Chapter 4: Cassie's Game
Cassie arrived at the studio just after twelve-thirty, letting herself in with the soft click of a key that had long since worn its paint from use. She walked in like she belonged -- because she did. The space smelled faintly of white wine, jasmine, and camera oil. Dustless. Lit with care. Still, quiet, waiting.
John looked up from his monitor, where he had been reviewing a few of Ann's photos from last week. The glow from the screen lit his face in pale silver-blue, as if he were a priest inspecting relics. He didn't speak right away. He never did.
Cassie broke the silence first. "Ann will be here in thirty."
He nodded once. His eyes returned to the screen.
Cassie crossed the hardwood floor without hurry, her heels tapping a gentle rhythm. She had the calm of someone who had lived this life long enough to understand what it offered -- and what it asked in return. She carried a cloth bag over one shoulder and set it down on the long counter near the light stand.
"Today's the day," she said, unzipping the bag. "She's ready. She doesn't know it fully yet, but she is."
Inside, she pulled out a fresh bunch of mint, a lime, a small tin of sugar, and a half bottle of white rum. John raised a brow slightly but said nothing.
"Mojito?" she offered with a grin.
"For her, not me."
"Obviously," Cassie said, already finding two clean glasses and clinking ice into them from the freezer drawer. "It's not about alcohol. It's about ritual. The smell. The taste. It opens people up. Especially first-timers." She was crushing mint now, gently, deliberately. "It gives her something tactile to hold onto. Real. Simple."
John leaned back against the edge of the studio couch, watching Cassie with a photographer's eye -- detached but reverent. She moved with the kind of grace that couldn't be taught, only remembered from a hundred sessions past. She had once answered his ad just like Ann. Nervous, curious. Hungry for something unnamed. And over time, under his lens and in her own reflection, she had found it: not just acceptance but radiance.
"You're good at this," John said.
Cassie smirked. "I've learned from the best. And I care. That helps."
She poured the drinks, garnished each with a fresh wedge of lime, and placed them on a mirrored tray beside the camera stand. She glanced around the room. The velvet curtain was drawn to one side, revealing the narrow dressing space lit softly by antique bulbs.
"Put the robe behind the curtain," she said, already pulling it from a hanger. "Something sheer. Something that doesn't lie about what it hides."
John stepped forward and took the robe from her -- it was short, pale lavender, gossamer-thin. He laid it gently over the chair in the changing alcove.
"Fifteen minutes," Cassie said. "Let's warm the room. She shouldn't walk in cold."
She undid the top button of her blouse without ceremony. John didn't ask -- he never needed to. This had always been a language they spoke without words. Button by button, the blouse fell open, followed by the smooth rustle of her jeans sliding to the floor. There was no striptease in it. No artifice. Just truth. Cassie was already in the zone -- not posing yet, not performing -- simply
being
, with nothing between her and the world but light and breath.
John raised the camera.
The first click was soft, precise. Cassie was still standing, letting the air hit her skin. Then she moved to the couch, sinking into it, folding one knee beneath the other, her arms loose at her sides. Her gaze wasn't for the camera -- it floated somewhere behind it, thoughtful, distant.
The shots came slow, each one deliberate. A study in curves and softness. The tension in a shoulder. The line of a jaw. Cassie's body was a map John had traced for years, yet somehow it was always new.
Then, at 1:00 sharp, a knock at the door.
Cassie didn't flinch. She simply shifted slightly, reclined more deeply into the cushions, let one arm drape over the back of the couch. Her hair spilled like ink across the upholstery. She was a painting come to life.
John didn't look away. "Come in," he said, loud enough for the door to catch the sound.
There was a pause. The door creaked open, tentative.
Ann stepped into the studio like someone crossing a line in the sand. She wore jeans, a canvas jacket, and a gray hoodie pulled over her head. Her bag was slung across one shoulder like a shield.
John didn't turn around. "Ann, this is Cassie. We're just wrapping up."
Ann's eyes found Cassie immediately. Her breath caught -- not out of shock, but something deeper. Something like awe. Cassie didn't look at her. She remained as she was: naked, calm, watching something invisible.
Ann lingered in the doorway.
John finally looked at her. "You can get ready behind the curtain. Robe's there. Lose everything else. Come out when you're ready."
His voice was smooth. Unhurried. Like this was the most natural thing in the world -- and in this space, it was.
Ann swallowed once and nodded. "Okay," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She stepped forward, passed by the ongoing photoshoot without comment, and disappeared behind the velvet curtain.
The light shifted slightly through the high studio windows. John returned to his camera. Cassie arched her back slightly, the curve catching the light just so. She smiled softly, eyes half-closed.
"She's going to be amazing," Cassie murmured.
John said nothing. He already knew.
The curtain was velvet, thick and deep plum, brushing softly against her hand as she slipped behind it. It closed with a quiet swoosh, a faint moment of privacy before whatever came next.
Ann stood still.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the edge of her hoodie, the soft cotton suddenly feeling heavy. The room behind the curtain was small and dimly lit--an alcove really, just enough space for a low chair and a mirror. On the chair was the robe John had told her about, a whisper of pale lavender laid out like a sigh. It looked so delicate, so unlike her usual self.
She inhaled slowly and tugged her hoodie over her head. The silence was oddly sacred here, muffled by the curtain and the hum of activity just beyond it. Her jeans were next, the button popping loose with a quiet
click
that sounded far louder than it was. Her canvas jacket slid down her arms, and she folded everything--jacket, hoodie, jeans, bra, underwear--into a tidy pile on the chair beside the robe.
Naked.
She stood there for a beat, arms instinctively crossed. The room was warm, but she felt the goosebumps all the same.
Then, she reached for the robe.
It was sheer and gossamer-thin, the fabric nearly weightless in her hands. When she slipped it over her shoulders, it floated around her thighs, the hem dancing just below her hips. It didn't cover much--wasn't meant to--but somehow, it felt like armor.
She could hear John's voice now. Calm, low, professional. Another voice joined his--feminine, warm, laughing.
Cassie.
Ann had seen her the moment she arrived--already on set, already nude, already beautiful. Cassie was everything Ann was not: tall, glowing, confident, soft curves wrapped in effortless poise. Her breasts were full, her skin creamy and smooth, her voice casual as if being naked in a stranger's studio was as normal as ordering coffee.
Ann had never felt more small--or more determined.
She adjusted the robe at her waist, tying the ribbon tighter, then looser. She wasn't sure what felt right.
John had told her:
"Take your time. Come out when you're ready."
