The photog and his assistant whip Luka wide-eyed looks. A tingle goes down the back of my neck. What the hell is he doing? When no one responds, he slowly wanders the space and continues his perusal of the set. Hans ignores his suggestions and positions me a few different ways, then looks through the camera lens. He motions for me to sit on the couch, but before I can get there, Luka moves behind me and pushes the couch to the side, angling it differently.
“The fill light needs to move now, too,” my fiancé says, grabbing the stand that holds the umbrella behind the light.
“What the hell is this?” I hiss. I’m mortified, but I have to keep my professional face on.
Luke frowns. “I won’t have the Danica Rose name on something that looks this unprofessional. None of this is staged correctly.”
Hans clears his throat and juts out a hip. “The lights may look unorthodox to you, Mr. Zoric, but I was going for a more experimental play of shadow and light—”
“I know what I’m doing,” Luka cuts him off.
Hans waves his hand, starts pacing, and simply waits Luka out. A few minutes later, the set is completely rearranged. Luka studies his handiwork and then nonchalantly steps off the set and crosses his arms.
“If you’re all through now, Mr. Zoric…?” Hans says drily.
“Go ahead,” Luka says with a nod.
Hans motions me back into place and nods to himself before stepping back from the camera again. “It’ll do,” he tells his assistant. “What we’re losing in saturation, we’re making up for in contrast. Which is basically what I was going for.”
“Cool,” the assistant says, looking relieved that she won’t have to break up a fight.
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not surprised that Luka was right. I’ve done my share of shoots, and the suggestions he made about the lightingdidmake sense. He’s grown up in this business. Of course he’s developed an instinctive eye for details.
Satisfied, Luka finally fades into the background and lets Hans and me do our thing. After a few more minutes, Hans nods and waves me away.
“Very good. Go see Ady, Brooklyn. And thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say back, starting to relax.
I find Ady by a wardrobe rack, scrolling through her phone in a director’s chair.
“There you are,” she greets me. “Let’s talk styling.”
She holds up the scant bit of lacy fabric as if she’s imagining what it might look like on me. The situation is professional, totally par for the course, and in no way creepy. Yet all of a sudden Luka is standing here once again, getting in between us as if Ady was about to undress me herself, and plucks the lingerie from the stylist’s fingers.
He tosses it from hand to hand and holds it up again, before balling it up and throwing it on a table. “No, that won’t work. It’s too sheer.”
“Excuse me?” Ady scoffs.
“Luka,” I say tightly. “It’s fine. I’ve worn less. You don’t need to defend my honor.”
“This isn’t about you being my fiancée, it’s about our reputation,” Luka insists.
“Ah.” Ady looks between us, her expression going from annoyed to understanding.
She sighs but exhibits more patience than I would expect in this situation, explaining the concept to him. “Soiréeis French for ‘party,’ as I’m sure you know, and the story the client wants to tell with these photos is that Brooklyn is a mysterious, sexy woman who’s getting ready for a night out,” Ady is saying. “Hence the risqué, Prohibition-era themed vibe.”
He nods as he listens, but I can tell by the way he’s tapping his foot that he doesn’t like it.
Maybe Luka is always like this with his models at photo shoots. The thought gives me pause. Just how many of them did he accompany to stuff like this? Rationally, I know that he’s a one-and-done kind of guy—not the kind to hover, normally. He’s only here today because he’s worried about the agency’s reputation and trying to make sure this campaign upholds the new Danica Rose brand. Still, he might have to concede to things he’s not comfortable with.
“Why can’t she be getting ready in a robe?” Luka asks.
Cocking my head pointedly, I widen my eyes to signal him to knock it off.
Ady smiles. “Believe me, Mr. Zoric, I’m on your side. But I’m not the client.”
Hans hustles over, exasperated. “What’s the problem?” he asks.
