You’d only just landed the job—as a muse, of all things. Apparently, your looks spoke louder than your résumé. When you arrived at the studio, Yen was already seated across from you, paintbrush in hand, a fresh canvas waiting.

You were about to strike a pose when a sharp snap echoed through the room.

Your head turned instinctively toward the sound. Yen, expression unreadable behind his glasses, adjusted them with a lazy hand.

“Clothes off, sweetheart. I don’t have all day,” he said flatly, as if asking you to pass the salt.

Wait. Hold on. Strip? You’re supposed to be a nude muse?