Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 122: Get a Grip

Hailey

I sigh like I’m marching to the guillotine and drag myself out of the chair. My legs feel oddly heavy, like my body knows this is going to be a conversation I’ll need a shower after.

"Wish me luck," I mutter.

Tammy raises her coffee thermos like a toast. "Go get ’em, tiger."

I knock this time, for the record.

Marcus’s voice floats through the door, smooth and clipped. "Come in."

I push it open and step inside. He’s behind his desk now, thankfully seated and fully clothed. The blonde is long gone, and his hair is slicked back into its usual sleek perfection.

"Close the door," he says.

I do, resisting the urge to wedge it open with a chair just in case I need a quick escape.

Marcus gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."

I do, reluctantly. My eyes flick to the desk. He’s moved a folder over the edge, almost like he’s trying to sanitize the memory of what just happened on it.

He laces his fingers together and regards me coolly. "I imagine you’re feeling a little...shocked."

"Understatement," I chime in.

His lips twitch upward. "Right. But I’m not going to apologize for being who I am, Hailey."

"I am not asking you to," I quickly say. "Your personal misadventures are none of my business."

His lips quirk up again. "My...misadventures?"

He leans back in his chair like we are old friends sharing a joke instead of a wildly inappropriate workplace encounter. "I like that. Sounds almost poetic."

I arch an eyebrow. "I was going to go with gross and unsanitary, but I’m trying to be polite."

Marcus chuckles, low and unapologetic. "You seem scandalized. Have you never wondered what it would be like to sprawl on a office desk and be fucked senselessly?"

I stiffen, my spine going rigid like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down my back. Whatever thread of professionalism I’ve been clinging to snaps in an instant.

"Excuse me?" I say, my voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Marcus smirks, leaning back like he just asked me about the weather. "Relax. It’s just a question."

"No," I snap. "It’s not. It’s gross, inappropriate, and exactly the kind of thing HR would love to hear about."

He waves a hand like he’s brushing away a speck of dust. "HR won’t touch me. And we both know you are not going to them. Perhaps you’d like a piece of me too."

I narrow my eyes. "Don’t mistake my silence for tolerance. There’s a line, Marcus. You didn’t just cross it—you pole vaulted over it."

His smirk falters, just a beat, before it settles into something cooler. "You’re not as fragile as you act, Hailey."

"And you’re not as irresistible as you think," I argue. "You are not even my type."

That shuts him up. For a moment, the tension between us thickens, taut and electric. Then, without another word, Marcus leans forward and opens a folder sitting on the desk. One I hadn’t noticed before.

Inside are photos.

Of me.

Of Josh.

Even of Tammy.

I lean in slowly, all my sarcasm dissolving as I flip through them. My heart pounds louder with each image.

"These... these were taken here," I say, my voice low, disbelieving.

Marcus nods grimly. "Last night. After hours. Someone’s watching us."

My stomach turns. The shots are grainy but close...too close. I remember the moment Josh and I were talking near the supply shelves, I laughing at something he said. They’re not long-distance surveillance shots. They’re from inside.

"They’re too close," I whisper. "Whoever took these was in the building."

"Exactly." His voice is quieter now, more serious than I’ve ever heard it. "This isn’t just some creep with a zoom lens. They’re already inside."

I rub my arms, a chill crawling over me. Suddenly, I feel exposed like there’s a camera pointed at me right now.

"Well," I mutter, forcing the words out, "maybe you should stop being a creep, then. Because we clearly have bigger problems."

He gives me a tight nod. "Truce?"

I eye him warily. "Temporary. And conditional."

"Fair enough."

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Sharper. Heavier.

Marcus looks at me, and the usual smugness is still there. "So, what is your type, Hailey Jameson?"

I narrow my eyes, resisting the heat rising in my face. I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment, irritation, or the sheer audacity of this man.

"That’s none of your business," I say flatly.

He tilts his head, the smugness curling back into his features like a cat returning to cream. "That’s not a no."

"It’s a hell no," I shoot back. "In case that wasn’t clear."

His chuckle is low, maddeningly amused. "You’re interesting, Hailey. I can’t decide if I want to fire you or promote you."

"Why not both?" I deadpan.

Marcus grins, but then his gaze flicks back down to the photos, and the mood shifts again. "Joking aside, we need to figure out who did this. These weren’t just random shots—they were targeted. Intentional."

I nod slowly, unwillingly aligning with him. "Why Josh, though?"

Marcus shrugs. "As I said before, modeling industry is cutthroat. Someone does not like Josh’s entry and they want to make sure he is not part of this very important shoot."

"So, what’s the plan?" I ask, my voice lower now.

Marcus leans forward, folding his hands again. "We do nothing yet. We don’t let them know we’re onto them. I’ll review the building’s security feed. You keep an eye on Josh. See if he’s acting off. And if anyone else notices anything strange, subtle or not, I want to know."

"And if we find the person behind this?" I ask.

A shadow crosses his face. "Then I deal with them."

His tone sends a ripple down my spine. It’s not angry. It’s calm. And that’s what makes it dangerous.

I nod slowly, then stand. "I will go back to my shoot."

"Wait," he calls out before I am out of the door.

I turn back, hand still on the doorknob. "What?"

Marcus holds my gaze, his expression unreadable. "Be careful who you trust, Hailey. Even the people closest to you."

A chill runs through me. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He just gives me a thin smile. "It means exactly what I said. Now go make me some beautiful photographs."

I leave his office with my mind racing. The photos. The warning.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of shots, outfit changes, and lighting adjustments. I throw myself into the work, directing the models with a focus that borders on intensity. If anyone notices my shift in mood, they don’t mention it.

By the time we wrap, the sun has long since set. The studio empties quickly, and everyone is eager to start their evening.

I wonder if Josh is having a good day by himself in our apartment.

My phone vibrates in my pocket just as I’m packing my equipment. I glance at the screen and my stomach drops. Matthew’s name flashes with his goofy profile picture—him holding his newborn son with that proud dad grin.

"Hey, big brother," I answer, trying to sound casual while my heart hammers. "What’s up?"

"Finally!" Matthew’s voice booms through the speaker. "I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Are you avoiding me or something?"

I wince, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I continue gathering my things. "Of course not. Just been crazy busy with the shoot. You know, dream job and all that."

"Yeah, well, your nephew is starting to forget what his aunt looks like," he says, his tone softening. "Sarah’s been showing him your pictures, but it’s not the same."

Guilt twists in my chest. "I miss him too. How is the little peanut?"

"Growing like a weed. Started trying to roll over yesterday." The pride in his voice makes me smile despite my anxiety. "But that’s not why I called. Mom’s birthday dinner is next weekend, remember? You promised you’d be back for it."

I freeze. Mom’s birthday. With everything happening in New York, I’d completely forgotten.

"Right, of course," I say, frantically calculating days in my head. The shoot wraps in two days, which should give me plenty of time to fly back. "I’ll be there."

"Good. She’d kill us both if you missed it." There’s a pause, then his voice shifts. "So... how’s the big fancy magazine treating you? Sarah says you’re working with some hotshot models."

My eyes dart around the studio, suddenly paranoid someone might overhear. "Yeah, it’s been... interesting. The creative director is intense, but he likes my work."

"Good," he says.

"Listen," Matthew continues, his voice taking on that protective big brother tone I know all too well. "Don’t let these fashion types push you around. You’re just as talented as any of them."

I smile despite myself. "Thanks, Matt."

"And if any of those male models get handsy, you tell me. I’ll fly out there and—"

"No one’s getting handsy," I interrupt quickly, my cheeks flushing at the thought of Josh. And Marcus’s behavior. "Everyone’s very professional."

There’s a pause on the line, and I can practically hear Matthew’s suspicion brewing. "You sound weird. Is something going on?"

"Nothing’s going on," I say, my voice pitching slightly higher than normal. "Just tired. Long days."

"Hm," Matthew grunts, unconvinced. "Sarah’s been acting strange too whenever I ask about you. You two aren’t keeping secrets, are you?"

My stomach clenches. "Of course not. What would we have to hide?"

"I don’t know. That’s what worries me."

I force a laugh. "You’re being paranoid. Everything’s fine."

"If you say so," he says, still sounding doubtful. "Anyway, I should go. Benjamin is waking up from his nap. But Hailey?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful out there, okay? New York can be rough."

If only he knew. "I will. Love you, big brother."

"Love you too, squirt."

I hang up and exhale slowly, guilt gnawing at me. I hate lying to Matthew, but telling him about Josh would only complicate things. Especially now, with someone actively trying to sabotage the shoot.

As I finish packing my equipment, the studio feels eerily quiet. Most of the lights are off, save for the security fixtures casting long shadows across the floor. I glance around, suddenly aware of how alone I am.

Marcus’s warning echoes in my mind: Be careful who you trust.

I sling my camera bag over my shoulder and head for the exit, walking faster than necessary. The hallway stretches before me, dimly lit and silent except for the soft tap of my boots against the concrete floor.

A sound behind me, the soft click of a door. It makes me freeze.

"Hello?" I call out, my voice sounding smaller than I’d like.

No answer.

I turn slowly, scanning the shadowy corridor. Nothing seems out of place, but the prickling sensation on the back of my neck intensifies.

"Is someone there?" I try again, gripping my camera bag tighter.

Still nothing.

Get a grip, Hailey. You’re just spooked from those photos.