Chapter 3
Chloe's POV
"Chin up a little more, Chloe. Perfect! That's exactly the regal expression we need."
I tilted my head slightly, letting the studio lights catch the contours of my cheekbones. The Vogue September issue deserved nothing less than perfection, and I was delivering it. The iconic Los Angeles skyline glittered behind me through the massive studio windows, a fitting backdrop for the city's most photographed face.
"Beautiful! Hold that pose," the photographer called, rapidly clicking his camera. "You're giving us magic tonight."
I maintained my position, embodying the elegance and poise that had made me the darling of every major fashion house in America. Between shots, the stylist rushed over to adjust my golden-brown hair and touch up my makeup, ensuring not a single flaw would appear on those glossy pages.
"The champagne prop, please," I requested, knowing exactly which angle would catch my best side. Four a.m. shoots were exhausting, but worth it for Vogue's most important issue of the year.
"Ms. Sinclair?" My assistant Oliver appeared at the edge of the set, his expression unusually tense. He gestured urgently for me to come closer.
I maintained my camera-ready smile. "We're in the middle of something, Oliver."
"It's important," he insisted, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Damian Blackwood has been admitted to Angeles Heights Medical Institute. Apparently, he nearly drowned."
The champagne flute prop almost slipped from my fingers. "What?"
"And there's something else," Oliver continued, looking uncomfortable. "Someone used your name to check him in."
The photographer cleared his throat. "Ms. Sinclair, we still have three more looks to shoot..."
"That's enough for today," I declared, already walking off set. "We'll continue tomorrow."
"But the deadline—"
"They can wait," I cut him off with a glacial stare. "This is an emergency."
As the styling team helped me change out of the couture gown into my Chanel suit, my mind raced. Damian Blackwood. The most powerful man in Los Angeles whom I had been pursuing. The coldest, most brilliant business mind of our generation. And someone had used my name to check him into a hospital?
In the privacy of my dressing room, I examined my reflection in the mirror. At twenty-five, I was at the height of my modeling career, but that had never been my endgame. Los Angeles operated on a hierarchy that transcended mere celebrity, and the Blackwood family stood firmly at its apex. Damian controlled Blackwood Global financial group, the Angeles Heights medical network, and half the high-end real estate in the city.
The three great families of Los Angeles – Blackwood, Wilder and Sinclair– dictated the city's social landscape. My family might rank third, but I had always aimed for the top. The Sinclairs had wealth, but the Blackwoods had dynasty.
For three years, I'd been meticulously planning how to get close to Damian Blackwood. Every charity gala, every exclusive club opening, every corporate event – I'd been there, beautiful and available, yet he barely spared me a glance. Damian was thirty-five, devastatingly handsome, and completely focused on his empire. No woman had managed to capture his attention for more than a night.
Until now. This was the opportunity I'd been waiting for.
"Oliver," I called as I emerged from the dressing room. "Car. Now. And find out who used my name at the hospital."
The staff at Angeles Heights parted before me like the Red Sea. The Sinclair name still carried weight, especially in a Blackwood-owned facility. I strode purposefully toward the VIP wing, my Louboutins clicking against the polished floor like a countdown to destiny.
"Ms. Sinclair?" A nurse at the station looked up in confusion. "But weren't you just...?"
"I was at a photoshoot," I corrected smoothly. "I came as soon as I heard. How is Damian?"
The doctor approached, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Blackwood is stable. He suffered from alcohol intoxication and near-drowning, but he's expected to make a full recovery. He's currently sedated."
I nodded and entered the private room. Damian lay unconscious, monitors beeping steadily beside him. Even in this vulnerable state, his presence commanded the room – strong jawline, perfectly sculptured features, the epitome of power temporarily at rest.
A small note on his bedside table caught my attention. I picked it up and read: "If you wake up, remember you owe me money. Rescue fee: $2,000." A phone number was scrawled underneath.
"Who left this?" I demanded, showing the note to the nurse who had followed me in.
"The young woman who brought him in," she explained. "She said she found Mr. Blackwood in the river and pulled him out. She used your name to admit him and paid the emergency fees."
"Describe her," I said, my voice suddenly tight.
"Quite distinctive," the nurse replied. "Heavy makeup, crab jacket, arrived on a motorcycle."
Oliver appeared at the doorway, mouthing silently: "Willow Clark."
My stomach clenched. Of course. My wayward twin sister – or half of me, to be precise. The unwanted copy who preferred to live in obscurity, working at dive bars and convenience stores like some common peasant.
"Yes," I said, making a split-second decision. "She works for me. But I was the one who rescued Damian."
The nurse looked confused. "But she specifically said she was—"
"I couldn't reveal my direct involvement," I interrupted firmly before she could finish. "Can you imagine the headlines? 'Model ruins designer clothes saving billionaire'? I sent her to handle the paperwork." I tore the note into tiny pieces and handed them to Oliver, who without hesitation popped them into his mouth and swallowed with a practiced efficiency that spoke volumes about our working relationship. "Please ensure Mr. Blackwood receives the best care. And if he wakes up, I'd appreciate being the first to know."
Once we were alone in the hallway, I turned to Oliver. "Contact the Blackwood family. Tell them I personally rescued Damian. Prepare a statement for the press – they'll be all over this by morning. The story is that I happened to be passing by the riverfront after a charity event when I heard calls for help and bravely jumped in to save him."
"And if Willow speaks up?" Oliver asked cautiously.
I smiled coldly. "Who would believe a club dancer over me? Besides, she never speaks up. She prefers to hide in the shadows."
Returning to Damian's room, I sat beside his bed and gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm under my fingertips, his breathing steady.
I was still holding his hand when his eyelids suddenly fluttered. The monitors showed a spike in his heart rate, their steady beeping accelerating.
"Nurse!" I called out, then immediately composed myself. This was my moment, and I needed to appear perfectly concerned yet collected.
His breathing changed, becoming less rhythmic. His fingers twitched against mine.
"Damian?" I leaned closer, making sure my face would be the first thing he saw. I quickly checked my reflection in my compact mirror, adjusting a strand of hair. Perfection was essential.
His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and glazed with medication. Those famous steel-gray eyes that had stared down boardroom opponents and sealed billion-dollar deals now looked vulnerable, confused. He blinked several times, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
"You're at Angeles Heights," I said softly, ensuring my voice carried just the right amount of concern. "You're safe now."
A nurse appeared at the doorway, but I gestured for her to wait. This private moment between us was too valuable to interrupt.
His gaze finally settled on me, confusion evident in his expression. "What..." he tried to speak, but his voice came out as a dry rasp.
"Here," I reached for the water glass, gently bringing it to his lips. "Small sips."
After moistening his throat, he tried again. "What happened?" His voice was still rough, barely audible.
I squeezed his hand gently, maintaining eye contact. "You nearly drowned in the river. But I found you just in time."
Recognition flickered in his eyes as they roamed over my face. "You... saved me?"
"Yes," I whispered, allowing vulnerability to show in my expression – calculated, but convincing. "I couldn't let anything happen to you, Damian."
He struggled to keep his eyes open, fighting against the medication. "I remember... water... darkness..." His brow furrowed. "Then... someone..."
"That was me," I interjected smoothly before he could form any clearer memories. "Rest now. I'll be here when you wake up properly."
The nurse stepped forward. "His vitals are strong, but he needs to rest, Ms. Sinclair."
Damian's eyes were already closing despite his efforts. "Thank... you..." he managed before drifting back into unconsciousness, the machines returning to their steady rhythm.
Once he was fully under, I allowed myself a triumphant smile. Perfect. He had seen me, spoken to me, thanked me. The press would call it fate – the beautiful model who saved the business titan. We would be Los Angeles's golden couple.