Second act

My breath hitched when I caught sight of her. She was... breathtaking. The first thing I noticed was her fiery red hair, cascading over her shoulders like flames, contrasting sharply against the androgynous, tailored suit she wore.

It hugged her frame perfectly, exuding both power and elegance. Her green eyes scanned the room with an intensity that made my skin prickle. A tattoo snaked up her neck, adding to the air of mystery she carried with her.

I couldn't stop staring.

As I stood there, staring at Zaya Swanson, I tried to collect my thoughts, but my mind wouldn't cooperate.

Every part of me wanted to shrink back, to melt into the background of the bustling studio where I wouldn't have to face this reality. But the whirlwind of activity around me kept pulling me forward, leaving no time to retreat.

Zaya barely glanced in my direction as she was swept away by her own team, guided toward her changing area.

They moved around her with a quiet efficiency, speaking in low tones, as though even they were too intimidated to disrupt her icy aura.

My gaze followed her, though I tried to focus on anything else, the way her long, lithe body moved with such natural grace, the way she seemed to command the room without a word.

I felt awkward. Small. How was I supposed to act like I was in love with her? In love, of all things.

This wasn't just some casual shoot. The director had made it clear when Maya and I first arrived that they wanted passion, heat something raw and powerful for the ad campaign.

They wanted the perfume to be associated with desire, with intimacy. And I, Layla Nightshade, had somehow been chosen to deliver that alongside Zaya, who was as distant as a figure in a dream.

"Layla?" Maya's voice snapped me out of my haze, her hand gently resting on my arm. "You're fidgeting again. It's going to be fine."

I hadn't even realized I was pulling at the delicate hem of my dress, the fabric bunched awkwardly between my fingers.

I quickly let go and sighed, turning my focus back to my reflection in the mirror. "I don't know how I'm going to pull this off," I whispered. "I don't even know what to say to her."

"You don't have to say anything right now. Just let the scene speak for itself," Maya said, offering me a soft smile. But her words did little to calm the storm building inside me.

Across the room, I caught a glimpse of Zaya as she stepped out of her dressing area, and all the air seemed to leave my lungs at once.

She was wearing a suit. Not just any suit, though one that looked like it had been tailor-made to hug every sharp, perfect line of her body. It was jet-black, the fabric smooth and sleek, with a subtle sheen that caught the light every time she moved.

The white shirt beneath was crisp, the collar standing rigid against her pale neck. She wore a black tie, perfectly knotted, adding a layer of sharp masculinity to her androgynous style.

But it was the details that really got me.

On her wrist, a Rolex gleamed silver and unmistakably expensive. It added an air of sophistication, a reminder that she wasn't just any model.

She was Zaya Swanson, untouchable, flawless. And on her left hand, she wore a single silver ring, simple but bold, the kind of accessory that drew the eye and added a quiet, dangerous allure to her entire look.

She looked devastatingly hot. It was ridiculous. How was I supposed to do this when she looked like that?

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding painfully in my chest. I could already feel the blush creeping up my neck. The way she carried herself, the confidence in every small movement it was intoxicating, overwhelming.

And the worst part was that I couldn't tell if she even noticed me, or if I was just another accessory in this shoot, another part of the scenery.

My thoughts spiraled, jumping from insecurity to insecurity. Would I embarrass myself in front of her? Would I look foolish trying to pretend like I could match her intensity? Every scenario ran through my head, each worse than the last.

Suddenly, the director clapped his hands, pulling everyone's attention to the center of the room.

He was a short, wiry man with glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, his graying hair slicked back.

He had the kind of energy that made it clear he expected perfection, and that only added to the pressure squeezing my chest.

"Alright, everyone!" he called out, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.

"Let's get this started. We're going for raw emotion here, people. This isn't just a shoot; it's a story. Passion. Desire. I want to feel it."

I wanted to sink into the floor.

The director glanced at me and Zaya, motioning for us to step into position. "So, here's the setup," he began, pacing a little.

"You two have known each other for a while. There's history here, tension. You're in love, but there's something holding you back. I want to see that in the way you move, the way you look at each other."

I could feel my palms sweating. In love. I wasn't even sure I knew what that looked like. My past relationships had been nothing like this.

But now, in front of all these people, I had to pretend like I knew exactly what it meant to be completely, irrevocably drawn to someone like Zaya.

I dared to glance at her. She stood with her arms at her sides, watching the director calmly, her expression unreadable.

There was no sign of nerves, no sign that any of this affected her the way it did me. Of course. She was used to this.

She was Zaya Swanson, the model who'd been in the spotlight for years, who probably didn't blink at scenes like this.

"Layla," the director called my name, pulling my attention back. "Relax. Don't overthink it."

Too late for that, I thought, swallowing hard as I took my place beside Zaya.