The bass from the DJ booth was a physical vibration in the air, thumping through the marble floors of the Miami Beach mansion. Gigi Wells felt it in her chest, a second heartbeat synced with the music. She stood by the infinity pool, its water glowing a vibrant azure, surrounded by a swirl of tanned skin, white linen, and sequined dresses.
"Gigi, you animal! You owned that runway today!" shouted Marco, a fellow model, handing her a fresh glass of chilled vodka soda. The lime wedge bobbed against the ice.
Gigi took it, clinking her glass against his. "It's just walking, Marco. But I do make it look good." She took a long sip, the cold liquid a sharp contrast to the humid night.
"Just walking? Honey, you stomped. I heard Antoine is already pitching you for the Paris show." This was from Chloe, her roommate, who was perched on the edge of a sun lounger, phone in hand, probably live-streamming.
"Good. I need a new apartment. One with a pool that isn't full of drunk Italians," Gigi said, her eyes scanning the crowd. Her gaze landed on Leo Costa, the Brazilian footballer who'd been trying to catch her attention all night. He broke into a wide smile and started making his way over.
"Incoming," Chloe sang, nudging her.
"Gigi Wells," Leo said, his accent thick. He leaned in, his cologne overpowering the salt air. "You are the most dangerous thing here tonight."
"More dangerous than your left foot?" Gigi replied, giving him a slow, unimpressed smile.
"Much more. I am defenseless." He gestured to her drink. "Can I get you another?"
"I'm good right here." She took another deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact. The game was easy. Flirt, hold power, move on.
"Then dance with me," he said, reaching for her hand.
The music shifted to a deeper, pulsing reggaeton beat. Gigi laughed, a bright, clear sound that cut through the noise. "You can't dance to this."
"I can do anything," he challenged.
She was about to reply, to take his hand and lead him onto the makeshift dance floor just to prove him wrong, when her phone buzzed violently against her thigh. It was tucked into her tiny silver clutch. One buzz. Then another. Then a relentless series of vibrations. The specific, urgent pattern she had set for one person: Dad.
Her smile didn't disappear, but it fixed in place. She held up a finger to Leo. "Business call. Don't go anywhere."
She turned, weaving through the crowd. A producer from LA tried to stop her. "Gigi! We need to talk about that music video concept!"
"Later!" she called back, not breaking stride.
She found相对 quiet in a hallway leading to the mansion's library, lined with stark black-and-white photographs. The bass was a muffled throb here. She pulled out her phone and answered.
"Papa. I'm kinda in the middle of a victory lap. Make it fast."
"Colette." His voice was a dry, serious rasp. It was the tone he used in boardrooms. He only called her Colette when the situation was formal. Or dire.
"What's wrong? Is it Mom?" Her own voice lost its playful edge.
"Your mother is fine. This is about the family. My health is… requiring some adjustments. I need you in Miami. Not playing model. I need you as my daughter."
A cold spike of alarm shot through her. "Your health? What does that mean?"
"It means I am simplifying things. There is an opportunity. A merger. It requires a united front from us. From you."
Gigi's mind raced. Merger. Her father was the CEO of Wells Resorts, a luxury hotel chain. A merger meant one thing: dilution of power, or a massive expansion. And he needed her. That never happened.
"What kind of front?"
"A public one. The other party is… traditional. They want to see stability. Legacy. You will meet the principal. You will be agreeable. You will look the part."
Gigi looked down at her dress, a sliver of electric blue silk that left little to the imagination. "Papa, I am at a party. I am the part."
"You look like a fever dream," he stated, no malice, just fact. "A car is sent. It will be at the venue in twenty minutes. Be in it. We meet tomorrow at ten AM at the FUG Corp building. Wear black. Or navy. Look like you understand a balance sheet."
"FUG Corp? That's the Parker family. You're merging with them?" Her street-smart mind connected dots instantly. The Parker family was old Florida money, but their son, Rivers, was the face of new luxury with Peevers. He was famously private. Cold.
"The car will be black. Do not be late." The line went dead.
Gigi stood frozen in the hallway, the phone pressed to her ear for a moment longer. The muffled sounds of the party felt suddenly stupid and far away. A merger. A performance. His health.
She walked back to the pool area, her steps slower. Leo was waiting, two fresh drinks in his hands. "There you are! I was getting lonely."
She took the glass from him, drained the vodka soda in one go, and handed the empty glass back to him. The ice cubes clinked.
"Change of plans, football star. Daddy duty calls."
His face fell. "You're leaving? Now?"
"Business never sleeps." She leaned in, gave him a quick, firm kiss on the cheek—a period at the end of a sentence. "See you on the next runway."
She found Chloe. "I have to go. Dad thing. It's serious."
Chloe took in her face. "Okay. Call me. And for God's sake, change before you see him."
Gigi made her way to the grand front entrance, the party trying to pull her back in with every step. She ignored more calls of her name.
Outside, the wall of humid air was a shock. Paparazzi, a permanent fixture along the hedgerowed driveway, erupted in a chaos of flashes and shouts.
"Gigi! Over here!"
"Who are you wearing?"
"Is the rumor true about you and Leo Costa?"
"Are you the new Peevers girl?"
She usually gave them something—a smirk, a wave, a twirl. Tonight, she just stared straight ahead, her face a smooth, unreadable mask behind her oversized sunglasses. Her mind was a thousand miles away, in a boardroom she'd always avoided.
She didn't wait for the car by the door. She needed to move. She walked down the manicured driveway, the click of her heels and the popping of flashbulbs the only sound she acknowledged. At the tall, wrought-iron gate, she stopped, turning her back to the mansion.
She pulled a cigarette and a lighter from her clutch. She lit it, the flame briefly illuminating the determined set of her jaw. She took a long drag, exhaling the smoke toward the dark, palm-lined street where her black car would soon appear.
The cameras kept firing. They captured her perfectly: the electric blue dress against the night, the sharp lines of her shoulders, the defiant set of her mouth as she stared into the middle distance, alone in a crowd of light and noise.
By morning, the photo would be everywhere. The caption would read: "Gigi Wells: Midnight Exit. Is the Party Over?"
She flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the gutter. The performance was already starting, and she hadn't even agreed to the script. A slow smile touched her lips. Fine. If they wanted a show, she'd give them one. But it would be on her terms. She slid into the back of the arriving black town car, the door shutting with a solid, final sound.