POV: Sophie

The studio lights blazed down like interrogation beams.

My heels hadn't even cleared the doorframe before I saw her. Cassandra. Draped over Julian like a second skin, her fingers curled around the back of his neck, her glossy lips pressed to his ear. Whatever she whispered made his jaw tighten. Made his hand clench at his side. But he didn't push her away.

He just stood there and let her cling.

My stomach turned. Not jealousy—or not only jealousy. It was the memory of that same woman standing over me on wet asphalt, her voice cutting through sirens: She stepped in front of it. I saw everything. It wasn't the driver's fault.

Cassandra's gaze slid sideways. Found me. Found Andrew's hand splayed across the small of my back, his thumb stroking the ridge of my spine through the thin cotton dress I'd worn for the drive over. Her mouth curved. Victory, cold and sharp.

"Darling," she cooed, pulling back from Julian just enough to be heard. "Your ten o'clock is here. The drowned bride and her generous benefactor."

Julian turned.

His eyes didn't land on my face. They dropped to Andrew's hand, still riding my hip, still claiming territory. Something dark moved behind his pupils—something that looked a lot like violence barely leashed. The camera in his grip creaked as his fingers tightened around the body.

"Morning," Andrew said, his voice warm and poison-sweet. "Sorry we're late. Sophie needed a moment to compose herself after yesterday's excitement. You understand."

"Perfectly." Julian's voice was gravel. "Let's get started. Wardrobe has the concept ready. Vampire theme. White for her, black for you. It's in the dressing rooms."

"Thematic," Andrew murmured, his breath grazing my temple. "Predator and prey. I like it."

Cassandra laughed. The sound was a polished little knife. "I'll be assisting with lighting today. Andrew thought it would be fun if I stuck around. Moral support."

She didn't add, and to keep an eye on your fiancée. She didn't have to.

The white silk shirt they put me in was translucent under the studio lights.

No bra. The stylist had been very clear about that. The fabric drapes better on bare skin. And for the vampire concept, you need to look vulnerable. Exposed. Delicious. She'd said that last word with a professional smile that didn't reach her eyes.

I stood in front of the fogged mirror and looked at myself. The shirt hung off one shoulder, the neckline plunging to my sternum. My nipples showed through the fabric—pale pink, tightening involuntarily in the cold air of the studio. The matching panties were white lace, so thin I could see the dark shadow of my own sex through them.

Vulnerable. Exposed. Delicious.

Andrew had gotten his wish before the first shutter even clicked.

The set was a velvet-draped gothic nightmare: a black sofa with carved claw feet, thick iron candle stands, and fog rolling low across the studio floor. Andrew emerged from the opposite dressing room in a black silk shirt open halfway down his chest, his hair slicked back, his pale skin dusted with powder that made him look carved from marble. A vampire. A predator. A man who owned everything he touched.

His eyes found me in the fog and he smiled.

"There she is. My little lamb."

Julian's camera was already up, hiding half his face. Cassandra stood behind a reflector panel, angling it to throw silver light across my collarbones. Her gaze was a scalpel, cataloging every inch of exposed skin, every involuntary shiver.

"Places," Julian said. Flat. Clinical. "Sophie, on the sofa. Andrew, behind her."

I moved through the fog, the silk whispering against my thighs. The sofa's velvet was cold under my bare legs. Andrew lowered himself onto the cushions behind me, his legs bracketing my hips, his chest pressing against my back. His hands found my waist. His thumbs dug into the hollows above my hipbones.

"Like this?" he asked, his mouth at my nape.

"Closer," Julian said.

Andrew pulled me tighter. The heat of his chest seeped through the silk. I could feel the ridge of his cock through his trousers, half-hard already, pressing against my lower back. My stomach clenched.

"Sophie," Julian's voice cut through the fog. "Tilt your head. Expose your throat. You're offering yourself to him. You want him to bite you."

I tilted my head. The studio air kissed the side of my neck.

Andrew's lips brushed my pulse point. "Good girl," he breathed. So quiet only I could hear. "You remember what I told you last night. About proving who you belong to."

The shutter clicked.

"Andrew, hand on her thigh. Higher. Push the shirt up."

His palm slid down my stomach. Across my hip. Fingers curling around the inside of my thigh, nails dragging lightly over the skin. The shirt rode up. Lace was visible now—white against his dark hand, the contrast obscene.

"Keep going," Julian said. And his voice cracked. Just barely. Just enough.

Andrew's hand moved higher. His thumb traced the edge of the lace, right where it met the crease of my leg. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. Every nerve in my body was screaming—half revulsion, half something else I didn't want to name.

"Look at the camera, Sophie," Julian commanded. "Show me how much you want this."

I looked at him. Through him. My eyes were wet and I didn't know if it was from hate or humiliation or the terrible, traitorous heat building between my legs where Andrew's thumb was now stroking back and forth over the lace, over my clit through the thin fabric, in full view of Julian and Cassandra and everyone who worked for them.

Click.

"Fuck," Cassandra murmured, adjusting the reflector. "That's quite the expression. She looks like she's about to come or cry. Maybe both."

"Shut up," Julian said.

"Just observing, darling. Professional opinion only."

"Shut. Up."

Andrew laughed against my throat. His thumb pressed harder. Circles now. Slow and deliberate and devastating. My hips twitched—an involuntary betrayal—and he felt it, and he smiled, and I wanted to die.

"Keep taking the pictures, Julian," Andrew said. "I'm paying for art. Don't stop until you've got something worth framing."

The break came ten minutes later, or maybe ten years. Time had warped inside that fog.

I sat at the makeup vanity, staring at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed red, my lips swollen from biting them, my pupils blown wide. The white shirt was rumpled, the neckline stretched, one nipple nearly exposed where the fabric had slipped. I looked debauched. I looked exactly like what Andrew wanted me to be.

The door opened behind me.

I didn't have to turn around. I knew the click of those heels anywhere.

Cassandra.

She was holding a cup of tea. Steam curled from the surface. Her reflection slid into the mirror beside mine—razor cheekbones, flawless lipstick, a smile that could cut glass.

"Rough session," she said. "Andrew really knows how to put on a show."

I said nothing. Just picked up a makeup wipe and started dabbing at the smeared mascara under my left eye.

"He's very hands-on, isn't he? Your fiancé. You must enjoy that. Being handled like a piece of meat in front of your ex and his girlfriend. Very kinky." She took a sip of tea. "Of course, some of us don't need to be handled to keep a man's attention. Some of us are enough on our own."

"You'd know all about that."

She paused. "Excuse me?"

"You'd know about keeping a man's attention. Since you've been following Julian around for three years pretending to be his girlfriend while he forgets you're in the room." I dropped the wipe in the trash. "How many red carpets have you crashed, Cassandra? How many events has his agent had to sneak you into? You're not his plus-one. You're a hanger-on with good bone structure and expensive designer hand-me-downs."

Her face went rigid. The teacup trembled in her hand.

Then she stepped forward and her heel snagged the rug. For one second, the stumble looked genuine. The cup tipped. Scalding hot tea arced through the air and splashed across my lap, soaking the white silk, searing the skin of my thighs.

I didn't scream. I didn't jump.

I just looked down at the spreading stain and then back up at her.

"Oops," Cassandra said, recovering. "How clumsy of me. All that expensive fabric. Ruined. Almost as ruined as your fertility, from what I hear." She set the empty cup on the vanity. "Eleanor told me, you know. About the accident. About the baby. About how you can't have children anymore. Explains a lot, really. Why Andrew treats you like a broken toy he's still making payments on. Why Julian—"

"Get out."

"—could never really love you again. What man wants a woman who's already been hollowed out?"

I stood up. The tea dripped from my shirt onto the floor. My thighs were red and stinging. I didn't care.

"Julian loved me when I had nothing. When I bled for him. When I lost everything. You?" I stepped closer, close enough to smell her perfume—something expensive, something Eleanor probably bought her. "You're a placeholder. A breathing mannequin he keeps around because kicking you out would require more emotion than he has left for you. How does it feel, Cassandra? Knowing he's never once looked at you the way he looked at me for seven years? Knowing he never will?"

Her hand flew up. I didn't flinch.

The door slammed open before she could swing.

Andrew stood in the doorway. Julian was right behind him.

Everyone froze.

Andrew's eyes swept the room—the tea on the floor, the stain on my shirt, Cassandra's raised hand, my unblinking stare. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't need to. He just walked to the center of the room, pulled a folded document from inside his jacket, and turned to Julian.

"New schedule," he said.

He slapped the paper against Julian's chest.

"I've reconsidered. The wedding is in fifteen days. You're going to shoot every remaining scene before then. Every. Single. One. Location scout, lighting test, full editorial spread. You'll be with us constantly—dinners, fittings, dress rehearsals. I want you embedded in this wedding like a fucking splinter."

Julian caught the paper before it fell. "That's impossible. You can't rush this kind of work—"

"I can. And you will." Andrew stepped closer, their faces inches apart. "Because if you don't, I'll make sure you never lift a camera in this country again. No galleries. No contracts. No exhibitions. You'll be photographing bar mitzvahs in a strip mall for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?"

Julian's hand crumpled the schedule. His eyes flicked to me—to the tea staining my shirt, to the red handprint Cassandra hadn't gotten to leave on my cheek.

"Yeah," he said, his voice gone flat, dead. "I fucking understand you."

Andrew smiled. "Good. Then let's get back to work. We've got fifteen days. And I want every single picture to be a masterpiece."

He turned. Walked out. Cassandra followed, her heels clicking an unsteady retreat.

Julian and I were alone for one breath. Two.

"Sophie—"

"Don't." I grabbed a towel from the vanity and pressed it to my stinging thighs. "Just don't."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. The crumpled schedule was still shaking in his fist.

Then he turned and walked back into the studio, leaving me alone with the smell of spilled tea and the echo of Cassandra's words still burning in my ears.

POV: Sophie

The bathroom water shut off at 2:17 AM.

I counted Andrew's movements through the wall—the slide of the glass door, the wet slap of his feet on marble, the creak of the cabinet where he kept his sedatives. Ten minutes until the pills kicked in. Fifteen until his breathing deepened into that slow, heavy rhythm I'd learned to recognize as safety.

My feet were already on the floor.

The bedroom carpet swallowed my footsteps. The door to the hallway opened without a sound—I'd oiled the hinges three weeks ago, a trick I'd learned from watching Maxwell move through the house. Andrew's assistant was a ghost in tailored wool, and ghosts left traces if you studied them long enough.

The study door wasn't locked.

Andrew never locked doors inside the house. Why would he? He owned everything behind them. Every chair, every painting, every woman in silk pajamas holding her breath in the hallway like a thief.

I slipped inside.

The mahogany desk loomed in the darkness, its surface immaculate except for a leather blotter and a brass lamp. Moonlight sliced through the curtains, throwing silver stripes across the Persian rug. I didn't dare turn on a light. My phone's screen would have to do, its pale glow guiding me around the desk to the chair, to the drawers, to the bottom one that always stuck a little when you pulled it.

It stuck now.

I tugged harder. The wood groaned. Upstairs, the silence held. No footsteps. No creaking floorboards. Just my heart hammering against my ribs and the cold sweat gathering at the small of my back.

The drawer opened.

Financial reports. Tax documents. A leather folio with Andrew's initials embossed in gold. I lifted the papers carefully, my fingers brushing the bottom of the drawer. Nothing. Just more paperwork and a velvet box that probably held a watch he'd forgotten about.

Then I saw it.

Not in the drawer. Under it. Tucked between the bottom of the drawer and the frame, as if someone had shoved it there in a hurry and never bothered to retrieve it. A legal-sized envelope, cream-colored, heavy stock. The kind of paper that existed to make you feel small.

I slid it out.

The flap wasn't sealed. Inside: a contract. Seven pages, stapled at the corner, each one dense with legalese and numbered clauses. My eyes skipped to the signatures at the bottom.

Julian Vance's name in black ink.

Andrew Croft's name beside it.

The date at the top of the page was six months ago.

I read the first paragraph three times before it made sense. Supplementary Agreement Regarding Cancellation Fee Settlement. Andrew had paid Julian's ten-million-dollar contract buyout. Not offered. Not threatened. Paid. Six months before I'd ever stepped foot in that greenhouse. Six months before Julian had walked into the dressing room with his camera and his hard eyes and his voice saying We've met like a blade.

Three meetings.

Andrew had told me about three meetings with Julian. Three "negotiations" he'd claimed were about the photography contract. Three times he'd sat across a table from my ex-lover and never mentioned it to me until the day of the shoot.

Three times he'd lied.

The paper trembled in my hand. I kept reading. Clause seven, subparagraph B: Croft retains exclusive rights to assign Vance to any event, location, or project for a period of eighteen months following the execution of this agreement. Andrew hadn't hired Julian. He'd bought him. Locked him into a contract that made him available on demand, whenever Andrew wanted, wherever Andrew chose.

Including my engagement shoot.

Including the fifteen days leading up to my wedding.

The reunion was staged. Andrew hadn't planned my cramp or Julian's dive, but he had engineered the trap—the contract, Cassandra, every humiliating concept—before I said yes. I was the last actor to see the script.

"What the fuck," I whispered.

The bathroom door opened upstairs.

I froze. The envelope was in my hand. The drawer gaped open, its papers shifted from neat stacks. No time to restore them. No time to hide. I shoved the contract into the waistband of my pajamas, pushed the drawer closed with my hip, and turned toward the door just as footsteps started down the stairs.

Andrew moved like a man who knew where every creaky floorboard lived and avoided them out of spite.

I pressed myself against the wall beside the study door. The footsteps passed. Paused. Turned back.

The door swung open.

Andrew stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hallway sconces. His bathrobe hung open, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the silk belt. His hair was damp. His eyes were clear. He'd never taken the sedatives at all.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

My fingers curled around the contract behind my back. "I was looking for a book."

"A book."

"Something to read. You said I should stay in bed, but I couldn't—" I forced my shoulders into a shrug. "Insomnia."

He stepped closer. The moonlight caught his face, throwing the sharp angles into relief. His hand came up and I flinched, but he only reached past me to the desk, to the lamp, clicking it on. Yellow light flooded the study. His gaze went to the open drawer, then the envelope protruding from behind my back. He needed no other clue.

"Sophie."

His voice was soft. Almost gentle. The way you'd talk to a dog before you put it down.

"What did you find?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't. My throat had closed around every word I might have used—accusations, questions, pleas. They all died somewhere between my lungs and my lips.

Andrew reached behind me and pulled the contract from my grip. He didn't look at it. He didn't need to. He just smiled, that thin-lipped smile that never touched his eyes, and set it on the desk beside the lamp.

"The cancellation fee," he said. "The one you asked about at dinner. I thought you'd want to see it for yourself. Understand exactly how trapped he is." He tilted his head. "How trapped you both are."

"You paid it six months ago."

"Of course I did. Julian is difficult to pin down. The buyout gave me leverage. The assignment clause gave me control. The months between then and the engagement gave me time to plan." He smoothed the front of his robe. "You didn't think I proposed to you by accident, did you? You didn't think I chose Julian out of a catalog?"

"Three meetings." My voice came out as a rasp. "You met with him three times before the shoot. You told me they were negotiations."

"They were. Just not about photography." He stepped closer. His hand found my hip, fingers pressing into the bone. "The first meeting was about his mother. Eleanor. Her debts, her tastes, her vulnerability. The second was about his career—how easily it could be destroyed, how much he'd sacrifice to protect it. The third was about you."

"Me."

"You." His thumb traced the ridge of my hipbone. "I wanted to see his face when I said your name. I wanted to watch him try to hide what he still felt. And he couldn't, Sophie. Not even a little. The man's still in love with you, and he's been carrying around the evidence for seven years like a goddamn shrine."

"What evidence?"

Andrew laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound that bounced off the study walls. "You'll see. Tomorrow. At the shoot. I've arranged something special for the cliffside location. Cassandra knows her part. Julian doesn't know his yet." He leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear. "Neither do you."

"You're a monster."

"I'm your fiancé." His grip tightened. "And you're going to go back to bed, and you're going to stay there until morning, and you're not going to warn him. You're not going to text him. You're not going to look at your little burner phone or send any secret messages to that foster family you think I don't know about."

The blood drained from my face.

"Oh, yes," Andrew whispered. "I know about Leo."

The cliffside location was a jagged stretch of black rock overlooking a gray sea.

Wind tore at my hair, my dress, the veil the stylist had pinned to my head despite my protests. Julian was already there, camera in hand, his back to the parking area as he scouted angles. Cassandra stood three feet behind him, her arms wrapped around a metallic reflector, her heels wobbling on the uneven stone.

Andrew stayed by the car, supposedly taking a call. His eyes said he was waiting.

I moved toward the prop table, where the assistant had laid out flowers and fabric swatches and a pair of white satin gloves I was supposed to wear for the next set. My hand was still bandaged from yesterday—the burn from Cassandra's tea had blistered overnight.

Cassandra's shadow fell across the table before I heard her footsteps.

"Careful," she said. "The rocks are slippery."

She didn't sound concerned.

She bumped me. Hard. Her shoulder caught my arm and sent me stumbling sideways, my bare hand skidding across the rough black stone. Pain lit up my wrist. Blood welled in the fresh scrape, bright red against my pale skin.

"Oops," Cassandra murmured. "How clumsy of me. Again."

I straightened, cradling my injured hand. "You did that on purpose."

"Prove it." She smiled, all teeth. "There's no tea this time. No witnesses. Just a clumsy assistant and a bride who can't stay on her feet."

Julian's camera stopped clicking.

He turned. Saw me holding my bleeding hand. Saw Cassandra's smirk. The reflector clattered to the ground as he strode toward us, his boots crunching on the rock, his face set in a fury I hadn't seen since the day he'd pulled me out of that pool.

"Cassandra." His voice cracked like a whip. "Back off."

"Julian, darling, she tripped—"

"I said back off."

His hand closed around Cassandra's arm and yanked. She stumbled backward, her heels scraping over the stone, her arms pinwheeling. The metal reflector stand beside her wobbled, tilted, and crashed to the ground with a sound like a gunshot.

Cassandra screamed.

Julian didn't look at her. His eyes were on my hand, on the blood dripping onto the white satin of my dress, on the way my fingers were trembling.

"Let me see it," he said.

"It's nothing—"

"Let me fucking see it, Sophie."

The wind howled around us. Behind Julian, Cassandra was cursing, brushing rock dust from her designer dress. In the chaos, Julian's camera bag—the battered leather satchel I remembered from seven years ago, the one he never let anyone touch—worked loose from his shoulder and dropped away.

It hit the rocks hard.

The main compartment stayed closed. But the bottom zipper, the one I'd never seen him open in seven years, split wide.

Something fluttered out.

Pale. Flimsy. Edges curled with age.

It landed at my feet.

I looked down.

A sonogram. Black and white. A tiny shape curled at the center, barely distinguishable from the grain around it. Beneath the image was a date from seven years ago. Eight weeks. At the top of the printout was Sophie Vance.

A silver anklet slid out after it.

Tiny. Delicate. Slightly tarnished at the clasp. Engraved in cursive:

Leo.