The photographer's roar shook the entire studio. I stood beside the light rack, clutching the shirt I'd just pulled from the steamer, my temples throbbing.
"He says he's got food poisoning." Anna's voice was tiny, like a mosquito's buzz. "But he was posting party pics on Instagram at three a.m., and now he can't get out of bed."
"That bastard." I drew in a deep breath. The studio was fully set up—lights, backdrops, props—with five or six staffers waiting around, burning money every minute. This shoot was the centerpiece for my new line's promo, and the magazine deadline was just three days away.
My spine tightened, that familiar anxiety churning up from my stomach. Four years ago, when my studio was just getting off the ground, I'd faced something like this and nearly broken down in tears. But not now. My mind was already racing through backup plans.
"Call the alternate," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Offer him one-point-five times the rate."
"I'll do it."
The voice came from the entrance, low and assured, carrying an unshakeable authority.
I turned. Igor stood in the doorway, backlit so I couldn't make out his expression, but I felt his powerful presence radiating through the room. He was dressed in a dark gray tailored suit, with tattoo edges peeking from his cuffs.
"What?" I froze.
He strode in, the air seeming to shift with his every step. "I said, I'll be your model."
The photographer eyed him up and down skeptically. "You look the part, sure, but do you have any shooting experience?"
"None." Igor's reply was curt, almost rude. His gaze bypassed the photographer and locked onto me. "But I know how to showcase her designs."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Igor, this isn't a joke," I said, my voice tightening.
"I don't joke," he interrupted, shrugging off his jacket. "Especially about your career."
The jacket slid away, followed by the tie.
When he started unbuttoning his shirt, the studio fell into an eerie silence. His movements were unhurried but deliberate, each one pulsing with raw power. The shirt parted, revealing sculpted chest muscles and abs etched with tattoos that gleamed under the lights—tales of violence, power, and blood.
My breath caught in my throat.
"God," Anna whispered beside me. "Boss, your boyfriend's a walking masterpiece."
The photographer was clearly stunned. He circled Igor professionally, his doubt shifting to excitement.
"Build's incredible—way better than that damn pro. The tattoos fit the rebel vibe perfectly. Hell, you're a living clothes hanger!" He glanced at me. "Elena, what do you think?"
I approached Igor, holding the steamed shirt—the star piece of the new line. Black silk, sharp tailoring, with a hand-embroidered silver totem atthe collar.
"Arms up," I said, my voice coming out huskier than intended.
He complied, those storm-green eyes never leaving my face.
I slipped the shirt over him, my fingers inevitably brushing his skin. It was scorching hot, like it could burn me. I felt the rise and fall of his chest, inhaled that intoxicating mix of cedar and danger.
My fingers trembled slightly as I fastened the buttons.
"Nervous?" he murmured, just loud enough for us alone.
"Shut up. You're the one who should be," I glared at him. "Don't move."
But when my fingertips grazed the skin over his heart, feeling that powerful beat, my own pulse went erratic.
"Perfect," the photographer's voice burst our bubble. "Let's shoot!"
