Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 116: Accident

Hailey

I am awake, bright and early, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling above me. But then I remember where I am.

Right. The brownstone. New York. The photoshoot is today.

Josh.

The memory of last night floods back. Our conversation, the way his eyes held mine when he told me why he’d followed me here. I push the thoughts away and swing my legs over the side of the bed. No time for that now. Today is about work.

By the time I take a shower and leave my room, Josh is already in the kitchen, two travel mugs of coffee on the counter.

"Morning," he says, sliding one toward me. "Made it strong. Figured we’d need it."

"Thanks." I take a grateful sip, surprised by how perfectly he’s made it. "How did you know how I take my coffee?"

He shrugs. "Watched you make it yesterday. I’m observant like that."

My heart does a silly little flip again.

The car Luxe sent arrives exactly at 7:30, and the ride to the studio passes in comfortable silence. Josh scrolls through his phone while I mentally review the shot list for today. We’re moving to a different part of the warehouse—the section with exposed brick and industrial piping that will serve as the backdrop for the "urban warrior" series.

When we arrive, the studio is already buzzing with activity. Assistants rush around adjusting lights, makeup artists set up their stations, and racks of clothing line the walls. Marcus stands in the center of it all, barking orders with military precision.

He spots us and gestures impatiently. "There you are. Jameson, I need to see your lighting plan. The model needs to be in makeup. Now."

Josh gives me a reassuring smile before being whisked away by a stylist. I join Marcus at the main set, pulling up the lighting diagram on my tablet.

"I want to use natural light from the skylights combined with a soft box here," I explain, pointing to the diagram. "It’ll create shadows that emphasize the angles of the clothing while keeping the models’ faces illuminated."

Marcus studies the plan, his expression unreadable. "Bold choice. The client might prefer something safer."

I take a deep breath. "With respect, sir, they hired me for my vision. This lighting will make their clothes look more dramatic, more desirable."

A flicker of approval crosses his face. "Fine. Set it up. But if it doesn’t work, we switch to plan B."

I nod, relief washing over me. As I turn to direct the lighting crew, I catch sight of Josh emerging from makeup. My breath catches in my throat.

They’ve transformed him. His hair is styled in a carefully disheveled sweep, his jawline accentuated with subtle contouring. He’s wearing fitted black pants and a deconstructed leather jacket that hangs open, revealing his bare chest underneath.

Oh, god. Why does he have to be so hot?

He catches me staring and I quickly tear my gaze away before. I don’t need Marcus or someone thinking there is some kind of romance brewing between me and Josh.

Focus, Hailey.

The first shots go surprisingly well. Josh is awkward at first. He blinks too often and keeps shifting his weight like he’s waiting for someone to yell "cut"—but he listens. Really listens. He takes direction like a pro, adjusts his posture when I tell him to elongate his neck, smolders when I remind him to look like he’s thinking something dangerous.

He’s a quick study. Too quick.

By mid-morning, he’s strutting across the set like he’s been modeling for years. The camera loves him. And so, apparently, does half the crew.

I hear one of the makeup assistants whisper to her friend, "Who is that and why does he look like he walked out of a Calvin Klein fever dream?"

I pretend not to hear it. I also pretend my stomach doesn’t twist when Josh smirks in their direction, fully aware of the effect he’s having on everyone in the room. Especially me.

"Hailey," Marcus calls, breaking through my thoughts. "Come check these."

I move to the monitor and study the shots. The lighting is working even better than I hoped—the interplay of shadow and sunlight gives the clothes depth and mood, just like I envisioned.

Marcus is quiet for a moment. Then he mutters, "Not bad."

Which, from him, is basically a standing ovation.

"Thanks," I say, trying to sound casual. But I feel the heat of pride rush to my cheeks.

Josh walks over during a break, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat. "So," he says, nudging my arm, "how am I doing?"

"Don’t let it go to your head," I reply, lips twitching. "You’re passable."

He leans in, lowering his voice so only I can hear. "You’ve been watching me like I’m your thesis project."

"You’re my subject," I reply coolly, ignoring the flutter in my chest. "It’s literally my job to stare at you."

He leans back, amused. "And here I thought I was just eye candy."

"Well," I say, pretending to scrutinize him. "You photograph well."

"You say that like it surprises you."

"It does," I admit. "A little."

His grin falters for just a second. "You still think I’m just playing around, huh?"

"I think," I say carefully, "you’re full of surprises. But let’s see if you can survive the second set before I give you a gold star."

He mock-salutes. "Challenge accepted."

The stylist calls him away, and I turn back to the monitor. But something’s different now. A low hum under my skin that wasn’t there before.

Because somewhere between the coffee, the lighting setup, and that ridiculous leather jacket, I stopped pretending he was just a visitor in my life.

He’s here.

And I’m starting to wonder if I want him to stay.

The second set is meant to be even edgier. It has a metal staircase, graffiti backdrop, dramatic shadows, and a wind machine cranked to its highest setting. Josh is positioned halfway up the stairs, one hand gripping the rail, the other tugging at the collar of a heavy coat draped over his shoulders. He looks like some post-apocalyptic rebel about to take over the world.

Everything is perfect. Until it’s not.

One of the overhead lights flickers.

"Cut the wind for a second," I call out, sensing something’s off.

But the words are barely out of my mouth when it happens.

A crack, sharp and sudden, tears through the studio as one of the lighting rigs, massive, metal, and mounted high above the set detaches.

Everything slows.

I see it before anyone else.

The rig is falling straight toward Josh.

"Josh!" I scream, already moving.

Chaos erupts. People shout, scramble, but it’s too late for anyone to stop it.

Except Josh doesn’t freeze. He jumps. Not back down the stairs, but forward and off the set entirely. He lands hard and tumbling across the floor.

The rig crashes down behind him with a deafening clang, shattering on impact and sending a burst of sparks flying like fireworks gone wrong.

For a terrifying moment, there’s only silence. Then—

"Josh!" I’m at his side before I even realize I’ve crossed the space, dropping to my knees. "Are you okay? Talk to me. Are you hurt?"

He’s lying on his back, winded and pale, blinking up at me. Then he coughs, grimaces, and mutters, "Remind me again why I didn’t just text you?"

Relief barrels through me so fast I feel dizzy.

"You idiot," I whisper, gripping his hand like a lifeline. "You could’ve died."

"But I didn’t," he says, voice hoarse, squeezing my fingers. "Are you okay?"

"Don’t ask me that," I snap, blinking back tears. "You were almost crushed."

Behind us, people are running, Marcus is shouting into his headset for medics, and someone’s pulling the plug on the power to stop the sparks.

But all I can see is Josh.

Alive. Breathing. Still here.

"You are shaking," he says softly, reaching up to touch my arm.

"Of course I’m shaking, you moron," I whisper. "You scared the hell out of me."

"I’m sorry," he says, his voice serious now. "Didn’t mean to."

I look down at him. He is disheveled, scraped, and beautiful even now and realize I don’t care who’s watching. Don’t care if Marcus yells or if the crew whispers.

I lean in and press my lips gently to his.

"That scared me," I murmur against his lips.