Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 124: Unexpected Visit

Matthew

I hadn’t told her I was coming to New York. And I made Sarah promise not to say anything to her.

Ever since I spoke to Hailey last week, a small part of me has nagged at my brain. Hailey sounded nervous and I started to wonder why.

As her older brother, I had always been super protective over her and she is having trouble at her new job, I can’t just leave her alone to deal with it!

Hailey might be brilliant, capable, and stubborn as hell, but that doesn’t change the fact that she is my baby sister. And when something feels off, I show up.

So I did even though I know Hailey won’t love this...unexpected visit.

I booked the flight and landed this morning. Didn’t even check into the hotel before coming straight here. I figured I’d take her out to lunch, check in, and see what kind of circus this Marcus Winters character was really running.

I walk toward the reception desk, my heart beating nervously.

The receptionist glances up from her computer, her eyes momentarily hidden behind the gleam of her glasses as a polished smile spreads smoothly across her face. "Welcome to Luxe Magazine. Do you have an appointment?" she inquires, her voice a practiced melody of professionalism.

"Not exactly," I reply, shifting the strap of my bag on my shoulder, trying to keep my nerves in check. "I’m here to see Hailey Jameson."

Her eyes flicker with a hint of curiosity as she blinks, then her fingers dance swiftly over the keyboard, the soft clatter filling the brief silence. "And your name?" she asks, her tone both polite and probing.

"Matthew Jameson. I’m her brother," I state, hoping the familial connection will ease the way forward.

Her eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, but she covers it quickly with another smile. "One moment."

She picks up the phone and dials, murmuring something into the receiver. I glance around while I wait. Tall ceilings, sleek marble floors, and modern art hanging on the walls. Everything about this place screams money and ego.

The receptionist looks up. "I couldn’t reach her. She must be in the middle of a shoot. Do you mind waiting?"

"Not at all," I say, settling into one of the sleek, uncomfortable chairs in the corner of the lobby. Typical corporate decor—fancy, sterile, and just warm enough to pretend it’s inviting.

But even as I sit, my foot taps restlessly against the polished floor.

I couldn’t shake it. Hailey’s voice last week. The tightness in it, the pause before she answered my questions, how quickly she brushed me off when I asked about her coworkers. Something was wrong.

I had looked up Marcus Winters. The guy’s reputation preceded him. The industry adored him—brilliant, ruthless, enigmatic. But the word ruthless came up too many times for my liking. And Hailey? She doesn’t need ruthless. She needs space to grow, not pressure to break.

My thoughts are interrupted when someone clears their throat next to me.

I look up to find a tall figure standing over me, his silver hair immaculately styled, his suit crisp and expensive.

"Mr. Jameson," he says, extending a hand. "Marcus Winters. I understand you’re Hailey’s brother."

I stand, shaking his hand firmly. His grip is strong and calculated, and everything about him is measured for maximum effect.

"That’s right," I say, sizing him up. "I was hoping to surprise her."

His lips curve into something approximating a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. "A surprise indeed. She’s quite...dedicated to her work."

"Hailey’s always been that way," I say carefully. "Once she focuses on something, everything else fades into the background."

Marcus nods, studying me with unnerving intensity. "She has extraordinary talent. Raw, but promising. With the right guidance, she could go far in this industry."

"She doesn’t need guidance," I say, more sharply than intended. "She needs opportunity."

His eyebrow arches slightly. "Interesting distinction. You’re protective of her."

"Wouldn’t you be?" I counter.

Marcus chuckles, a sound devoid of warmth. "I have no siblings, Mr. Jameson. But I understand familial concern." He gestures toward the elevators. "Come. I’ll take you to her. She’s finishing a shoot on the fifth floor."

I follow him, acutely aware of how everyone we pass straightens when they see him, their expressions shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant. The power he wields is palpable, and it makes me uneasy.

"I understand Hailey’s been doing well," I say as we step into the elevator.

Marcus presses the button for the fifth floor. "She’s exceeded expectations. Her eye for composition is... unusual. Refreshing, even." He gives me a sidelong glance.

The elevator doors open, revealing a vast studio space. Bright lights illuminate a set designed to look like a gritty urban alley. Models in avant-garde clothing pose while assistants scurry about adjusting equipment.

And there, in the center of it all, is Hailey. She’s crouched low, camera in hand, directing a tall male model with animated gestures. Her red hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing black jeans and a loose shirt.

Pride fills my chest as I see my sister look so professional and poised.

I hang back for a moment, watching her work. There’s a confidence in her movements that wasn’t there when she first picked up a camera years ago. She’s transformed from my little sister who asked me to review her photos to a professional commanding an entire shoot.

"Turn slightly to your left," she calls to the model. "And chin down a bit. Perfect."

The model, tall, dark-haired, with the kind of jawline that belongs on billboards adjusts his stance with practiced ease. There’s something oddly familiar about him, the way he moves, the set of his shoulders...

I step closer, narrowing my eyes.

No. It can’t be.

"Josh?" I roar. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Hailey and the model both freeze. Then, slowly, they turn toward me.

My sister’s face drains of color. "Matthew? What are you doing here?"

But I barely hear her. I’m too busy staring at Josh Daniels, Sarah’s childhood friend, standing there half-dressed in designer clothes, looking like he belongs on a magazine cover.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," I say, my voice dangerously low.