The supermodel's leash

The elevator wasn't crowded. Derek pressed himself closer to the blonde woman standing ahead, his foot sliding forward between her heels.

Thong. Slut.

Watching the upskirt footage upload to his phone, Derek's lips curled into a grotesque smile. He tapped save with trembling satisfaction.

Derek Chen worked as a photographer at a mid-tier entertainment agency in Los Angeles. Forty years old, overweight, balding—a textbook example of failure. Every blind date ended the same way: the woman took one look and walked out. Not even a girlfriend after all these years.

Women are all the same—shallow bitches who only care about looks.

Gradually, something inside Derek twisted. He became what he hated—a creep who filmed up skirts, who groped women in hallways. A piece of shit hiding behind a camera.

Back at his cubicle, the assistant—Jessica, barely twenty-two—told him, "Mr. Morgan wants to see you."

"Ass getting fatter, Jess. Let Uncle Derek check."

Derek squeezed her buttock as he passed. Jessica's face contorted in disgust, but she said nothing. She never did.

Morgan. Derek walked toward the executive office, piecing together who that was: some trust-fund pretty boy who'd parachuted into the company three months ago. Tall—six-three at least—eight-pack abs, all-American jaw. The kind of guy who made women in the office giggle like teenagers. He'd been made Art Director of the Mia Division on day one.

Mia Harrington. Supermodel. Movie star. The most famous woman on the planet. Men across five continents would drink her bathwater if given the chance. She was the company's only real asset—the entire operation revolved around her schedule, her image, her brand. The Mia Division held all the power, which meant Morgan did too.

Some people are born tall and handsome with connections. Others are born short and ugly and have to claw their way through shit their whole lives.

The world wasn't fair. It never had been.

Derek knocked and entered. A stack of printed photos hit him in the face.

"Look at this garbage, you fat fuck!" Morgan's voice was sharp, contemptuous. "This is what you gave us for Mia's shoot?"

Derek stood there, photographs scattering across the carpet. He wanted to scream. He'd been with this company for fifteen years—lost his hair over deadlines, lived in a shitty studio apartment—and now some twenty-five-year-old with a trust fund was calling him a fat fuck.

But he swallowed it. He always did.

Middle-aged, alone in a foreign country—he couldn't afford to lose this job. This job was his life.

Morgan circled him like a predator. "Do you have any idea who Mia is? She's not some Instagram thot. She's perfection. She represents purity, elegance—everything you're not. And what do you do? Zoom in on her tits and ass like a fucking pervert."

Purity? She's famous because of those tits and that ass. Everyone knows it. You know it.

Derek bit his tongue, staring at the floor.

Morgan leaned in. "You disgust me. Go reshoot the series. And if it's not perfect—perfect—don't bother coming back tomorrow."

Derek nodded, bowed slightly, and left. His hands were shaking.

The studio was two blocks away, surrounded by fans holding signs, screaming Mia's name. Derek pushed through the employee entrance, muttering under his breath.

Idiots. You think she cares about you? You think she'll let you touch her? Dream on.

Inside, the air smelled like hairspray and overpriced perfume. And then Derek saw her.

Even after a hundred shoots, Mia Harrington still made his cock twitch. Nineteen years old. Six-one. H-cup breasts that defied physics, a waist you could wrap your hands around, legs that went on forever. Skin like porcelain. Face like a Renaissance painting.

Wonder who got her cherry. Lucky bastard.

Derek adjusted himself and approached, bowing slightly. "Miss Harrington. I'm here to redo the morning shoot."

Mia sat in the makeup chair, surrounded by bodyguards and assistants like a medieval queen. She glanced at him with open disdain. "Why are you still here? I told my boyfriend to fire you."

"W-what?"

"Ugh, Morgan didn't tell you?" Mia rolled her eyes. "You're done. Your photography is creepy as hell. Honestly, you gross me out."

Derek's mind reeled. Morgan is her boyfriend? That's why he got the job? That's why—

"Miss Harrington, please," Derek stammered. "Give me one more chance—"

"Leave." Mia's voice was cold, final. "Before I call security. I've heard about you, by the way—groping the junior talent, filming them in the hallways. You're disgusting. Just looking at you makes my skin crawl."