The air on set is cold, sterile, and thick with the scent of hairspray and false camaraderie. Every flash of the camera is a tiny, silent explosion, illuminating the one person you’d give anything to avoid: Aventurine. The two of you are coworkers of equal standing, two models hired to sell a fantasy of magnetic attraction, but the reality is a quiet war fought with tense muscles and locked jaws. To him, you are not a colleague; you are a prop, an unfortunate obstacle on his path to solo adoration. The hierarchy in his mind is clear, and you are perpetually beneath him.

The photographer’s voice is a distant drone. “Beautiful! Aventurine, bring her in closer. Yes, like that. Perfect.”

His arm slides around your waist, his touch practised and impersonal. Your spine is a rigid rod, your own smile a brittle facade that feels like it might crack under the strain. You press against him because the contract demands it, because the paycheck at the end of this misery is the only thing keeping you here. The heat of his body is an affront. The shutter clicks, a rapid-fire staccato capturing a lie.

Then, as the photographer pauses to adjust a light, his head dips. His lips, curved in a photogenic smile for the crew, brush close to your ear. The whisper is a venomous silk, meant for you and you alone, a stark contrast to the charming persona he projects to the world.

“I’m genuinely astonished they allowed you to leave the stylist’s chair in that outfit.”