"The collar stays down," Julian cuts him off, his voice flat. "It looks pretentious up."
"Right. Yes. Down it is." Marcus retreats to his camera, muttering something to his assistant that I can't quite catch but that definitely involves the word 'impossible.'
I'm watching all of this from my designated spot at the back of the set—a comfortable chair near the craft services table where I've been told, in no uncertain terms, to 'relax and enjoy the show.' Julian had insisted I come to the shoot, something about wanting me there for moral support, but also insisted that I stay out of the way and not overexert myself.
As if sitting in a chair watching my incredibly attractive Alpha be photographed in designer clothing is somehow taxing. The man is ridiculous.
The morning started at an ungodly hour—4 AM call time, which meant we were out the door by 3:30 and Julian didn'teven have time for his usual cup of coffee. I watched him get ready in the dark, moving with efficient precision despite clearly wanting to murder whoever decided that fashion shoots needed to happen before the sun came up. He'd kissed me goodbye at the car, told me to go back to sleep, and then spent the entire drive to the studio radiating the kind of energy that makes small children cry and grown adults cross to the other side of the street.
I hadn't gone back to sleep. I'd gotten dressed, packed some supplies, and followed him to the set because apparently I'm the kind of person who can't leave a grumpy Alpha alone to suffer in peace.
Also because watching Julian work is genuinely fascinating, mood notwithstanding. The way he transforms in front of the camera, the way he knows exactly how to hold his body and angle his face and project whatever emotion the shot requires--it's artistry. It's also incredibly hot, but I'm trying not to think about that while surrounded by forty strangers.
Movement near the main entrance catches my attention. A young woman is being escorted onto the set by one of the production assistants, her blonde hair perfectly styled, her outfit a carefully curated casual-chic ensemble. She's pretty in that generic, commercial way that modeling agencies seem to love—symmetrical features, slim build, calculated approachability.
And she's an Omega. I can smell it from here—something sweet and floral, deliberately enhanced with whatever scent product is popular among models this season.
Interesting. Julian didn't mention anything about another model.
The photographer perks up when he sees her, relief flooding his features. "Ah, excellent! Lily, you're here. Perfect timing—we're ready for the couple shots." He turns toward Julian with renewed optimism. "Mr. North, if you could just?—"
"No."
The single word cuts through the bustle of the set like a blade. Everyone freezes. The Omega—Lily—blinks in confusion, her carefully practiced smile faltering.
"I'm sorry?" Marcus says, clearly hoping he misheard.
"I'm not doing a shoot with an Omega." Julian's voice is calm, controlled, but there's steel underneath it that brooks no argument. "You can use a different model. Or you can proceed without the couple shots entirely. But I won't be photographed intimately with an Omega who isn't mine."
The set erupts into whispered chaos. The production manager is suddenly on her phone, speaking in rapid, hushed tones. Lily's manager appears at her side, looking equal parts offended and confused. Marcus runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, clearly trying to figure out how to salvage the situation.
"Mr. North," he tries, "the couple shots are a significant part of the campaign. The creative direction specifically calls for?—"
"I wasn't informed that would be part of the shoot," Julian interrupts smoothly. "Had I been, I would have declined the project entirely. I have an Omega. I have no intention of creating publicity material that suggests otherwise."
Oh.
Oh, that's why he's been in such a mood all morning. He's not just grumpy from lack of sleep or caffeine deprivation. He's genuinely angry about being put in a position where he might appear to be with someone other than me.
Something warm and fluttery expands in my chest, pushing against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
"This is highly irregular," the production manager says, her phone still pressed to her ear. "The client specifically requested?—"
"Then the client can find another model." Julian begins unbuttoning the jacket he's wearing—a gorgeous piece from the new D&G menswear line, probably worth more than most people's cars. "I don't need this contract badly enough to compromise my boundaries. My pack will understand if I walk."
"Let's not be hasty!" Marcus practically lunges forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Everyone just... take five. Take ten. Let's all calm down and figure out a solution."
The tension doesn't dissipate so much as redistribute itself around the set as people scatter to whisper frantically into phones and huddle in concerned clusters. Julian stalks toward the makeup station, his expression thunderous, and drops into the chair with more force than necessary.
My poor, principled, caffeinated-deprived Alpha. He's been fighting this battle all morning, probably since he first saw the call sheet, and he hasn't even had breakfast.
I rise from my chair and make my way toward the craft services area, a plan already forming in my mind.
The craft services table is adequate but uninspiring—standard catering fare that probably came from the same supplier every production in the city uses. Stale pastries, mediocre coffee, fruit that's been sitting out long enough to look tired. Nothing that's going to help Julian's mood.
Fortunately, I came prepared.
I retrieve the insulated bag I'd stashed near my chair earlier, pulling out the supplies I'd packed before leaving the house. Fresh croissants from last night's baking session—I'd made them on a whim, enjoying the meditative rhythm of laminating dough while the house was quiet. A container of mixed berries and sliced fruit. And, most importantly, everything I need to make Julian's favorite coffee.
