"I know. Go."
She goes.
I clip my lanyard badge to the waistband of my trousers and take a slow lap around the courtyard. This is my favorite part. The hour before cameras roll, when everything is potential. The clothes hang perfect on the racks. The set looks like a painting. Nothing has gone wrong yet.
Elio stands near the courtyard entrance in a dark jacket, arms crossed. He's done what he promised — stayed invisible. He found a position that gives him a clear view of both the main gate and the interior archway without standing in anyone's frame. Security professionals from the building don't give him a second look. He fits.
I catch his eye and nod. He nods back. That's the extent of our communication in a week.
The models arrive at seven-thirty.
There are six of them. The agency — Agenzia Luce — sent their roster last week, and I approved the final selection with the creative director. The girls file through the archway in street clothes and oversized sunglasses, carrying tote bags and iced coffees. Their booker, a sharp-faced woman named Irina, leads them like a tour guide herding students through a museum.
"Ladies, hair and makeup is through the second arch on your left. Fittings begin at eight. Please be ready."
The models scatter toward the makeup stations. I watch them go — assessing, the way I always do. Not their bodies. Their energy. A good campaign needs models who understand the brand. Casa Aurelia is about understated Italian luxury. Quiet confidence. The girls need to project that.
Most of them do. They're professionals. They move with the easy self-awareness of women who've been photographed a thousand times.
One doesn't.
She's the youngest in the group — nineteen, maybe twenty, according to the comp card. Her name is listed as Katya. Lastname something long that ends in -ova. She's beautiful in that striking Eastern European way — high cheekbones, pale eyes, the kind of bone structure that cameras worship.
But she walks wrong.
I don't mean her gait. I mean the way she crosses the courtyard. Her shoulders pull in like she's making herself smaller. Her eyes move too much. Scanning the exits, the crew, the equipment. She holds her tote bag against her chest like a shield.
Models are used to chaos on set. They walk into unfamiliar locations with strangers touching their hair and face and body all day long. It's the job. You develop a comfort with it or you don't last.
Katya moves like someone who has never been comfortable anywhere.
I file it. Keep walking. Check the garment racks with the stylist. Review the afternoon schedule. Normal work. But my eyes keep drifting toward the makeup station where Katya sits in the tall chair under the ring light.
The makeup artist — Lucia, veteran of a dozen campaigns — works on Katya's face. Foundation. Concealer. More concealer. Lucia's brush pauses over Katya's left cheekbone. She tilts the girl's chin toward the light.
I'm close enough to see what Lucia sees.
Under the foundation Katya arrived wearing, there's a bruise. Yellow-green at the edges. It wraps from her cheekbone toward her temple, just above the jawline. Lucia covers it without a word. She's professional. She's seen bruises before. Models bump into things. Models are clumsy off-camera. There are a hundred innocent explanations.
Lucia moves to the other side of Katya's face. Her brush pauses again. A second bruise sits below the right ear. This one is newer, still dark at the center.
Katya stares straight ahead. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't explain. Her hands sit in her lap, fingers laced together so tight the knuckles are bone-white.
I walk to Giada.
"The girl in chair three. Katya."
Giada glances over. "What about her?"
"She's got bruises. Both sides of her face."
Giada looks at me the way people look at you when you're pointing out something they already decided wasn't their problem.
"She's a model, Amanda. They bruise. Lucia will handle it — that's what she's here for. It won't show on camera."
"Both sides of her face, Giada."
"She probably fell. Or had work done. Or her boyfriend's rough. It's not our business." Giada taps her tablet. "We're twenty minutes behind on fittings. Can you check on the second rack? The emerald gown has a broken zipper."
