I was nothing to her. Less than nothing.
That's what made me want to break her.
LENS Studios buzzed with the familiar chaos of a high-fashion shoot--assistants scurrying with reflectors, makeup artists touching up already flawless faces, the photographer barking orders while stylists fussed over clothing worth more than my monthly rent. I moved through it all like a ghost, setting up lights where directed, adjusting equipment, fetching coffee--a nameless cog in the machine.
That's what she saw, anyway. Viridiana Reyes. Vi.
She arrived forty minutes late, striding in wearing oversized sunglasses despite the overcast day, wrapped in a black cashmere coat that probably cost five grand. The entire energy of the studio shifted when she entered--voices hushed, bodies moved out of her path instinctively. She didn't acknowledge anyone, just made a direct line to hair and makeup.
"You're late," Marco said, not looking up from his camera. Marco Visconti, Italian, mid-forties, renowned for transforming already beautiful women into something ethereal on film. Also renowned for fucking half his subjects.
"Traffic," Vi replied, slipping off her coat and handing it to a waiting assistant without looking at them. Her voice had this quality--bored indifference with an undercurrent of something sharper. "The driver took Fifth instead of Park."
I watched her from my position by the lighting setup. Vi wasn't like the other models. For one thing, she was older--twenty-seven, ancient in industry terms. But she'd built something more durable than most: a reputation not just for her look but for her brain. The model with the PhD. It was her brand, this combination of physical perfection and intellectual superiority. It made her untouchable.
"Danny," Marco snapped, interrupting my observation. "The main key light needs to be two feet higher. And where's my goddamn espresso?"
I adjusted the light without comment and retrieved his coffee from the craft table. When I returned, Vi was seated in makeup, scrolling through her phone while a woman worked on her face. I placed Marco's espresso beside him.
"Get Sophia ready next," Marco said, squinting at his monitor. "Vi's going to need at least an hour in makeup to look presentable."
Vi didn't react to the bait. Didn't even blink. Just continued scrolling through her phone as if no one had spoken.
I moved toward the dressing area where Sophia waited. Sophia Miller, twenty-two, relatively new to the agency but rising fast. Long chestnut hair, wide-set blue eyes, pouty mouth. Beautiful in an accessible way, lacking Vi's untouchable quality.
"Hey," she said when I approached. Her smile was genuine--a rarity in this business. "You're Danny, right? Marco's new assistant?"
"Four months in," I said, returning her smile with my harmless one. "Marco says you're up next."
"Oh!" She sat up straighter, excitement visible. This was a big shoot for her--Marco Visconti for Vogue Italia. Career-making. "Thanks for letting me know."
I nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait," she called after me. "Could you... I don't know where the bathroom is in this place."
"Down the hall, third door on the left," I said.
She hesitated. "Would you mind showing me? This place is like a maze."
I paused, studying her face. Her expression was open, but there was something else there--a slight dilation of her pupils, a barely perceptible bite of her lower lip. This wasn't about finding the bathroom.
"Sure," I said.
I led her through the maze of hallways, away from the main studio space. LENS occupied an entire floor of a converted warehouse in Chelsea, a labyrinth of shooting spaces, storage rooms, and offices. We passed a few assistants and stylists who barely glanced at us.
"You don't talk much," Sophia observed.
"Not much to say."
"Mysterious." She laughed lightly. "Most guys in this industry never shut up about themselves."
I stopped at the bathroom door. "Here you go."
Instead of going in, she leaned against the wall beside it. "How'd you end up working for Marco? He's kind of a legend."
"Right place, right time." I shrugged. "I was freelancing, he needed someone who understood both digital and analog setups."
"You're different," she said, studying my face. "From the others."
I let one corner of my mouth lift. "Different how?"
"You actually see what's happening. Everyone else is so caught up in their own bullshit." She took a half step closer. "You watch people."
"Part of the job."
"What do you see when you watch me?" Her voice dropped, turned honeyed.
I met her gaze directly for the first time, dropping the harmless assistant act for just a moment. "I see someone smart enough to know that connections matter more than talent in this business."
Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed with interest. "And what about Vi? What do you see when you watch her?"
The question surprised me. I considered my answer carefully. "Someone who's built walls so high she's trapped herself inside them."
Sophia's smile turned knowing. "God, you've got it bad for her already."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." She reached out, fingers brushing my wrist. "Everyone falls for Vi eventually. She has that effect. But trust me--she doesn't fuck the help."
I raised an eyebrow. "And you do?"
Sophia laughed, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. "I didn't say that." She mimicked my tone perfectly. "But I am staying at The Chelsea. Room 718. The shoot should wrap by eight." She pushed off the wall and finally entered the bathroom, leaving me alone in the hallway.
I returned to the main studio to find Vi now seated under the lights, Marco directing her through a series of poses. She wore a sculptural black dress that left one shoulder bare, exposing the elegant line of her neck and collarbone. Her hair was pulled back severely, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face.
"Chin down," Marco directed. "Eyes to me. Yes, like that."
I moved around the periphery, adjusting lights as needed, watching. Vi transformed in front of the camera--not becoming someone else but distilling herself into something purer, more concentrated. Every movement was deliberate, controlled. She knew exactly what her body was doing, how the light was hitting her face, how each micro-expression would translate to film.
At one point, Marco asked me to adjust the reflector near her face. I stepped into her space, careful not to cast shadows. Up close, I could see the individual pores of her skin through the makeup, smell the subtle scent of something expensive and botanical. Her eyes flicked to me for a fraction of a second--the first time she'd acknowledged my existence--then away, as if I were a piece of furniture that had been moved.
"The light's too harsh on her left side," she said to Marco, not to me, though I was the one holding the reflector.
"Danny, soften it," Marco ordered.
I adjusted the angle silently. Vi's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Better?" I asked her directly.
She didn't respond, didn't look at me again. Just repositioned her body for the next shot as if I hadn't spoken.
Marco caught my eye and gave a small shrug as if to say, *That's Vi for you*. I nodded and stepped back into the shadows.
The shoot continued for hours. Vi moved through dozens of looks, never showing fatigue, never breaking character. When Sophia's turn came, the difference was stark. Sophia was good--talented, photogenic, enthusiastic--but beside Vi's technical perfection, she seemed almost amateurish. She tried too hard, wanted it too much.
During Sophia's segment, I noticed Vi watching from the sidelines, ostensibly checking emails on her phone but occasionally glancing up to study the younger model. Her expression revealed nothing, but there was tension in how she held herself. I wondered if she saw Sophia as a threat or merely an annoyance--another pretty young thing who would flame out in a year or two.
"Danny, we need more fill on the right," Marco called.
As I moved to adjust the light, Vi's eyes momentarily met mine. This time, there was something in them--a flicker of recognition, perhaps, that I existed as a person and not just a function. Then it was gone, her attention back on her phone.
It was nearly nine by the time the shoot wrapped. Vi left exactly as she'd arrived--without acknowledging anyone, coat wrapped around her like armor. I watched her go, noting the straight line of her spine, the measured pace of her steps. Confident that the world would part before her.
