Leo is practically vibrating with a slick, commercial energy. “This is it, kids. The big one. The cover that’s going to break theinternet.” He’s got that look in his eyes, the one he gets when he sees dollar signs. “Delilah’s already talking about her next series. Six books. Six. All of them need covers. This shoot? This is an investment in a very lucrative future.”
He claps me on the back, all enthusiasm and oblivious confidence. “Trust me, the publicity from this is going to be gold for everyone. More followers, more bookings, more opportunities. Win-win.”
Jade and I exchange a quick, subtle look. The energy is a little over-the-top, even for them, but I chalk it up to the high stakes of a finale cover for a massive bestselling series.
“Three days, multiple locations, different lighting,” Leo says, already herding us toward the waiting car. “We need options for the cover, the marketing campaign, the social media rollout. Delilah’s publisher is building a six-week pre-launch blitz. Time is money, people. Let’s move.”
It’s just another job, I tell myself as we’re whisked from the airport straight to the first location. Three days of looking passionate and brooding, and then I’m home. Home to Snow.
We arrive at a dramatic black-sand beach just as the sun is starting its descent toward the horizon. The photographer, a famously intense artist from Milan named Fabio, is already barking orders at his crew. He directs like he’s shooting a Vogue cover instead of a romance novel.
“No, no, no!” he shouts, snapping his fingers. “This is a reunion after a century of cursed blood! I need torment! Ecstasy! Give me forbidden love or give me nothing!”
I pull Jade back into the pose, my muscles straining. My hand is tangled in her long, dark hair, our faces inches apart, the setting sun casting us in a fiery, dramatic light. It’s a perfect picture of passion.
Between takes, while Fabio argues passionately with a lighting assistant about shadows, Jade and I huddle together.
“If he makes one more comment about my ‘passionate essence,’” she mutters under her breath, “I’m going to throw him into the ocean.”
“Just think of the paycheck,” I murmur back, the mantra of our profession. “Think of Clara’s face when you buy her that ridiculously expensive handbag she wants.”
“I am thinking about it,” she says with a sigh. “It’s the only thing stopping me from committing a felony.”
We rely on this, our easy, sarcastic friendship, to get through the absurdity of it all. We are two professionals doing a job, and the intimacy is as real as the plastic jewels on my prop sword. My mind is a million miles away, in a little yellow cottage, and my heart is with the woman who is waiting for me there.
Day two is more of the same — a clifftop at sunrise, windswept and dramatic, with Fabio screaming about “eternal longing” while Jade and I try not to laugh. Day three is indoor shots, elaborate costumes, and mercifully less shouting.
That evening, Delilah insists on taking us to dinner as a special thank you for our “incredible artistry.” I’m not looking forward to it. I’d rather have room service and a quiet night to call Snow. But it’s part of the job, the schmoozing with the authors when they ask for it. Most don’t, but Delilah is a special case. She’s an eccentric extrovert who makes me cringe half the time with her theatrical dramatics, but I owe her. She helped launch my career, and now her success is funding my gallery dream. Leo’s right about one thing — it really is win-win. She gets great covers and marketing, and I get paid enough to chase my photography. So when Delilah asks, I show up.
When we arrive at the resort’s most exclusive restaurant, my stomach clenches. It’s not a group dinner. A single, ridiculously romantic table for two has been set up on a private pier over the water, surrounded by a small army of tiki torches, the candlelight glittering on the crystal glasses.
Delilah and Leo make a great show of being disappointed. “Oh, no!” Delilah exclaims, her hand flying to her chest in a gesture of theatrical dismay. “There’s been a mix-up with the reservation! And we’ve just been called into a last-minute, terribly boring production conference call with the marketing team from London. We simply can’t get out of it.”
“You two go ahead,” Leo says, clapping me on the back a little too hard. “Enjoy the night. The publisher is insisting. A reward for all your hard work.”
“Wait,” I say, alarm bells going off. “This feels like a setup. Can’t we just—”
But they’re already halfway across the restaurant, waving cheerfully. Leo calls back, “Publisher’s orders! Enjoy!”
Jade and I stand there, staring at the ridiculously romantic setup.
“This is absolutely a setup,” Jade says flatly, pulling out her phone. “I’m texting Clara. She’s going to find this hilarious.”
“Should we just leave?” I ask, already reaching for my own phone to text Snow.
“And waste a free meal that probably costs more than my car payment?” Jade shakes her head. “Hell no. But I’m making it very clear to anyone watching that I’m a happily married woman who finds you about as sexually appealing as a golden retriever.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly. “That’s exactly the ego boost I needed.”
The dinner is friendly and completely, utterly platonic. We talk about our real lives, the ones that exist outside of this gilded cage. I show her pictures on my phone of the gallery space I’m hoping to lease, the rough sketches of how I’d lay it out, the prints I’ve been preparing for opening day — all the things I’ve shared with Snow in great detail. She tells me a hilarious story about her and Clara attempting to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture, a story that ends with them giving up and ordering pizza.
We are two friends having a meal, but I’m acutely aware of how it must look. The candlelight, the sound of the waves, and the bottle of expensive champagne that was “complimentary” sent to our table. It’s a perfect, manufactured illusion. All I can think about is Snow, curled up on her couch back home, probably reading one of her business books with a cup of tea. That’s where I want to be.
After dinner, Leo and Delilah keep texting that they’re “nearly finished” with their marketing call and would love to meet us for a nightcap. We wait in the resort bar, nursing drinks we don’t want. The texts keep coming. “Five more minutes.” “Almost done.” “So sorry, just wrapping up.” It’s after midnight when Jade and I finally give up and head to our rooms.
I’m barely through my door when my phone rings.
“Wyatt, I need help,” Jade says, a mix of laughter and genuine frustration in her voice. “The zipper on the back of this dress is completely stuck. Can you please come unstick me before I have to sleep in this thing?”
