Tisha pressed her palms flat against her thighs, felt the slight tremble in her fingers, and breathed. The air backstage was thick with hairspray and dry shampoo, and the sharp citrus of someone's nervous sweat was cut through by the chemical sweetness of setting spray. She counted the racks of garments in her peripheral vision, the cluster of other girls in various states of undress, the strip of fluorescent lights that hummed overhead like a trapped insect.

"You're up in fifteen."

The stage manager didn't slow down when she said it, just pointed at Tisha with her clipboard and kept walking, already shouting at someone about a missing heel. Tisha nodded at the woman's back, then looked down at herself. White bikini. High-cut on the hips. The brand's logo is small and gold at the center of the underwire. She'd tried it on three times in fittings, but standing here, the fabric against her skin felt different. Real. Like the job was finally happening instead of something she'd only imagined in her mother's kitchen, scrolling through castings on a cracked phone screen.

"You okay?"

Tisha turned. One of the other models—older, sharper cheekbones, a bored expression that didn't quite reach her eyes—was tying the strap on her own heel. "You look like you're gonna throw up."

"No," Tisha said, and then realized her voice came out too fast. She tried again, slower. "No, I'm good. Just—first big one."

The other model snorted, but it wasn't meant. "First time's always scary. After this, you'll be chasing the high." She straightened, smoothed a hand down her hip. "Walk like you own the place. They're all looking at the clothes anyway."

Tisha smiled, grateful. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. Wait till you see the photographers. They eat nervous girls alive."

The warning landed somewhere in Tisha's chest, settled there like a stone she couldn't swallow past. She turned back to the mirror, checked her lip gloss, the sharp line of her cheekbones catching the backstage light. Her hair had been flat-ironed to a silken fall down her back, and the stylist had dusted shimmer across her collarbones and shoulders so she caught the light when she moved. She looked like someone who belonged here. She almost believed it.

Ten minutes.

Someone handed her a bottle of water. She took a sip, then another, then set it down before she could drink the whole thing and need to pee during the walk. Her hands found each other, twisted together in her lap, and she made them stop. Unclasped. Pressed flat against her thighs again.

She could do this. She'd been modeling since high school—small gigs, local brands, a catalog shoot that paid enough to cover her rent for two months. This was the leap. The one that meant something. If she nailed this walk, the brand would remember her name. Other doors would open. That was how it worked, wasn't it? You got one chance, and you either took it or you didn't.

She was going to take it.

Five minutes.

The music shifted. A deep bass pulse that vibrated through the floor, through the soles of her feet, through her spine. Tisha closed her eyes and let it settle into her bones, let it find her rhythm before she had to move. She'd practiced the walk a hundred times in her apartment, in bare feet on cheap carpet, counting the steps until she knew exactly how many paces it took to reach each mark, each camera, each turn. Her body knew what to do. She just had to let it.

Two minutes.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she opened her eyes. The stage manager stood there, no longer frantic, just watching her with something that might have been approval. "You're on deck. Ready?"

"Ready."

She followed the woman through the curtain of garment racks, past the last cluster of models waiting for their turn, to the edge of the stage where the lights blazed so bright they washed out everything beyond them. She couldn't see the audience. Couldn't see anything but white light and the narrow strip of runway stretching out in front of her like a bridge to somewhere else.

The music swelled.

Tisha stepped out.

The first few strides were pure muscle memory—heel-toe, hip shifting, shoulders back, chin level. She counted the beats in her head, let the bass carry her forward, and then the lights caught her, and she was golden, shimmering, the white bikini stark against her warm skin, and she felt the energy of the room hit her like a wave. Cameras clicking. A murmur of voices. The weight of eyes on her body, assessing, appreciating, taking her in.

She worked it.

Every step was deliberate. She hit the mark at the end of the runway, paused, turned slowly and smoothly, let her hair sweep across her shoulders, let her gaze drift across the crowd with the practiced indifference of someone who belonged in this light. She was floating. She was fire. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

And then she saw him.

A man in the front row, off-center, half in shadow despite the brightness of the stage lights. He wasn't looking at the clothes. He wasn't looking at her face. His gray eyes—cold, flat, the color of winter sky—were fixed on her body with an intensity that made her step falter for half a heartbeat. He was broad-shouldered, dark-haired, older than most of the audience, dressed in a black suit that looked like it cost more than she'd make this entire season. His hands were clasped in front of him, and she saw the scarred knuckles even from here, the way the tendons stood out like he was holding himself still through sheer force of will.

He didn't blink.

Tisha's breath caught. Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second, and something in her chest went tight, a wire pulled taut, a warning she didn't have words for. She looked away. Kept walking. Found her rhythm again and carried it back down the runway, back toward the safety of the backstage curtain, but she felt his gaze on her the whole way, a pressure between her shoulder blades that didn't lift until she was out of sight.

Backstage, she pressed a hand to her chest and breathed. Her heart was hammering. Stupid. She didn't know who he was. He was just some man in the audience, one of probably two hundred people out there. Nothing special. Nothing to shake her over.

But she couldn't shake the feeling of his eyes on her. The way they'd tracked her like she was prey he'd already caught.

Pete watched her disappear behind the curtain and felt his cock strain against the seam of his trousers.

He shifted in his seat, adjusted his jacket over his lap, and let out a slow breath through his nose. The girl on the runway—the one in the white bikini with the dark hair and the doe eyes and the full, round hips that swayed like they were made for his hands to grip—had been the only thing worth watching all night. The other models blurred past, interchangeable limbs and smiles, but she'd stopped him cold. He'd tracked every step she took, the way the muscles in her thighs flexed, the soft bounce of her breasts in that skimpy top, the curve of her ass as she turned. She was barely legal. He could tell by the way she carried herself—that mix of confidence and nerves, the slight hesitation before she committed to a pose. She was new. Fresh. Untouched by the cynicism that aged every other face in this room.

He wanted her.

The thought arrived with the certainty of a bullet finding its mark. He wanted to taste her skin, wanted to hear her voice, wanted to feel her body under his, wanted to break that careful composure and see what she looked like when she came undone. The wanting sat heavy in his chest, a familiar hunger he'd learned to feed without mercy.

Pete uncrossed his legs, adjusted his cuff, and signaled to the man standing at the edge of the stage. His driver. His shadow. Enzo appeared at his side within seconds, head bent, waiting.

"Find out who she is," Pete said, low enough that only Enzo could hear. "Name. Agency. Everything."

Enzo nodded once and melted back into the crowd.

The music changed. A new model took the stage. Pete didn't look at her. He was already thinking about how he was going to arrange a meeting, what he'd say, and how he'd make sure she said yes. He was good at getting what he wanted. He'd never had to try very hard—his name, his money, the weight of his reputation did the work for him. Women fell into his lap like fruit from a shaken tree. They wanted the danger. They wanted the thrill.

But this one. This one he wanted to savor.

The show ended twenty minutes later. The audience rose to polite applause, the designers came out for their bow, and Pete stood with them, clapping without enthusiasm, his gaze fixed on the stage door where the models would exit. He didn't wait long. Enzo found him before the crowd had cleared.

"Tisha Reyes. Eighteen. She's with Sterling Models. New to the agency, this was her first big booking." Enzo paused, his voice dropping. "Her file says she's clean. No attachments. Lives alone in a studio near the harbor."

Pete allowed himself a smile. Small. Barely there. "Get me the booking schedule for the rest of her night. Find out where the afterparty is."

"Already done. It's at the Ritz."

Pete straightened his jacket and smoothed a hand over his hair. "Good. Let's go."

He didn't ask if she'd be there. He'd make sure she was.

The afterparty was everything Tisha had expected and nothing she'd prepared for. A penthouse suite at the Ritz, all white marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights. The champagne was flowing, the music was loud enough to vibrate through her chest, and the crowd was a blur of designers, photographers, editors, and models, all circulating with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of doing this. Tisha hovered near the edge of the room, a glass of something fizzy in her hand that she'd barely touched, trying to look like she belonged.

The other models from the show had scattered into the crowd, laughing and posing, their arms linked through strangers'. Tisha's smile was starting to ache at the edges.

"You're the one in white, right?"

The voice came from behind her, low and smooth, with a faint accent she couldn't quite place. Tisha turned, and her breath caught in her throat.

He was even more imposing up close.

The man from the front row stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his gray eyes fixed on her with that same unnerving stillness. Up close, she could see the salt in his dark hair at the temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the solid weight of his shoulders under the expensive suit. He was beautiful in a hard, dangerous way, like a blade you didn't realize was sharp until you were bleeding.

"I—yeah," she managed. "That was me."

He stepped closer, and she didn't back away. Couldn't. Something in his gravity held her in place.

"You were stunning," he said, and the words landed like a touch. "I've been to a lot of shows. I don't say that lightly."

Tisha felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Thank you."

"I'm Pete." He extended his hand, and she took it. His palm was rough, calloused, and warm, and he held her hand a beat longer than a handshake required. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, a slow, deliberate stroke that sent a shiver up her arm. "Can I get you a real drink? Something stronger than champagne?"

She should say no. She should make an excuse, find a group of girls she knew, disappear into the bathroom until the feeling passed. But his eyes held hers, and there was something in them—a hunger, a promise—that made her want to stay.

"Okay," she heard herself say. "Something stronger."

He smiled, and it changed his whole face. Made him younger, almost soft, though the danger was still there, coiled beneath the surface. He guided her away from the window, his hand settling at the small of her back, warm and proprietary. She felt the pressure of his palm through the thin silk of her dress—she'd changed into something black and simple for the party, but now she felt naked under his touch.

The bar was crowded, but people parted for Pete like they knew who he was. He ordered two glasses of whiskey, neat, and handed one to her. The scent was sharp and smoky, and she took a sip, felt it burn down her throat, settle warm in her stomach.

"Easy," he said, his voice amused. "That's not champagne."

"I can handle it."

"Can you?" The question was soft, a challenge wrapped in velvet. He took a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving hers. "Tell me about yourself, Tisha."

She blinked. "You know my name."

"I make it my business to know the things I want."

The answer sent a thrill through her, fear and excitement tangled together. She took another sip of whiskey, longer this time, let the warmth settle her nerves. "I'm a model. Obviously. I just moved to the city. I'm from Boston originally."

"Boston. That explains the accent."

"What accent?"

"The one that comes out when you're nervous. It's cute."

She laughed despite herself, a bright, surprised sound. "I'm not nervous."

"You should be." He said it without menace, but the words hung in the air between them, weighted with something she didn't understand. Then his expression softened again, and he tilted his glass toward her. "I'm kidding. Mostly. Relax, Tisha. You've earned this night."

She wanted to ask who he was. What he did. Why did he look at her like he was memorizing the shape of her? But the questions felt too heavy, too real, and she was afraid of what the answers might change.

Instead, she smiled, let the whiskey warm her, and let him guide her deeper into the party.