The top floor of Hale Model Agency was all glass and steel, cold December light pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city’s’s glittering skyline. It was December and the air inside the conference room carried the sharp bite of impatience.

Derek Hale sat at the head of the long obsidian table, legs spread wide in his tailored black suit, one tattooed hand resting on the armrest while the other scrolled idly through the digital portfolio on the tablet in front of him. At thirty-eight, he was still the most dangerously handsome man in any room he entered—broad shoulders straining against the crisp white shirt, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, dark eyes that looked like they already knew every secret you were trying to hide. His presence alone made people nervous. Today, it made them terrified.

Spread across the table were printed lookbooks, headshots, composites. Dozens of faces. Long legs, perfect skin, pouty lips, sultry stares. Every single one of them hand-picked by his scouting team as the best Korea had to offer right now.

And every single one of them bored him to death.

“No,” he said flatly, not even looking up as the creative director flipped to the next girl.

The room shifted uncomfortably. The director swallowed. “Sir, this is Mina. She just closed Paris Fashion Week—”

“No.”

Another slide. Another flawless twenty-year-old with cheekbones that could slice paper.

“No.”

He tossed the tablet aside with a soft clatter. Leaned back in his chair, rolled his neck once, the movement making the fabric of his shirt pull tight across his chest.

“I didn’t build this agency to put out another safe, pretty calendar that gets thrown in a drawer by January second,” he said, voice low, controlled, lethal. “I want the kind of woman who makes a man forget his own name when he turns the page. Someone who burns into the brain. Someone unforgettable.”

Silence.

His eyes swept the table—scouts, agents, stylists, all of them shrinking a little under the weight of that stare.

“Find her,” he said. “Or I’ll find someone who can.”

The meeting ended in a scramble of chairs and murmured apologies. Derek stayed seated, watching the city through the glass, jaw tight. He’d been restless for weeks. The calendar was the agency’s biggest annual project—twelve months of pure fantasy that sold out in hours and cemented Hale’s reputation as the kingmaker of desire. This year, he wanted it to be legendary.

An hour later, there was a hesitant knock on his office door.

“Come in.”

Scott stepped inside, looking every bit the polished junior executive—neat hair, pressed suit, nervous smile. Twenty-six, married less than two years, one of the hardest workers in marketing. Decent guy. Harmless.

“Mr. Hale,” Scott started, clutching his tablet like a shield. “I… I know the meeting didn’t go well. And I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” He hesitated, throat bobbing. “I think I might know someone who could be exactly what you’re looking for.”

Derek lifted a brow, the only invitation Scott needed.

Scott tapped his screen a few times, then turned it around.

The photo that filled the display stopped Derek’s heart for one dangerous second.

Her.

Stiles.

Even in the old shot—clearly taken years ago, professional lighting, high-fashion editorial—she was devastating. Porcelain skin glowing under studio lights, huge dark eyes lined in smoky kohl, those full pink lips parted just enough to promise sin. The angle was side-profile, neck arched, collarbones sharp above a barely-there black lace bralette that did nothing to hide the heavy, perfect swell of her breasts. Lower down, the shot cut off at her waist, but the suggestion of wide hips and that legendary ass was already there in the curve of her body.

Another swipe. Runway shot. Stiles strutting in nothing but a sheer white bodysuit, nipples dark shadows beneath the fabric, thighs thick and smooth, heels so high they made her legs look endless.

Another. Beach editorial. Tiny red bikini clinging to wet skin, water dripping down the valley between her breasts, hair slicked back, lips bitten red.

Derek’s grip tightened on the armrest until his knuckles went white.

He remembered her.

Six years ago. She’d been nineteen, brand new to the industry, booked for one of his biggest campaigns. He’d watched her on set that day—watched the way she moved, owned every inch of space, made the camera fall in love instantly. He’d wanted her then. Badly. Had almost crossed the line he never crossed with talent.

Then she’d vanished. Quit modeling overnight. Rumors said she’d fallen in love, married young, chosen a quiet life.

And now she was married to Scott.

His own employee.

Derek’s eyes flicked up to the man standing in front of him, beaming with shy pride.

“She’s my wife,” Scott said, voice soft with adoration. “Stiles. She used to model—nothing huge, just a few big campaigns—but she was… she was incredible. She quit after we got married. Said she wanted to focus on us. But I still have some of her old portfolios. If you think she might—”

Derek let the silence stretch just long enough for Scott to start fidgeting.

Then he smiled.

Not the polite CEO smile. Something slower. Darker. Something that didn’t reach his eyes.

“She’s perfect,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “Bring her in.”

Scott’s face lit up like he’d just been handed the world. “Really? Sir, thank you—I mean, I’ll talk to her tonight. She might be nervous, it’s been years, but… God, she’ll be thrilled you even remembered her work.”

Derek nodded once, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Take your time convincing her. But don’t take too long. I want her in front of my camera by the end of the week.”

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Hale. Seriously.”

Scott practically bounced out of the office, already typing a message to his wife, no doubt gushing about how the legendary Derek Hale himself had called her perfect.

The door clicked shut.

Derek stayed motionless for a long moment, staring at the frozen image still glowing on the tablet.

Stiles.

All that flawless white skin. Those obscene curves poured into whatever slutty little outfit she felt like wearing that day. That fat, pink, hairless pussy he’d spent more than one night imagining wrapped around him.

And now she belonged to someone else.

Someone who worked for him.

Someone who had just handed her to him on a silver platter.

The smile that spread across Derek’s face this time was slow, predatory.

He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over the screen a moment before he typed a single message to his assistant.

Clear my schedule Friday afternoon. Studio booking. Full team. Lighting test.

Then he looked back at Stiles’s photo, eyes dropping to the deep plunge of her cleavage, the way her nipples pressed against wet fabric in that bikini shot.

He exhaled, low and rough.

“Welcome back, beautiful,” he murmured to the empty room. “This time, you’re not going anywhere.”

The game had just begun.