Chapter 3: Striking a Pose with the Devil
Life had a particular talent for setting me up like the punchline of a joke I didn’t know I was telling.
I mean, really—what were the odds? One day I’m shouting at a stranger for nearly mowing me down with his overpriced car, and the next, that same stranger is swiveling around in a leather executive chair, smirking like he owns the building.
Because he does own the building.
Cassian Locke stood slowly, like he was unveiling a secret. The grin that spread across his face was part wolf, part devil.
“Well,” he said, voice silked with sarcasm. “How’s the leg?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do you care?”
“Oh, I don’t. Just being polite.”
I pushed the folder of documents toward him. “Sign these, and I’ll leave. Just like you wanted.”
He took a step closer. “Or… we could sit and chat. Maybe get to know each other.”
I took two steps back. “I’d rather gargle thumbtacks.”
He chuckled, eyes glinting. “That’s a vivid image.”
I didn’t respond. My blood was bubbling.
“We’re going to be seeing more of each other now,” he said casually, closing the space between us again. “Might as well be on a first-name basis.”
He reached for my hand. I yanked it back like he’d tried to hand me a live snake.
“Let’s not. Just sign the damn papers.”
Cassian gave a mock-sigh, sauntering back to his desk. “Here’s a fun game,” he said as he dropped into his chair. “Tell me your name, and I’ll consider signing them.”
My teeth clenched. “You’re blackmailing me. Over paperwork.”
“Let’s call it... strategic bartering.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Unforgettable, actually,” he said, steepling his fingers under his chin.
I needed this job. The rent, the groceries, the medical bills that never stopped coming. So I did what my pride would scream at me about later: I sat down.
“Marla,” I said through tight lips. “Marla Quinn.”
He smiled like he’d just won a bet. “Marla Quinn. Suits you.”
“Great. Now sign.”
But he ignored me. “Tell me, Marla—what’s your story?”
“My story is that I need this job, and you’re in the way.”
He laughed again, low and amused. “Fierce and feisty. I like that. I think I’ll call you Red.”
I scowled. “Don’t.”
But he was already flipping through the document, signing pages like royalty handing out decrees. His sleeves pushed up just enough to show the flex of his forearms with every stroke of the pen.
No. Absolutely not. Do not look at his biceps.
He caught me staring. Of course he did.
“You’re not very subtle, Red,” he said, eyes dancing with mischief.
“You wish,” I snapped, snatching the folder the moment he signed the last page. I stormed out of the office before I could do something stupid—like notice how good he smelled.
This was going to be hell.
—
“Miss?”
I turned to find a petite woman in a tailored blazer hurrying toward me.
“Marla Quinn?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh! You’re the Marla Quinn. I’m Mariam, head of the directing department. You’re in the wrong area. Come with me.”
Before I could ask any questions, she was already ushering me down the corridor.
We stopped in front of a set of double doors. She pushed them open, revealing a massive studio. Models posed beneath spotlights, photographers barked directions, and camera flashes lit the room like strobe lights.
The air buzzed with caffeine, perfume, and high expectations.
“This way.” Mariam led me to a side room glowing with vanity lights and the hum of blow dryers.
Inside, a man in ripped jeans and a cropped tank top was powdering a model’s cheekbones like he was painting a masterpiece.
“Hardin,” Mariam called. “This is one of our new VIPs. Get her ready.”
The makeup artist turned, hands mid-air, and smiled like he’d just seen a rescue puppy.
“Oh, honey. Sit. You are divine,” he said, patting the chair in front of him.
He had a scarf knotted artfully around his neck, glitter on his eyelids, and the charisma of a Broadway finale.
I sat down obediently.
“That sour lemon who just left?” Hardin said, nodding toward the hallway. “That was Jojo Lopez. She thinks her cheekbones give her the right to be a raging cow. Ignore her.”
“I wasn’t offended,” I said. “I’m mostly confused and overwhelmed.”
“Sweetie, this is fashion. Everyone’s confused and overwhelmed.”
He winked and gently began wiping off my makeup. My heart wilted a little—Tessa had worked so hard on my look this morning—but Hardin moved with a kind of reverence, like he was sculpting.
“Hope you don’t mind me starting fresh. We’re going for a high-concept look today.”
“I trust you.”
“Good girl. Now hold still while I make you famous.”
—
After the final brushstroke, I was passed off to hair and then to wardrobe, where a quietly efficient assistant handed me a minimalist outfit with bold color blocks and heels that felt like stilts.
Then the worst happened.
They pushed me in front of a camera.
Alone.
With lights glaring.
And absolutely no idea what to do.
I stood there like a deer caught in paparazzi headlights.
And then someone said, “Strike a pose, Red.”
That voice.
I turned—just a bit—and there he was.
Cassian Locke.
Leaning in the doorway like a king surveying his court.
Of course.
Because humiliation wasn’t complete until he witnessed it.
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