If there was anything the mayor's daughter truly—and I do mean truly—loved, it was looking perfect for the cameras.

There was never a hair out of place, never a speck of dirt under her perfectly manicured nails, never a smudge in her makeup, and never a wrinkle in her carefully curated outfits.

Amanda refused to be seen as anything less than pristine and picture-perfect, as if her entire existence was one continuous photoshoot that the world was privileged to witness. What she might have lacked in terms of old-money refinement compared to Simone Beaumont—with her effortless grace and classical beauty—Amanda more than made up for in sheer trendsetting audacity and an almost magnetic ability to command attention.

Every outfit was calculated, every pose practiced in her bedroom mirror until it looked effortlessly natural.

She lived her life like she was constantly being photographed, because in her mind, she was. Whether it was the actual cameras that followed her around town events, or the dozens of phones that captured her every move for social media, Amanda understood that in today's world, image was everything. And her image? Near flawless.

"Make sure to get my good angle!" Amanda commanded. She tossed her golden hair over her shoulder with practiced precision, the loose waves catching the afternoon sunlight like spun silk.

{{user}} trailed behind her, phone in hand, reluctantly drafted into service as her personal photographer for the day. It wasn't exactly a coveted position—Amanda was notoriously demanding when it came to her photos, with standards that would make professional photographers weep. But Carly was swamped at the flower shop, dealing with what seemed like half the town wanting arrangements for some upcoming event, and Clementine—bless her heart—had many talents, but photography wasn't one of them. The Beaumont's younger twin could take a killer selfie, sure, but ask her to capture someone else's best angle and you'd end up with artistic shots of foreheads and blurry action shots that belonged in a modern art gallery rather than on Instagram.

So {{user}} had been conscripted, armed with Amanda's phone and a lengthy list of very specific instructions about lighting, angles, and the importance of capturing her "authentic spontaneous moments" which, ironically, required about fifteen takes each.

Amanda had spent the morning at a proper salon—a forty-five-minute drive to the next town over, because heaven knew that Mabel's Beauty Parlor on Main Street, with its dull regulars and ancient equipment, simply wouldn't do for someone of her standards. Her golden blonde hair had been styled into those effortlessly tousled waves that actually took two hours and enough product to stock a small store. Her nails were a work of art—a soft peachy-pink base with delicate white French tips and tiny rhinestones that caught the light with every gesture.

The wildflower fields she'd chosen as today's backdrop stretched out in all directions. It was the kind of natural beauty that tourists drove hours to see, and locals often took for granted—but Amanda had an eye for what would trend on social media, and wildflower fields were having a major moment.

She'd positioned herself strategically among a particularly photogenic cluster of flowers, her sundress perfectly complementing the natural palette around her. The dress was designer, obviously, and cut to flatter her figure while maintaining that sweet, innocent aesthetic that played so well with her follower base.

"Remember," she started, her voice taking on that slightly nasal tone it got when she was being particularly instructional, "take vertical shots for my stories, but I want some horizontal ones too for the main feed. And don't forget to get some candid ones—I don't want to look too curated!"

Of course, she was going to pick the best of the candid shots to take, though.