The zipper had just gone up your back when the stylist exhaled softly, stepping back to admire the final look. You turned toward the mirror—and for a moment, you didn’t recognize yourself.

Dark red velvet clung to your frame like it was made just for you, the halter neckline highlighting your collarbones while the mermaid silhouette traced every curve with precision. The gloves kissed the soft skin from your fingertips to your elbows, matching the exact hue of your heels. Silver rhinestones dangled from your ears, catching the studio lights just right, while a delicate pendant rested against your collarbone, cool and perfect.

You looked expensive.

You looked like someone who belonged beside him.

And he? He looked like sin.

Black tux, silk-lined, pressed to perfection. Cufflinks that probably cost more than most people’s rent. And that stupid little smirk he wore when he saw you step out onto the set. That knowing smirk—because he knew exactly what he said the day before.

“If the pictures come back and you look fuck-able,” he had murmured, all nonchalance and wicked charm, “I will.”

You'd rolled your eyes at the time, scoffing as you adjusted your engagement ring—the one picked not by you, but by attorneys and boardrooms. The same ring now glinting under studio lights like it had always belonged on your finger.

He had watched you during the photoshoot with that same heat behind his eyes. His hand on your waist too firm to be “just for the camera.” His breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “Smile like you’re not thinking about how much you hate me.”

But you weren’t thinking about that.

You were thinking about how close his lips were. About the slow drag of his fingers along the small of your back as the photographer called out, “Closer, please.”

About the way his gaze dropped to your lips when you laughed, half-forced and half-nervous.

Days passed before the photos came in.

And when they did, he stood over your shoulder, one hand on the back of your chair, the other trailing lightly down your arm.