And then there's Mateo.
Mateo, with his teasing smile and steady hands. Who called memi reinalike he meant it, like I was something rare.
And now here I am, sitting under studio lights, wondering how I've started falling for three men who were never supposed to matter thismuch.
What does that say about me? Maybe I'm just lonely. Or maybe, for once, I'm letting myself want something real.
I don't know.
But what I do know is that my heart has started beating differently around them. And that I don't feel as alone when they're close.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
I startle at Ethan's voice beside me, not having noticed his approach. He's close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean that makes me want to lean closer.
"They're not worth that much," I deflect.
His eyes, impossibly blue in the bright makeup lights, search mine. "Mateo mentioned there was an incident on the plane."
Of course he did. They report everything to each other. Which means Ethan probably knows about the flight attendant with the camera but hopefully nothing about what came after. The thought of Mateo sharing that moment makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
"Nothing serious," I say carefully. "Just someone hoping for a candid shot to sell."
Ethan's jaw tightens. "That seems to be happening with increasing frequency."
Before I can respond, the hairdresser appears with her arsenal of hair products, and Ethan steps back. "We'll talk more later," he says, returning to his post.
The next hours pass in a familiar blur of lights, poses, and directions from the photographer. The fragrance campaign requires a sophisticated glamour. Evening gown, dramatic makeup, an air of unattainable luxury. It's easy work, the kind I could do in my sleep, which leaves my mind free to wander back to dangerous territory.
What am I doing? What do I want?
The questions circle endlessly as I move through the shoot, turning this way and that, responding to the photographer's cues while maintaining constant awareness of where Ethan and Declan are positioned in the room.
By the time we wrap, the sun has set outside the suite's windows, the city lights sparkling against the darkening sky. I'm exhausted, not from the physical demands of modeling, which are minimal in a shoot like this, but from the emotional whiplash of the past twenty-four hours.
"That's a wrap, everyone," the photographer calls, reviewing the final shots on his monitor. "Jade, perfection as always."
I smile my professional smile, the one that reveals nothing, and thank him before retreating to change out of the evening gown and back into my own clothes. Simple black pants and a cream silk blouse, comfortable yetelegant enough for the inevitable paparazzi that might be lurking outside.
As I emerge from the makeshift dressing room, Ethan materializes at my side.
"Ready to go?" he asks, his hand hovering near the small of my back without quite touching, always maintaining that professional distance.
I nod, suddenly eager to be home, to escape the performance of being Jade Sinclair, model, and just be myself. Whoever that is.
Declan joins us as we head for the elevator, positioning himself slightly behind us. The three of us move as a unit, a practiced formation developed over weeks of working together. There's comfort in the routine, in knowing they're there, solid and steady on either side of me.
The elevator descends smoothly to the hotel lobby, which is bustling with evening activity. Business travelers checking in, couples dressed for dinner at the hotel's Michelin-starred restaurant, staff moving efficiently through the space.
"Car's waiting out front," Ethan says quietly as the doors open. "Stay between us."
It's standard procedure, nothing unusual about the instruction, but something in his tone puts me on alert. His gaze is scanning the lobby more intensely than usual, his body subtly more tense.
"Is something wrong?" I ask as we step out.
"Just being cautious," he replies, which isn't really an answer.
We move through the lobby, Ethan slightly ahead, Declan close behind. The marble floor gleams beneath the crystal chandeliers, our reflections distorted in the polished surface. We're halfway to the entrance when I notice a man rising from one of the plush seating areas, his movements too abrupt, too focused.
