Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 129: Paris

Hailey

The harsh glare of studio lights feels especially blinding this morning. I adjust my camera settings, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the memory of last night with Josh. My body still tingles from his touch.

"Lighting needs to be more dramatic for this shot," I call out to the crew. "Can we get the key light angled down another fifteen degrees?"

An assistant scurries to adjust the rig while I review the test shots on my monitor. The final day of shooting has everyone on edge—we’re behind schedule after yesterday’s interruptions, and Marcus is prowling the perimeter like a restless predator.

"Ms. Jameson." His voice cuts through the bustle. "A word?"

I follow him to the corner of the studio, conscious of eyes tracking our movement.

"Your brother’s appearance yesterday was... disruptive," Marcus says, keeping his voice low. "I trust there won’t be any more family drama today?"

"No," I assure him. "Matthew’s flying back this afternoon."

Marcus nods, his gaze drifting to where Josh is being prepped by the styling team. "And your... relationship with our unexpected model?"

Heat rises to my cheeks. "Won’t affect my work."

"See that it doesn’t." He pauses, studying me.

Before I can respond, the studio doors swing open. Tammy rushes in, her face flushed with excitement.

"Marcus! The editor from Vogue just called. They want preliminary shots from this series for their industry spotlight!"

A murmur ripples through the studio. Marcus’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the slight straightening of his shoulders—the closest he comes to showing pleasure.

"Send them the third sequence," he instructs Tammy. "Only the approved selects."

I return to my position, a surge of pride mingling with nerves. Vogue. This could launch my career into the stratosphere.

Josh emerges from styling, his eyes immediately finding mine across the room. He smiles—that private, knowing smile that makes my stomach flip. I force myself to look away, to maintain professionalism, but I can feel his gaze lingering.

"Places, everyone!" I call out, my voice steadier than I feel.

The models take their positions on the industrial set we’ve constructed—a fantasy of urban grit and luxury. Josh stands at the center, the focal point of the composition, exactly where he wasn’t supposed to be when I planned this shoot weeks ago.

Yet somehow, it feels right.

I lift my camera, framing the shot. "Josh, chin down slightly. Eyes to camera."

He adjusts, and through my viewfinder, I see the transformation—the way he channels something raw and magnetic when the lens is on him.

Click. Click. Click.

"Beautiful," I murmur, mostly to myself.

I lose myself in the work, in the pure creative flow that makes me forget everything else—even the man whose touch still burns on my skin.

"That’s the one," Marcus murmurs, appearing suddenly at my shoulder as I review the latest sequence. "Send that to retouch immediately."

I nod, marking the image. Through the viewfinder, Josh has transformed completely—no longer the playful, impulsive man who followed me across the country, but something elemental and compelling. The camera reveals layers in him I’m still discovering.

When we break for lunch, I escape to the rooftop, needing a moment alone. The city stretches before me, a concrete jungle bathed in midday sun. I take deep breaths of the polluted air, trying to clear my head.

"Hiding from me?"

I turn to find Josh standing by the door, two coffee cups in hand. He’s still in wardrobe—tight black jeans and an unbuttoned shirt that reveals too much chest for my concentration.

"From everyone," I admit, accepting the coffee he offers.

He leans against the railing beside me, our shoulders almost touching. "Quite a morning. I heard someone mention Vogue?"

"Yeah." I can’t suppress my smile. "They want preliminary shots."

"Look at you," he says, nudging my shoulder. "About to be famous."

"Hardly." But warmth blooms in my chest at his pride.

We stand in comfortable silence, sipping our coffee. The question hangs between us, unasked but impossible to ignore: what happens after today? When the shoot ends and reality returns?

"About last night—" he begins.

"We should get back," I interrupt, suddenly afraid of what he might say. "Final sequence starts in ten minutes."

His face falls slightly, but he nods. "Lead the way, Ms. Photographer."

When we return to the studio, something feels off. The crew moves with unusual tension, whispers passing between them like electric currents.

"What’s going on?" I ask Tammy, who’s hovering near my equipment.

She leans in, lowering her voice. "Security found something in the changing room. A note."

My stomach drops. "What kind of note?"

"Threatening. Directed at Josh." Her eyes dart to where he stands, oblivious, chatting with one of the lighting techs. "Marcus is furious—he’s questioning everyone who had access to the building last night."

Before I can respond, the studio doors burst open. Two security guards enter, flanking a pale, trembling figure—Yakov, the model who’s been shooting daggers at Josh since day one.

Marcus follows, his face a mask of cold fury. "Get him out," he commands, and the guards drag Yakov toward the exit.

"You can’t do this!" Yakov protests, his accent thicker with emotion. "I did nothing wrong!"

The studio falls silent, all eyes on the unfolding drama. Josh steps forward, confusion etched across his face.

"What’s happening?" he asks, looking between Marcus and the struggling model.

Marcus’s jaw tightens. "Security found evidence in Mr. Petrov’s locker. The sabotaged lighting equipment. Photos. And a rather explicit threat concerning your continued participation in this shoot."

My blood runs cold. I move to Josh’s side instinctively, my hand finding his arm.

"You’re lying!" Yakov shouts, struggling against the security guards. His eyes lock on Josh, blazing with hatred. "You come from nowhere, steal my position, my spotlight! You are nothing! A fake!"

Josh stands his ground, surprisingly calm. "I never meant to take anything from you."

"Enough," Marcus cuts in. "Get him out. And call the police."

As they drag Yakov toward the exit, he twists in their grip, his face contorted with rage. "This isn’t over! You think you’ve won? You haven’t seen the last of me!"

The doors slam behind them, leaving a stunned silence in their wake. I can feel Josh’s pulse racing beneath my fingers, still gripping his arm.

"Well," Marcus says, addressing the frozen crew, "that was dramatic. But we have a shoot to finish. Places, everyone."

Nobody moves for a beat, then slowly, like a machine reluctantly grinding back to life, the studio resumes its activity. Whispers ripple through the crew, but Marcus’s steely gaze quells any open discussion.

Josh turns to me, his voice low. "You okay?"

I almost laugh at the absurdity. "Shouldn’t I be asking you that? He was threatening you, not me."

"Yeah, but..." His fingers brush mine discreetly. "You look shaken."

I am. The thought of someone actively trying to hurt Josh—to hurt us—makes me feel sick. But there’s no time to process it now, not with Marcus watching and a deadline looming.

"I’m fine," I say, squeezing his hand once before releasing it. "Let’s just finish this."

The final sequence is our most ambitious—a series of shots capturing movement and emotion against the stark industrial backdrop. Despite everything, Josh performs flawlessly, channeling an intensity that takes my breath away. Through my lens, I capture something raw and honest—the vulnerability beneath his confidence, the warmth behind his eyes when they meet mine.

It’s nearly sunset when Marcus finally calls a wrap. The tension that’s been gripping the studio for days dissipates in a wave of exhausted relief. Crew members pat each other’s backs, exchanging congratulations. Even Marcus looks satisfied, which might be a first.

"Gather around, everyone," Marcus calls, his commanding voice silencing the post-wrap celebration. The crew forms a loose circle, faces flushed with accomplishment and relief.

I stand next to Josh, our shoulders barely touching as Marcus steps into the center of the group.

"This shoot exceeded my expectations," Marcus announces, scanning the crowd with his piercing gaze. "So much so that Luxe has approved my proposal for an expansion of the series."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Extension? The shoot was complete—we’d covered everything in the original brief.

"The September issue will feature what we’ve created here," Marcus continues, "but for the winter collection, we’re taking this concept international." He pauses, clearly savoring the moment. "We leave for Paris in three weeks."

The studio erupts in excited chatter. Paris. The fashion capital of the world.

"Ms. Jameson will continue as lead photographer," Marcus adds, nodding in my direction. "And our breakout star—" his eyes find Josh, "—has been requested specifically by the client."

My heart pounds against my ribs. Paris. With Josh. This can’t be real.

"Details will be in your emails by morning," Marcus concludes. "Congratulations, everyone."

As the crowd disperses, Josh turns to me, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Paris?" he whispers. "Did that just happen?"

I shake my head, equally stunned. "I think it did."

"Hailey!" Tammy rushes over, clutching her tablet. "Marcus wants the preliminary selects tonight. And he needs you both to sign the Paris contracts before you leave."

"Contracts?" Josh repeats.

"Six-week assignment," Tammy confirms. "Luxe is covering accommodations. You’ll be staying in the Marais district."

As Tammy hurries away, Josh and I stare at each other, the implications sinking in.

"Six weeks in Paris," I murmur. "That’s..."

"A long time," Josh finishes. "A good long time."

His fingers find mine, squeezing gently. The gesture feels both like a question and an answer.

"What about your job?" I ask, suddenly remembering his life back in Portland. "Can you even take that much time off?"

Josh’s expression shifts, growing more serious. "I’ll figure it out. This is... this is important." His eyes hold mine, and I know he’s not just talking about the modeling opportunity.

Marcus approaches, breaking our moment. "Ms. Jameson, a word about the Paris logistics?"

I nod, reluctantly releasing Josh’s hand. As I follow Marcus toward his office, I glance back to see Josh watching me, a small smile playing at his lips.

Paris. With Josh. Whatever this is between us, it’s not ending with the wrap of this shoot.