Page 19 of Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes

"No, no, no! You need to contour the nose stronger!" Constance barks at the poor makeup artist, face twisted in disgust as she inspects the makeup. "It is too broad. We need it narrower. And for God’s sake, plump those lips up a bit!"

Before I know it, someone shoves me in front of the camera. No briefing. No rough ideas. Nothing for me to go off.

And if Adam doesn’t take this bitch off the client list, we’re going to have even more problems than we already do.

Being objectified comes with the job. A jab here and there is normal and I’m not surprised by that. However, there’s a difference between working out what’s best for the shoot or the clothes and being a downright dismissive bitch.

I get it, us models have a reputation for being airheads, for our only good feat being attractive and not what’s inside our heads. And to be fair, many of us lean into it. It’s just easier to pretend to be dumb than argue with every second designer you work with.

Every successful model I know has learned to pick their battles, when to push back and when to shut up, make sure the shooting gets done quickly and then never work with them again.

And she is absolutely a candidate for that ‘do not work again with’ list that I sure hope Adam adapts for all models in the agency. Because she’s that type. The type of designer who thinks their word is equal to God’s, who think of themselves as a lot more important than they actually are. They don’t care about feelings. They care about results.

And usually I can respect that. But not when I jump in at the last minute and don’t even get a ‘hello’ or even a ‘thank you for stepping in,’ and then get treated like a doll you can dress up or even throw across the room, whatever you feel like.

She’s going right on top of my ‘people I’ve worked with over the years that I never want to cross paths with again’ list. She’ll find great company there, like photographers who are a littletoointo naked shoots, groups of models who are a little too hooked on illegal substances for my taste, handsy reporters, or those that ask terrible questions.

I start posing as camera flashes go off, pulling off my standard poses since I got no direction or briefing.

People shout at me from all sides, telling me how to position my arm, my foot, my hip, where to look, what to do with my eyebrows, and I do my best to follow, running on autopilot. It’s a skill I’ve trained hard for over the years, trying to perfect it with every photoshoot.

Usually, I love my job. I love getting to wear awesome clothes, to meet old friends again and pose for the camera.

But right now?

Right now, it feels hollow as hell.

Maybe it’s time to take a step back. I feel like I need something less superficial than relationships in the modeling world, where you know each other and have a great time catching up, but nobody goes out of their way to make friends. We might be friendly on shoots, but the next day we could be competing for the same one.

There are no friends in this business. Only acquaintances and rivals.

And my brothers? Well, they’re slowly but surely slipping into the same category. Adam has already kept his distance for years, always prioritizing the company. Jackson, the second oldest of us, barely talks to me at all. He’s the only one still living at home permanently, only taking on movies and other acting gigs that will allow him to be there for Zoey, our little sister.

And Tanner, my last older brother? Well, ever since he started narrating audiobooks independently, he’s been insanely busy.

The only one I’m still close to is Zoey. And honestly, she has bigger problems than listening to her brother complain about his lack of relationships, be it friends or romantic ones. She’s in her last year of high school and prepping for prom, graduation, and university applications.

I’m not going to take her attention away from that just because I feel lonely. She’s missed out on enough, not having our parents there and brothers who can’t manage to make a family dynamic work.

"Next outfit!" someone shouts, and I have to do my damnedest not to roll my eyes. Like, I have ears. No need to shout or I’ll send them bills for the hearing aids I’ll need after this.

I really should’ve gotten more details out of Adam, that’s on me. Then again, he probably should have sent them up front. Like, how many hours am I booked for, how many outfits need to be photographed? For now, I’m assuming the worst and preparing myself for it to mess with the rest of the day. I should cancel my dinner reservation later.

I grab my phone as I walk past the makeup table, checking it as soon as the curtain to the changing booth closes behind me. Still no call. Still no message from Abby.

With a sigh, I put it back in my bag.

Focus, Reed. You have work to do.

So, with a sigh, I roll my shoulders and straighten my back. Let’s get this over with.

Abby

MyphonewithReed’ssaved number burns a hole through my pocket. I’ve made up my mind not to text him, at least not yet. I need some space to think, to breathe, to sort through everything that happened this morning.

The sun has long set, the cold wind against my skin, as I walk through the Paris streets. The Eiffel Tower rises in the distance, timeless and still, watching over it all.

There’s definitely something between us, chemistry I couldn’t ignore, not even over breakfast. Even before he said he was sorry, my breath had quickened, my pulse kicked up a notch. It’s been a while since someone’s made me feel like that. And I’m glad, honestly, that he turned out to not be a jerk. It would’ve been such a waste if that spark was for nothing.

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