"Delulu," he repeats, completely deadpan. "That's the term, isn't it? Delusional?"
"Did you—" I can barely get the words out through my laughter. "Did you, my sophisticated, aristocratic Alpha, just saydelulu? Unironically? What generation are you from? Are you secretly a teenager on social media?"
"I'm thirty-five," he huffs, looking genuinely offended. "I'm simply aware of contemporary vernacular."
"Contemporary vernacular," I wheeze. "Julian. You just said 'delulu' and then followed it up with 'contemporary vernacular.' You're a walking contradiction and I adore you."
He's trying very hard not to smile—I can see the battle playing out on his face, the twitch of his lips, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "I regret this conversation," he announces.
"No, you don't." I pick up a grape and hold it to his lips. "Here. Shut up, Mr. Delulu. Eat your wish fruit."
He huffs—actually huffs, like a petulant child—but opens his mouth and lets me feed him the grape. The absurdity of the moment hits us both at the same time, and suddenly we're both laughing, his chest shaking against my back, my giggles mixing with his low chuckles in a sound that feels like home.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of camera shutters cuts through our moment, and I freeze, suddenly very aware that we are still in the middle of a professional photoshoot. I whip my head around to find Marcus, the photographer, crouched a few feet away with his camera aimed directly at us.
"What—" I start, heat flooding my face.
"We're still on break," Julian says sharply.
"No, no, this is perfect!" Marcus is practically vibrating with excitement, his earlier stress completely forgotten. "Don't stop—just keep doing what you were doing. The chemistry, the intimacy, theauthenticity—this is exactly what the campaign needs!"
He pauses, lowering his camera slightly as something occurs to him. His gaze sweeps over me—over my outfit, my accessories, my general presentation—and his eyes go wide.
"Wait. Are you wearing D&G?"
I glance down at myself, momentarily forgetting what I'd put on this morning. The outfit I'd chosen—a beautiful ensemble from the new collection that hadn't even launched yet—suddenly feels very significant.
"Oh. Um." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear nervously. "Yes? It's from the new line. The one they're promoting with this campaign."
Marcus's jaw actually drops. The production manager appears at his elbow, followed by several other crew members who've apparently been eavesdropping. "How did you get access to that?" the manager demands. "That collection doesn't releasefor another three months. Even industry insiders have limited access."
I feel my cheeks burning. Julian's hand tightens protectively on my hip.
"I'm, um." I clear my throat, forcing myself to meet their eyes. "I'm from the Carlisle lineage. My mother is close friends with one of the fashion directors at D&G. We receive advance collections for promotional purposes—have for years." I shrug, trying to seem casual despite my racing heart. "I thought wearing something from the line would be supportive of my Alpha. I didn't realize it would be significant."
Silence. Every single person within earshot is staring at me with varying degrees of shock.
The Carlisle name carries weight. I forget that sometimes, after years of trying to distance myself from everything it represents. But in certain circles—fashion, high society, old money—it opens doors that would otherwise remain firmly closed.
Marcus recovers first. He turns to the production manager, then to someone who's clearly in charge of the creative direction, then back to me. "This is... this changes things."
"How so?" Julian asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"She could be in the photoshoot." Marcus says it like he's just discovered the solution to world peace. "The authentic dynamic, the real relationship, the brand connection through her family—this is exactly what the campaign needs. Real romance. Real chemistry. Real D&G heritage."
He approaches me slowly, almost reverently, and actually bows. "If you'd be comfortable, of course. Only if you're willing. No pressure whatsoever."
No pressure, he says, while an entire crew holds their collective breath waiting for my answer.
I glance at Julian, searching his face for guidance. He looks... hopeful? Cautious? Something in between that makes my heart race.
"As long as it helps my Alpha," I say finally, a smile tugging at my lips, "I'm fine with it." I turn back to Julian and blink up at him with exaggerated sweetness. "Right, Alpha?"
The flush returns to his cheeks. "Only if she's genuinely comfortable," he says, his voice firm despite his pink ears. "And if anyone—" his gaze sweeps the gathered crew with unmistakable warning, "—intimidates her or makes her uncomfortable in any way, we're done. Immediately. Non-negotiable."
"Absolutely," Marcus agrees quickly. "Of course. Completely understood." He's already gesturing to his team, his earlier frustration transformed into manic creative energy. "Let's reset for the couple shots! Someone get the wardrobe team—actually, no, her outfit is perfect as is. Makeup team, let's just do a touch-up. And somebody tell the other model we're going in a different direction!"
