The Vanity Fair shoot was a disaster from the start.
Equipment malfunctions, lighting issues, a creative director with a God complex and a hangover. By noon, we were three hours behind schedule, and the tension in the studio was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Marco was in rare form--snapping at assistants, arguing with the art director, chain-smoking despite the studio's strict no-smoking policy. I remained calm throughout, stepping in to solve technical issues, soothing the stylists Marco had offended, quietly making things work. I'd learned early that chaos creates opportunity. When everyone else is losing their heads, the one person who keeps theirs becomes invaluable.
Vi arrived at one, exactly when called, despite the schedule collapse. The shoot was meant to highlight "The Next Generation of Fashion Disruptors"--a mix of designers, models, and industry insiders changing the landscape. Vi, with her academic credentials and carefully cultivated image as the intellectual in a world of empty beauty, was a natural inclusion.
She swept in wearing oversized sunglasses and a trench coat over whatever she'd worn to the studio, a portfolio tucked under her arm. If she was surprised to see me functioning essentially as Marco's equal rather than his assistant, she didn't show it. She greeted Marco with air kisses, nodded to the creative director, then headed directly to hair and makeup without acknowledging me at all.
"She's in a mood," Marco muttered to me as we adjusted lighting for her segment. "Had some issue with a campaign last week. Refused to do topless shots that weren't in the original agreement."
"Smart," I said, checking the light meter. "Maintaining boundaries."
Marco snorted. "Boundaries don't sell magazines. But Vi's always been... particular."
I made a noncommittal sound, focusing on the technical aspects of my job while keeping Vi in my peripheral vision. She sat perfectly still in the makeup chair, eyes closed as the artist worked, her posture as rigid as ever. Occasionally she would check her phone, her expression revealing nothing.
"I need you to handle her segment," Marco said suddenly. "I've got to deal with this fucking creative director before I strangle him."
I looked up from the camera. "Handle as in..."
"Shoot it." Marco waved a hand impatiently. "You know what we need. The concept's solid, lighting's nearly perfect. Just get it done while I placate these idiots."
He strode off before I could respond, leaving me alone with the camera and an approaching Vi, now transformed by hair and makeup into the industry icon version of herself. Her hair was slicked back severely from her face, her makeup minimal but precise, emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheekbones and jaw. She wore a structural black dress that seemed to defy gravity, balanced on stiletto heels that brought her nearly to my height.
She stopped when she saw me behind the camera instead of Marco.
"Where's Marco?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"Dealing with the creative team," I replied, making a minor adjustment to the camera settings. "He asked me to handle your segment."
A flicker of displeasure crossed her features. "I wasn't informed of any changes."
"Nothing's changed," I assured her. "Same concept, same lighting, same team. Just a different person pressing the shutter."
She considered this, clearly weighing whether to make an issue of it. Finally, she nodded once, moving to her mark in front of the seamless white backdrop.
"Let's get this over with," she said, not quite looking at me.
I directed her through a series of poses, keeping my voice professional, my instructions clear and precise. Despite her initial reluctance, Vi was flawless in front of the camera--every angle calculated, every expression perfectly calibrated for maximum impact. She knew exactly how to work with light and shadow, how to create shapes with her body that complemented the architectural elements of her clothing.
After several minutes, I paused to check the digital captures. "These are good," I said. "But we need something more... authentic."
Vi's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Authentic."
"Yes," I confirmed, looking up from the screen to meet her gaze directly. "You're giving me technically perfect, but it feels rehearsed. Vanity Fair wants the real Vi Reyes. The intellectual disrupting fashion norms."
Her posture stiffened slightly. "This is what Marco requested."
"Marco isn't shooting you right now," I reminded her. "I am."
We stared at each other across the space between us, a silent battle of wills. Finally, she sighed, a barely perceptible relaxation of her shoulders.
"What do you suggest?" she asked, a challenge in her voice.
I moved from behind the camera, approaching her in the center of the set. The rest of the team had stepped back, watching the exchange with curious eyes.
"The concept is about disruption," I said, circling her slowly. "But everything about your pose is controlled, contained. It contradicts the narrative."
"I don't do messy," she replied coldly.
"I'm not asking for messy," I countered. "I'm asking for honest."
I stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up slightly to maintain eye contact. A dangerous gambit, invading her space like this, but calculated to provoke a genuine reaction.
"What exactly do you think honesty looks like, Mr. Marshall?" she asked, her voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Danny," I corrected. "And I think honesty looks like you stopping the performance for five minutes. No model Vi, no intellectual Vi, no perfect Vi. Just the real person underneath all those carefully constructed layers."
Something flashed in her eyes--anger, perhaps, or something more complex. "You presume to know that there's a difference."
"I know there is," I said simply. "I've seen the cracks."
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Back behind the camera, Danny," she said, my name a slight emphasis. "I'll give you what you need."
I returned to my position, watching as Vi rolled her shoulders, closed her eyes briefly, then opened them with a completely different energy. Gone was the posed perfection, replaced by something rawer, more direct. She stared directly into the lens, her gaze challenging, almost confrontational. I began shooting rapidly, capturing the transformation.
"That's it," I encouraged. "Now move how you want to move, not how you think a model should."
She responded, her movements becoming more natural, less calculated. The shots were stunning--Vi as I'd never seen her, powerful but authentic, the control still there but now a choice rather than a defense mechanism.
"Perfect," I said after several minutes. "We've got it."
Vi straightened, the mask slipping back into place as if it had never been removed. "Are we done?"
"One more setup," I confirmed. "Different background. Give me ten minutes."
As the set was rearranged, Vi retreated to the sidelines, checking her phone, keeping her distance from the crew. I reviewed the images we'd captured, selecting the strongest frames to show Marco when he returned.
When everything was ready, I called Vi back to set. This time, the backdrop was a textured gray, the lighting more dramatic--strong shadows creating a play of light and dark across her features.
"This is about contrasts," I explained. "The intellectual in the world of appearances. The substance beneath the surface."
Vi positioned herself before the camera, the perfect professional once more. But there was a difference now--a subtle tension in her posture, an awareness of me as more than just the person behind the camera. I directed her through the new series, each shot building on the last, creating a narrative of revelation and concealment.
"Last few frames," I said eventually. "Look at me, not the camera."
She complied, her eyes meeting mine instead of the lens. In that moment, something passed between us--a recognition, perhaps, that this was more than a professional interaction. That we were engaged in some complex game neither of us had fully defined.
I pressed the shutter, capturing that moment of realization. When I lowered the camera, Vi was still watching me, her expression unreadable.
"We're done," I said. "Thank you."
She nodded once, turning to leave the set without another word. As she walked away, I noticed Marco returning, his expression marginally less stormy than when he'd left.
"Did you get what we needed?" he asked, glancing at Vi's retreating figure.
"More," I replied, showing him the digital display. "Take a look."
Marco scrolled through the images, his eyebrows rising incrementally with each frame. When he reached the final series, he let out a low whistle.
"These are..." he began, then shook his head. "How did you get her to do this? Vi never shows this much... vulnerability."
"I asked for honesty," I said simply.
Marco gave me a sideways glance. "Whatever you did, it worked. These are the best shots of her I've seen in years."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity--more subjects, more setups, more problem-solving. Vi had been scheduled to leave after her segment, but I noticed her lingering, watching the subsequent shoots from a distance, occasionally conversing quietly with one of the other featured models. Several times, I caught her observing me, her gaze quickly shifting away when I noticed.
By the time we wrapped, it was past nine PM. The studio gradually emptied as equipment was packed away and team members departed. I was reviewing the day's shots on a laptop when I sensed someone behind me.
"Those turned out well," Vi said, her voice startling me despite its softness.
I turned to find her standing closer than expected, once again in her street clothes--dark jeans, a cashmere sweater, the trench coat draped over one arm. The severe studio makeup had been softened, though not completely removed.
"They did," I agreed. "You're photogenic."
A slight smile curved her lips. "That's rather like telling a surgeon they're good with knives. Somewhat reductive."
"Fair enough," I conceded. "You're skilled at translating internal states into physical expression that registers on camera."
"Better." She moved beside me, looking at the screen. "Though not precisely what you said on set. About honesty."
I closed the laptop, giving her my full attention. "Semantics. The point is, you gave me exactly what was needed."
"Did I?" She tilted her head slightly, studying me. "Or did I give you what you wanted?"
"In this case, they happened to be the same thing."
Vi's gaze was assessing, as if trying to solve a particularly complex equation. "You're not what I expected," she said finally.
