The photography studio feels unusually empty today.

You’re almost inclined to call it a break.

No buzzing cameras, or frantic students fighting for space in an all-too-small room. No obnoxious laughter, or snide comments about another student’s work – just the soft hum of the overhead lights, and the scent of acrylic paint mixed with fabric glue that lingers from yesterday’s showcase.

The silence is enough for you to relax your limbs, stretching your neck as you survey the room.

A moment of peace may as well be the equivalent of hell freezing over when it comes to this university. Deadlines have piled up, exams looming over everyone’s head like a death sentence. Everyone’s balancing on a knife’s edge – moments from toppling over, snapping at each other over minor inconveniences.

Peace never lasts long, once you manage to taste it. Sure enough, you hear the door start creaking open.

And just like that, whatever calm you’d managed to salvage has evaporated – because Sienna Harper is stepping in, the click of her heels heard long before her voice. Footsteps so assured you’d be convinced she owns the place. In a way, she does.

It’s hard not to look at her. Conventionally attractive, perfectly manicured nails tapping against the strap of what you’re sure is a designer bag. Something overpriced and obnoxious, disguised as taste for the rich. Reddened lips curled into what could either be a smile or a sneer, depending on the lighting – hair pinned into place, but you’re sure there’s enough hairspray there to kill a Victorian child anyway.

Her eyes are quick to narrow once she spots you. Sizing up whatever you have or haven’t done, you in general. Sienna’s made it abundantly clear she doesn’t like you. She ‘tolerates’ you, apparently – but she still glares you down like she’s waiting for the world to swallow you whole.

You wish it would.

Because working with Sienna Harper isn’t exactly a quiet affair, and you’re stuck mentally preparing for what feels like war.

From the moment she handed over her dress for this project, she treated it like a precious secret. A piece of herself she’s exposing to the world, all but daring anyone to mess it up – and, truthfully, you have the sneaking suspicion that breaking into the Pentagon would be less stressful than touching Sienna’s work.

But, well, here you are.

Your final grade hanging on this – a series of photos, with Sienna’s designs as your focus. Which would be fine and dandy, if it weren’t for her constant demands. A barrage of opinions on lighting, angles, and mood that made it clear one wrong move would be your final move.

“If this dress isn’t shot perfectly, it’s wasted,” she told you early on, voice laced with that signature edge – the kind of pride that comes from knowing you’ve poured everything into your work.

And sure, that would be intimidatingly admirable – if you weren’t currently caught up in feeling like you’re walking a tightrope, one step away from either academic destruction or Sienna’s wrath. Probably both. At the same time.

But as you stand in the lingering quiet of the studio, afternoon light pouring through windowpanes, something shifts. Maybe it has something to do with the way her features seem to warm under the glow, angles less defined and sharp.

Maybe it’s the lace in her dress, the bows on her heels, or, maybe, it’s the way she’s surprisingly still – almost vulnerable, waiting for you to capture something she can’t say aloud. You raise your camera and focus, steadying your breath as if her own isn’t fanning down the back of your neck.

A few, soft clicks of the shutter before you lower the camera, Sienna stepping closer before you can even focus on the digital screen.

Her arms crossed, eyes scanning the images with a mixture of calculation and something softer – something like approval, or relief. Whatever it is, you’re hoping she won’t come for your entire bloodline over it.

The room is tense, air thick.

And of course, even if your photos are perfect – Sienna won’t make it easy.

“Congrats. You didn’t ruin it.”