Chapter FOUR

The sun didn't just rise in the loft, it assaulted it.

The floor-to-ceiling glass turned the shrine of her life into a blinding gallery of her own face.

Cali woke up on the velvet sofa, her neck stiff and her temper shorter than the hem of her sheer gown. She stood up, her bare feet hitting the cold polished concrete, and looked at the walls.

Thousands of Calis stared back. Happy Cali, sad Cali, and most of all, grumpy Cali.

"Morning, narcissist," she snapped at the empty air, assuming Devi was watching his monitors.

She marched over to the nearest photo, a candid of her at eighteen, laughing at a street performer. She grabbed the edge of the frame and yanked. It didn't budge.

It was bolted to the masonry.

"Oh, you think you’re smart?" she muttered. She looked around for something heavy.

Her eyes landed on a sleek, black kitchen island. On top of it sat a single, white porcelain bowl filled with fresh blackberries and a small, silver paring knife.

Next to it was a glass of chilled alkaline water. Exactly her morning routine.

She ignored the food and grabbed the knife. She went back to the wall and began to gouge the photos.

She sliced through the canvas of her own smiling face, the screech of metal on stone set her teeth on edge.

She ripped, she tore, and she hacked until the wall was a graveyard of shredded memories.

"How’s the view now, Devi?" she yelled, breathless, sweat beading on her forehead.

She turned to the next wall, but her hand froze. This wall wasn't photos. It was a glass-enclosed wardrobe. Inside sat her entire closet from her old apartment.

Every worn-out hoodie, every pair of jeans with the holes in the knees, even the ugly sweater her grandmother had knitted her before she died, the one Cali thought she’d lost in a move three years ago.

He hadn't just followed her. He had curated her. A soft ping came from the kitchen. A sleek, hidden screen on the refrigerator door flickered to life. It wasn't a video of him, it was just text, white on black.

[DEVI]: The sweater looks better on the chair than in a box, Cali baby. Eat your breakfast. You have a meeting at 11:00 AM.

Cali stormed over to the fridge, the paring knife still clutched in her hand. "I’m not going to any meeting! I’m calling a lawyer! I’m calling the National Guard!"

[DEVI]: You own the agency now, Cali. I put it in your name this morning. You’re the CEO. You don't have to be a model anymore unless you want to. You’re the boss.

Cali stared at the screen, her jaw dropping.

"You... what?"

[DEVI]: I don't want other men looking at you for money. If you want to be seen, it'll be because you choose it. Not because your mother needs a paycheck.

The sheer, obsessive understanding of her situation made her feel sick. He was solving all her problems by building a bigger cage.

He was taking away her reasons to hate her life so she would have nothing left to focus on but him.

"I still hate you," she whispered, her voice cracking.

[DEVI]: I know. It’s the most honest thing about us. See you at 11:00, Boss.

The screen went black.

Cali looked at the blackberries. She was starving. She was furious. She picked up a berry and threw it as hard as she could at the security camera in the corner.

"I'm wearing the sweater," she growled, stomping toward the wardrobe.

"And I’m firing everyone." Cali didn't put on the designer heels.

She didn't put on the silk dress or the Boss blazer Devi had surely left in the wardrobe.

Instead, she grabbed the oversized, moth-eaten gray hoodie she’d owned since she was nineteen, the one she wore when she was sick and hated the world.

She pulled it over her head, hiding her frame, and shoved her feet into the repaired sneakers from the pedestal.

She looked like a disaster. She looked like a girl who had given up on the runway forever.

"Watch this, you freak," she muttered, looking directly into the lens of the hidden camera.

She didn't take the elevator. She found the emergency stairs and began to descend, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

She wasn't going to the agency. She was going to find the man who thought he could buy her soul with a corporate takeover.

When she reached the floor below, the door was heavy steel, cold to the touch. It didn't have a handle. It had a biometric scanner.

Cali hesitated, then pressed her thumb against the glass.

Access Granted.

The door hissed open.

The floor was a stark contrast to her sun-drenched loft. It was a high-tech war room, lit only by the blue glow of dozens of monitors.

Most of them were security feeds of the city, docks, warehouses, street corners. But the largest screens, the ones directly in front of a high-backed leather chair, were all of her.

They showed the empty loft she had just left. They showed the shredded photos on the floor.

The chair swiveled slowly.

Devi sat there, looking exactly like the ruthless CEO the tabloids whispered about.

His suit was dark, his expression unreadable, but his eyes... they were filled with a possessive heat that made the air in the room feel thin.

"You’re early, Cali baby," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to crawl up her spine.

"And you’re wearing the hoodie. I always liked how you looked in oversized things. It makes you look like you need to be held."

Cali didn't move. She stood in the doorway, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, her grumpy glare fixed on his face.

"I don't need to be held. I need you to stop playing God with my life. You bought my agency? You fixed my shoes? You’re a stalker with a bank account, Devi. That’s all."

Devi stood up, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. He walked toward her, not with aggression, but with a terrifyingly calm understanding.

"I'm the only one who truly sees you, Cali," he said, stopping just inches away. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Everyone else wants a piece of the model. I want the girl who hates the cameras. I want the girl who’s too mean to be loved by anyone but me."

"I told you," Cali spat, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

"I don't have a soul for you to own." Devi leaned down, his lips brushing her temple, his jealousy flaring as he caught the scent of the cheap soap she still used despite the luxury upstairs.

"Then I'll just have to own the hollow space where it used to be," he whispered. "Now, are you going to your meeting, or do I have to carry you there myself?"

Cali didn’t flinch. She stared at the expensive silk of his tie, her expression a mask of pure, grumpy boredom.

"Carry me? Is that the best you’ve got? You’ve been watching me for twenty years, Devi. You should know I’m a spiteful bitch when I’m forced to do anything."

Devi’s eyes darkened, a flash of obsessive hunger crossing his face. Most people trembled when he lowered his voice. Cali just looked like she wanted to take a nap to spite him.

"I know exactly who you are, Cali baby," he murmured, his hand finally moving, not to grab her, but to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was electric, a stark contrast to his cold reputation.

"That mean attitude is just the thorns on a rose I’ve already picked."

Cali slapped his hand away. "I’m not a rose. I’m a weed. And you can’t pick something that refuses to grow in your garden."

She turned on her heel, her repaired sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. She didn't head for the exit; she headed for his massive mahogany desk.

She sat in his executive chair, kicking her feet up onto the surface, her muddy soles resting right on top of a leather-bound folder worth more than a car.

"Fine," she snapped. "You want me to be the CEO? I’ll be the CEO. But I’m doing it from here. And my first executive order is that you stay at least ten feet away from me at all times."

Devi didn't look angry. He looked entranced. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, his gaze tracing the way she looked in his chair, swallowed by his world but refusing to be digested by it.

"Ten feet?" he repeated, a slow, dangerous smirk spreading across his lips.

"That’s going to be difficult when I’ve already cleared my schedule to be your personal assistant for the day."

Cali’s foot slipped off the desk. "My what?"

"The board of directors is waiting on a video call," Devi said, nodding toward the giant monitor on the wall.

"They think they’re meeting a new, refined leader. Are you going to give them the Ice Queen or the girl in the moth-eaten hoodie who smells like spite and blackberries?" Cali looked at the blank screen, then at Devi’s jealous, possessive smirk.

He wanted to see her fail. No, he wanted to see her realize that she needed his shadow to keep the world at bay.

"I’m going to give them the truth," Cali whispered, her voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. She reached for the mouse, her eyes never leaving Devi’s.

"I'm going to tell them that the Santoro empire is being run by a woman who has nothing left to lose."

She clicked the Join Meeting.

The screen flickered to life, showing twelve stunned men in suits. Cali didn't sit up. She didn't fix her hair. She just glared at the camera with the weight of a thousand ignored shutter-clicks.

"Listen up, you suit," she began, her voice dripping with mean, grumpy authority.

"My name is Caliya Hamilton, and I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to this company."

Behind the camera, out of sight of the monitors, Devi’s hand tightened into a fist. His obsession wasn't just a hobby anymore; it was a fever. She was perfect.