over my shoulder. "I needed that."

She nods knowingly. "Everyone does after their first Marcus encounter."

I raise an eyebrow. "That’s...comforting."

"Don’t worry," she says. "I am Tammy, by the way. Is this your first time in the Big Apple?"

"Yeah," I admit, shifting the weight of my bag on my shoulder. "First time actually staying longer than a layover."

Tammy smiles like she’s heard this before. "Then you’re in for a ride. New York doesn’t believe in soft landings."

"Trust me, I noticed." I think back to the subway stench, the near-death experience at a crosswalk, and of course, Marcus Winters.

She tucks her tablet under her arm. "Well, if you need a crash course in surviving the city and Marcus, I’ve got tips. Step one: always have backup snacks. Step two: never show fear. He can smell fear."

"I’ll write that down," I say with a mock salute.

Tammy grins. "Smart girl. Also, there’s a bodega two blocks from here that sells the best overpriced coffee. Want me to show you?"

I hesitate. I should probably go back to the hotel and obsess over the shoot, tweak lighting plans, second-guess every creative choice I’ve ever made...

But maybe I don’t need to spiral just yet.

"Sure," I say. "Lead the way."

And just like that, I follow Tammy out into the city.