Page 85 of Letters From Victor

Emotion swelled in my chest, hot and overwhelming. I closed the box slowly, almost reverently, and held it to my heart.

Victor’s eyes softened as he took in the way I held the box, as if it were sacred. He reached out and stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers, tenderly, like he was afraid I might break. He kissed me, slow and deep, as if trying to pour all his feelings into me. I melted against him, forgetting, just for a moment, the danger, the looming court date, the whispers that threatened to unravel everything.

In his arms, I was safe.

In his arms, I was home.

33

VICTOR

“You’re a goddamn goddess, Barbara,” I said as I captured three more photographs. The sleek black dress fit her like a second skin, and it shimmered with an almost ethereal quality under the hot glare of my studio lights. It was a masterpiece—but next to her, it was an afterthought. “That dress belongs in a couture house.” I lowered the camera to admire her directly. “But it doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

Barbara struck another pose, her movements fluid and instinctual—the ease of a professional who knew her body and the camera’s eye. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Victor,” she teased, though the pleased smile on her lips told a different story.

I raised the camera again, framing her silhouette as she turned to offer a view of the dress’s daringly low neckline. “It’s not flattery if it’s true,” I countered. “You were born for this—commanding every eye in the room, captivating every lens.”

She laughed softly, the sound like glass chimes in a warm breeze. “You make it sound so grand. It’s just a dress.”

“It’s not just a dress.” I lowered the camera and walked toward her. “It’s your creation. Your talent. Your future.” Istopped short of her but close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. “I want to send these photos to a few fashion houses, see if anything comes of it.”

Her eyes widened, blue as a summer sky, a flicker of hope breaking through. “You’re serious?”

“They’d be fools to say no,” I said, tracing a finger along the delicate fabric of the dress. “You told me you dreamed of being a designer. Let’s make it happen, sweet angel.”

For a moment, she was silent. I could see the wheels turning, the familiar tug-of-war between risk and duty. Then, slowly, her lips parted. “If anyone can make it happen, it’s you.”

“No, my darling. It’s you.” I stepped back and picked up the camera again. “Now, let’s get a few more shots.”

She resumed her poses, each more daring and confident than the last. And I saw it—right there in the soft glow of my studio lights—Barbara wasn’t just modeling. She was stepping into something bigger, something entirely her own.

After several more clicks of the shutter, I lowered the camera and slowly walked toward her. “Now these…” I said, my voice hushed to a near whisper. “These are for my eyes only.”

Barbara held her breath, and for a moment, I thought she might protest. But then her shoulders softened. She knew what I meant. Knew what I wanted. And she was willing—no, eager—to give it to me.

I stepped behind her and eased down the hidden zipper. With a whisper of silk, the dress slid down her body and pooled at her feet. She stood before me in nothing but her skin—a goddess unrobed, her beauty almost too much to take in at once.

“Don’t move,” I commanded, raising the camera to my eye.

The first flash captured her in stark relief against the white backdrop, every line and curve of her body etched in light. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cover herself. But she wouldn’t meet the camera’s eye either. A beautiful blush bloomed across her cheeksand down her chest—a painter’s dream of soft color against pale skin.

“Beautiful,” I murmured.

Each click of the shutter was a brushstroke on canvas, each flash a burst of inspiration. I circled her, capturing her from every angle—the elegant slope of her shoulders, the soft arc of her hip, the effortless sensuality in the way she shifted her weight and tousled her hair. Her nude form was art in its purest sense, and I was merely documenting what already existed in perfect harmony.

“I remember the last time I had you here in my studio—so prim and proper in that pale yellow dress.”

“How could I forget?” she replied, her voice distant and dreamy. “You said you just wanted to take some ‘innocent’ pictures.”

I laughed, the sound rougher than I intended. “Innocent, yes. You were a saint in my lair, where you had no business looking so pure. It took everything I had not to ravish you right then and there.”

“But you didn’t,” she noted, her eyes finally meeting mine with a challenge.

“No,” I admitted. “Because you weren’t mine yet.”

I lifted the camera one last time. The flash burst against her skin like moonlight on water.

“And now?” she asked, her voice tinged with the same blush that colored her cheeks. “What’s stopping you now?”

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